closed.

[hornswoggle]

WHO: john + leander
WHAT: magic talk
WHEN: solace
WHERE: lowtown
NOTES: just two pals out on the town

It's not all that difficult to find John Silver in the evening. Travel to Lowtown, find a Walrus man and trail along after them as their evening stroll inevitably leads them through the doors of a crowded tavern.

John isn't always the one stood up in the center of the room. Tonight's offering is a tall, brightly-dressed woman swearing up and down about the Cetus that nearly overturned her vessel some years ago, how narrowly she escaped, how her incredible skill was the only thing that saved her. Beyond her, John is seated at a corner table, back against the wall and tankard in front of him momentarily untouched.

When he sees Leander, he reaches a hand to the side to grasp his crutch, but doesn't rise.

"You arrived just in time. Hilne is about to describe her dazzling work with the harpoon."

His hand sweeps towards the free chair, as the other gathers the few papers he'd been reading face down onto the table.

"Have a seat."

Comments

[sarcophage]

"Impalement, is it?" Appraising the storyteller, adjusting the skirt of his jacket, finally turning his smile on John Silver, "Well, that's half a good evening covered." And he sits.

He looks well tonight, bright-eyed, healthy, and relaxed overall in his customarily seamless union of calm and sharp. He's made himself tidy, as usual, but not overly so—certainly not freshly shaven—lest he stand out excessively. (And no staff, either. Obviously.)

The paper catches his eye; he doesn't mention it. Catches a server's attention, instead, and leans to make his request of her through an application of good-natured flirting and weaponized eyelashes.

[hornswoggle]

Emlyn is accordingly dazzled by Leander's eyelashes. Considering John's usual company, Leander is certainly distinguishing himself. It's amusing, mostly. John leans back in his chair, good leg stretching out under the table.

"Make sure you clap at the end. It'll encourage her to embellish more when she tells it again in a few weeks time."

An interesting thing about staying in one place for this long: the crowd shifts by turns, filtering in and out depending on which ships were in port, but John remains. It gives him the privilege of hearing stories emerge and grow over time. There are nights when that almost makes up for everything else about his endless exile.

"Did you bring any friends?" John asks, which could very easily mean Ilias or Isaac but really means the sort of uninvited guest that gossips back to inconvenient people.

[sarcophage]

In different company, much frillier company, he might sigh, you know very well you're the only friend I have, and then fall into easy gossip about nothing at all—but that's more tea party, less tavern. A tavern this salty calls for

to be frank

more overtly traditional masculinity than he tends to bring to the table. For instance, the playful tilt when he answers:

"Why? Have you planned something scandalous?" More seriously, though, "No, not a one."

[hornswoggle]

"Give it a few hours and something scandalous will happen here all on it's own."

A reliable enough assurance no matter which tavern they were sitting in, though John has the sense Leander's view of scandal is more discerning than some of the company he keeps.

Though the reassurance that they aren't expecting company is appreciated. Perhaps it can't be fully trusted, but it is enough for John, for the moment.

"How well traveled are you, Leander?"

[sarcophage]

"For a mage, fairly. Parts of Nevarra, the northeast—much of it was spent in the Circles, mind. This was before I signed on. There've been a few assignments since then. And now the Donarks, I suppose."

It's a bit wry: ha ha, we were constantly damp and had miserable shits and got harassed by insects. Good times. The why do you ask chaser should be self evident.

"Ah, there she is. Thank you, my love." A cup of wine, well watered by his own request.

[hornswoggle]

Emlyn's giggle is hidden behind a hand. There's a flicker of quieter amusement from John, before he leans an elbow on the table as she passes from their company to the next group as Hilne claps her hands together, signifying either her impressive aim or the death of the Cetus. John's heard her enough times to recognize the marker, but Leander's held his focus tightly enough that he hasn't been listening intently to Hilne's unwinding of the plot.

"I think we've both experienced enough of the Donarks to leave them out of pleasant conversation."

Ha.

"But to my point," because Leander doesn't have to ask. "I find myself curious about the more...unique dealings our neighboring lands take in their association with mages. And who better to ask then someone who's experienced it?"

The joke: as if John doesn't already know some of this, can't extrapolate some of this on his own. But he's never been to Nevarra, and Leander is a known entity where Kostos is not, where Ilias is something to leave undisturbed for the moment, if possible.

[sarcophage]

The clap draws a glance, doesn't hold his attention. His smile has faded; a natural consequence of settling, not unfriendly.

I suppose so, he doesn't answer, but perhaps it comes through anyway in the angle of his head, his eyes, faintly sideways. His index finger tap-taps against his cup. It's not his usual habit, only new since he began to wear a ring, and purely for his own pleasure to feel it there. (Plain steel band, uncommonly thin profile, otherwise unremarkable.)

"What would you like to know?"

[hornswoggle]

Nothing, John doesn't say.

The aversion hasn't faded. John keeps the apprehension separate, held back from view. Isaac's tutelage has eased him towards more subtle, traditional uses of his abilities but it hasn't dispelled the unease and at times, revulsion at the growing familiarity with magic.

He lifts his cup, tips it idly as he speaks.

"Oh, I don't know. You hear so many rumors, it's hard to know what's rooted in truth," John says. "I hear in Nevarra there are mages with as much influence as kings."

[sarcophage]

Leander hums low, gives his wine a few lazy swirls.

"That depends on the king, I suppose." Some kings being significantly more pliant than others. Literal puppetry, anyone? "It seems unlikely our latest Pentaghast has as much of an ear for them. But you wouldn't be a fool to believe it."