faderift | And in the sea that's painted black

Halfway across the yard, Matthias bursts into very genuine applause.

He'd been training on his own earlier in the day, as has been his custom this whole time he's been with Riftwatch. And--as has been his custom--he'd brought second lunch with him, scoured from the kitchens for the purpose of replenishing his spent energy. And because he's nearly always hungry. Today it's two pork pies, enjoyed on the sunny side of the crumbling half wall that boarders the east side of the yard. Supposedly there'd once been a building here, and the wall is the last bit of it that remains. All Matthias knows is that it's a perfect place to press his back to and absorb some of the warmth of the sun while he eats.

He had gotten his hands on three pork pied, but he'd already decimated one when he'd heard the gust of wind and had twisted around to peek over the wall to see who was in the yard. And his eyes had rounded to about the size of saucers and his bite of pie had fallen out of his mouth.

Normally he'd be intimidated. He is, really, very intimidated. But he's also madly impressed, and loves a good display of magic, which has led to the applause. By now Matthias has hoisted himself up to sit on the wall. His staff is laying on the wall beside him--plain, thick, functional. The pie and a half-a-pie-with-bites-in make for funny accent pieces beside it.

"That was well brilliant," he says warmly, thick Free Marcher in his accent. "I've not seen anything like it before. Not that I've seen it all by any means, mind, but I know what I've not seen for certain, 'specially when it comes to magic."

Let it be said: Zoya does not perform for applause. She's a summoner, not a circus act.

Let it also be said: Zoya doesn't not appreciate being, you know, appreciated.

She decides to take the compliment. — Especially because it's followed up immediately by a verbal one as soon as she looks his way, sees boy and staff and pies alike. His accent is unfamiliar but not difficult to parse, though she'd never be able to imitate it like a local. (That's a skill that belongs to Nina.)

"You're in luck," she says, approaches so she can better make herself heard without having to call across the yard. "Not everyone's first look at the Small Science comes from a member of the Triumvirate."

An impressive thing, apparently, from her tone.

"Oh, aye? What are they," and he manages to hold back the too-familiar when they're at home. He doesn't know this woman just yet, certainly not enough to be cheeky.

Dusting pie crumbs off of his hands, Matthias jumps down off of the half wall so he's at least standing as she approaches. That seems the proper respectful thing to do, especially for someone titled and all. Surely that's what Triumvirate means--a title, a way of calling someone of importance.

And he is impressed. His self consciousness will catch up with him before long. It's the magic that has let him side-step that phase. He'll be back in it in no time at all. For the moment, Matthias wrinkles his nose.

"I feel in luck. And what's a small science, while we're at it? Rifter thing, I reckon?"

"The Grisha Triumvirate. The leaders of the Second Army of Ravka."

For the record: Magnificent, she would've said, without missing a beat.

"What you call magic," she says, "is what I know as the Small Science."

Her voice takes on something of a different quality, instructional. She's spend a lot of time the last few years with young Grisha who come to Os Alta to learn how to use their gifts. Basic theory isn't what she's typically teaching, but it's not exactly outside of her wheelhouse.

"Grisha," and the word sounds much more natural on her tongue than magic or mage, "manipulate the world at its fundamental levels. I don't create wind; I summon the air that already exists."

"Grisha." The word is foreign and feels weird when it's said--but exciting, too. What's better than magic, whatever name it's called by? "Hang on, so-- there's a whole army of Grisha?"

And it's got a title, so that means it's got some manner of organization. Matthias scoots closer, eager to hearmore about this, whatever and however she's willing to tell it.

"I was in the mage rebellion--here in Thedas, 'course. And we had an army--sort of. We were all of Circles, but we came together 'cause we had to. Wasn't always the easiest or best but it was better'n staying in the bloody Circles. I liked it better. Is Ravka a country or a person?"

To think that Zoya doesn't have the patience for his energy would be a fair assumption; the feared Stormwitch of Ravka is better known for her power and her lethality than any softer quality.

But the fact is: she spends a lot of her team training younger Grisha as part of her duties to the Second Army, has personally gone on a number of missions to rescue Grisha abroad and offer them a place in Ravka. She isn't unused to this.

Besides, as far as introductions go, he could do much worse than I was in the mage rebellion.

"The kingdom of Ravka has two armies. The King's Army, or the First Army, is made up of otkazat’sya. Grisha are given the opportunity to train their skills and serve their nation in the capital."

Ravka. The only real safe haven for Grisha this side of the True Sea, in all the world aside from Novyi Zem. She loves it ferociously.

(She chooses not to speak of her king's Nolniki, the soldiers belonging to neither army, and both. No way to know that Thedas, however removed from her world, is safe for secrets so tied to Ravka's martial innovations.)

"What happened to your army?"

Edited 2021-05-09 03:54 (UTC)

Matthias nods, not because he knows what she's on about, but because he doesn't know what she's on about, and he's eager to know more. He latches on to those spare details and new words, and edges even closer like proximity will help him on this. Yes, and?

Oh, but also--

"We're still around. Corypheus has sort of distracted everyone--there've been some agreements and talks and treaties and all, and the Inquisition did their part to support mages, or so they said. The Inquisition was before Rifthwatch, right, we're sort of split off from them. But after Corypheus is defeated and all of this--" He gestures around, the Gallows and all-- "is over, we'll have to go back to it, right? Or most of us will. Those of us who haven't found a way to settle and compromise, or gone into hiding."

The former two are more deserving of scorn than the latter, according to Matthias' tone. He chips at the ground with the heel of his boot.

"But there'll be enough of us. And by then, the whole world will have changed."

She wasn't much older than this, when the civil war broke out. Alina was probably around his age when she lead the Second Army, herself, when she faced the Darkling one-on-one and lived to tell the tale more than once. Adrik, Saints, was hardly more than a child when nichevo'ya ripped his arm off.

The whole world will have changed.

She wonders what what this boy will look like then, if he lives to see the end of this war.

"So they're happy to use you while they need you," she says scornfully. "As long as you're good little soldiers. And when they don't, you'll go back to being unnatural, witches."

She's only passingly familiar with the concept of Circles, but she can tell already that she's going to hate it.

"Yeah," Matthias agrees, readily, and just as scornfully. Well. "That's what I think, leastways. Me and others. I'd like for it to be a long-term thing, right, for them really to give a damn about us, but I reckon I know too much about how it all works now. The only one that gives a damn about us, really, is us. Most everyone else only wants something."

He folds his arms over his chest, satisfied with this assessment. It might be cynical, and he might be exaggerating just how much he actually knows. Better, maybe, to say that he's gleaned this hardened wariness from others who might actually know. But that's nearly the same thing, isn't it? Either way, he knows.

"But you only have got an army, where you're from. There's none of that shit about. Circles and, you know, choices and politics and votes and all. That's brilliant. I wish it were so easy here. The First Army," and there might as well be little sparkles around the words, with the amount of reverence Matthias gives. "Who's in the Second Army, then, when it's at home?"

"Some things don't change."

Nikolai is, of course, different; but most otkazat’sya only care for Grisha for the distance they give them, for the peace they buy them.

"The Second Army," she corrects — not ungently, actually. Don't tell anyone. "The First Army is for those without powers. We call them otkazat’sya. I don't know what you would here."

She hasn't heard of any equivalent term, actually. Just mages for those with power, and nothing for those without. She doesn't like that, now that she stops to think about it.

"There's a draft, for all children of a certain age. We have nothing but enemies at our borders, so our military needs all the help it can get."

"Oh, you said that before, sorry. Right. Oat-katz-zatya." The word is clumsy in his mouth and definitely not pronounced correctly, but he did say he was sorry. "S'ppose we'd only say soldiers. Or knights, or Templars, even, I s'ppose," but even to Matthias, none of those answers really seem right to describe what she's getting at. Why would there be a name for someone without magic? It's mages or not-mages. And Templars are absolutely something different besides.

"But you weren't drafted, were you? To the Second Army? That was different, obviously." I'd think it would be the opposite, y'know? First for mages--Grisha, sorry--and second for everyone else, 'cos they'd not be as useful. I wonder why it's the other way around. D'you know?"

This endless stream of words and questions he doesn't apologize for, but he should, probably.

And in the sea that's painted black | OTA

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