[ may catchall ]

[wythersake]

WHO: Isaac, Cedric, Lazar + Clarisse, others, you??
WHAT: Open & closed prompts for a bit
WHEN: Vaguely post-attacks, like enough that it isn't silly
WHERE: Here n' there
NOTES: Adding these as I go. Wildcards welcome. HMU on plurk or Discord if you want anything bespoke.

Comments

isaac; open

[wythersake]

It’s a small place, it’s smaller with half the fortress collapsed. He’s easy to spy: An Orlesian of middle age, whose clothes now sport a few too many rips and stains to pass for fine. Asleep days in the library, awake nights on any manner of errand -

a ) Often enough, to the Infirmary, assisting the long business of reorganization; shuffling supplies between tent and tower. The Central building was least affected. That doesn’t quite name it sound. The look he throws the ceiling every time they step inside may say enough of it.

b ) One evening breaks from routine to find him surrounded by an expensive crumble of pages. Paper comes dear of late, to be used and re-used for every scrap scribble; nothing to be done of an inked-out word or three. Not these, balled fists of black. Isaac leans over the latest draft, head between his hands as though force of will might compress thought into place.

c ) Another morning, propped over a mirror in some corner of the courtyard, razor wicking in a soapy cup. Riftwatch’s shaving facilities are presently limited.

"Did you need a turn?" Still frowning over a bit of skin, stretched between fingers. "I’m suffering indecision."

c

[altusimperius]

"On what?"

Benedict, clean-shaven as ever (he has the advantage of a house to stay in for as long as his hosts will have him), is perhaps only just now realizing that Isaac is back.
He's still in the process of gaining back some of his baseline mass, his clothes hanging off him a little too loosely, but he's up and about and walking the Gallows to, it would seem, pitch in where he can. Including shaving assistance.

"You've already gone too far for mutton chops."

[wythersake]

"Pity. There's such a monopoly upon mustaches," Does he know where Benedict's been? No. But Rutyer has long kept him close. "You might consider it, you know. Neither of us is getting younger."

Baby face only plays so long. A loopy gesture with the razor:

"Sit, I've a true question of you."

And a knife. So, you know.

[altusimperius]

"I'd rather die," says Benedict breezily; he's only just recently had far more hair on his face than he's ever wanted, and one might rest assured it's never coming back.

Intrigued by the invitation, he picks his way to a the most cushioned seat he can find (is it Isaac's bedroll? if that's what's available) and folds his legs primly.

"A true question," he intones, a touch playfully. What could be truer than facial aesthetics?

[wythersake]

"Your education,"

However abruptly interrupted. If he's never much regarded Benedict's spellwork, well, the man's not possessed. Under his circumstance, that's a victory.

"What form did it take?" Isaac's considered it some years, had asked Kostos then: What have you heard of Tevene abominations - "Prior to your apprenticeship, during."

[altusimperius]

“Oh.”
How boring, says the initial twitch of his eyebrows, but a briefly apologetic duck of the head suggests there’s some maturity to be found here after all.

“Private tutelage,” he says with a little shrug, “my mother wanted particular control over my education.”

[wythersake]

"What did she hope for you?"

Nothing, he trusts, that's not been thoroughly dashed. Isaac's familiar with the woman's shadow, the absurd impression of their shared nightmare. Fear, then. Fear and control. Not so different (not so useful).

Belated, explains:

"There was substantial variation between Southern Circles. Method, aims; to each its own little kingdom - but I'm aware the Imperium more different still."

In method, in aims.

[altusimperius]

“What you’d expect of a Magister to be. As skilled in politics and intrigue as he is in Entropic magic, or. Well. Blood magic, I supposed I would have learned eventually.”

His posture tightens: this isn’t his favorite topic, but he endures it for the sake of transparency.

“I blew it all off. A privilege not afforded to most southern Circle mages, as I understand it.”

[wythersake]

"No," He agrees, though he's met mages enough without ambition, interest. A pang for Joselyn - but even Joselyn had been Harrowed. "I doubt we'd have held on this long, were it so."

An old hunch, that. Strange that the South has been able to match Tevinter at all. From a certain, numerical view, perhaps mages wasted of an early death are even trade for mages of discipline. The Circles are the Chantry's to direct, only until they are a nation's.

"Does it ever trouble you? That lack."

[altusimperius]

A nod, shifting toward somber: one couldn't be as close to Colin as he was without knowing to a startling degree just exactly how things have gone for Southern mages. A younger, stupid version of him might have made a crack about it, but this version has seen what happens, has gone to war.

"All the time," he admits, darting his eyes to Isaac's in sheepish admission before he averts them again, carefully tucking a strand of sleek black hair behind his ear. "I suppose I thought I'd never really need it. Wasn't interested in it. It's..."

His mouth twists awkwardly with the admission, "...it's hard to find a willing sparring partner, if you're going to learn it correctly." Not that willingness was ever really considered, where he came up.

"--but yes, I regret not paying attention." His brow knits prettily-- perhaps he's doubting the wisdom of showing such candor-- but it's too late now, as it's too late for many things. "If I've learned anything from living down south, it's that an unskilled mage might as well be a dead one."

[wythersake]

"Then you aren’t unskilled," Untrained, unpracticed, certainly. Not dead. Raw enough in talent. Isaac debates a moment, finally working soap into skin. The razor glints. "You know that I’ve some facility with the school."

He does not, precisely, advertise this. That Benedict has seen him cast is inconvenient, and easily blamed upon the peculiarities of dream. But,

"It would require focus," (But he’s a sap. But he’s thinking of his girl.) "And a degree of trust that I’ll grant has never precisely blossomed between us."

Blade scrapes cheek. Isaac finds his eyes in the mirror: The offer stands plain - if coated in absurd, white suds.

[altusimperius]

A twinge of surprise as Benedict blinks at him, glances away, glances back. He had no expectation of the conversation going this route, but it's not completely unwelcome, considering what he's just revealed.

He draws himself up a little, straightening his back-- he's not a petulant schoolboy anymore.

"I'd be a fool to turn you down," he admits with just a touch of unease, but meets Isaac's eyes again with a nod. He himself had argued with Byerly about the implications of the dream, had insisted that this or that betrayal wasn't written in stone.

"Where would we practice?"

[wythersake]

"The basement," When the towers are cleared. "The Gallows are reinforced, discreet,"

And bluntly thematic. If there’s anywhere one might conjure terror -

"Give some thought to what you’d see us pursue. Spells you’ve had difficulty of, or difficulty controlling. Power is easier to grasp than precision." Power's there already, more will come. Momentum collects. "Should we find your talents bend elsewhere,"

A shrug.

"Every Enchanter here has taught. We're far past the point that Riftwatch may fret of arming you."

b;

[allthatgleamsisgold]

Whatever Vlast's many failings, he is well-educated. He has read descriptions of people losing the war to paper work many, many times. He'd never understood it, of course. What frail creature could lose to paper...? ...Maybe a Skritt...? But they were not exactly what one would consider readers.

Seeing Isaac hunched over pages with ink-stained hands gripping his head, the metaphor finally clicks. He does, indeed, look like a man defeated.

"If you squeeze any tighter, it's not your thoughts that will come out."

[wythersake]

"The matter’s grey enough to serve."

Not really. Death’s written in black - but words run thin of late. Isaac stoops up, folding the page upon itself; a flash briefly visible: Enchanter Sm -

(May well squeeze out his brains, at least the gore would theme.)

He pushes out a breath, vanishes letter into pocket.

"Making any friends out there?"

[allthatgleamsisgold]

Vlast isn't familiar enough with names yet to guess if the healer is writing to anyone of note beyond the glimpse of the title of Enchanter. Geography has been his main center of study for the past couple of weeks and enough history to know which cards to play close to his chest.

It's a enough to put a piece or two together.

He scoffs at the mention of friends and turns from Isaac to a shelf behind him, getting to work on putting away the sizable stack of books he borrowed. If his sparkling personality hasn't won him any in the last two and a half centuries, he doubts it will start now.

"The enchanter you write to. Were they a -" he frowns, the word as alien as the concept to him, " - friend...? ...In one of those prisons they keep mages?"

A deeper frown, his brow so tightly creased that the line is likely to become a permanent fixture.

"...Circles."

[wythersake]

"No," The self-correction will do, they’re hardly fronting Vlast for Ambassador. "We were not of the same Circle."

(He didn’t keep friends in the Circle.)

"Riftwatch suffered losses beyond the city. Enchanter Smythe’s sister, mn," Books thump. Vlast frowns. Isaac looks - tired. Old, in the way of any worn thing. "I worked closely with her sister."

Past tense.

[allthatgleamsisgold]

"Dead then," he says, ever the master of tact.

He isn't exactly good with expressions yet, but he can recognize that bone-deep weariness in Isaac that comes with the loss of a loved one.

The last book slots into place. He's familiar enough with death and loss and grief that he might venture some attempt at reassurance.

"I am... sorry for your loss."

That's the right turn of phrase, isn't it? Trite, he thinks. Empty. It leaves an ill taste on his tongue and it's a testament to how hard he's been studying that he doesn't just spit.

He tries again.

"Words are rarely adequate in conveying such things. I think your friend - Enchanter Smythe - will be satisfied enough she not alone in her mourning."

[wythersake]

"I doubt that," Satisfaction. "For twins, the cost must be... Few experts appreciate their mastery challenged. That there was a piece of her story which the Enchanter did not know?"

A shrug. Loneliness might strike the better comfort for its singularity, and unkind of him to write, to imply. Joselyn stretched for connections, but they wound ever about a missing space; what little Isaac can say of Miriam, she must resemble the tangle.

"But it’s good of you to try." Vlast is trying. Call it kindness, or perhaps he only cares to prove progress - balm in it, still. Words are rarely adequate, but Maker, has he starved for them of late. "Have you siblings?"

[allthatgleamsisgold]

Vlast runs a clawed finger over the spine of a book that looks promising. Brother Genitivi has proven insightful before.

He does not ask why Isaac is bothering to write at all if it gives Enchanter Smythe no comfort and him only frustration and ink stains.

It's probably polite, or something similarly inexplicable that humans twist themselves into knots trying to explain, and Isaac looks twisted up enough without Vlast pressing him for explanations on how he grieves.

When he asks about siblings, Vlast goes very still.

"Yes," he answers, but doesn't elaborate further. "...Have you?"

[wythersake]

"Perhaps. Forty years," And a few wars. "Render it something of a question."

Vlast freezes. Isaac examines his stillness. Some piece of him, never very distant, registers: Ammunition.

Dead, then. Else something altogether thornier, and there a faulty tense again bears examination; present needn't signal alive. Is there any point at which one's brother, sister, escapes that definition?

(Forty years might do it.)

"Fortunately for our stores of ink," Paper, rather. Mostly the paper. "I can't imagine they read. What are you hunting for, there?"

[allthatgleamsisgold]

Had Vlast ever developed a sense of humour, he might describe his relation to his great uncle Mordremoth as thorny.

Alas, puns are still beyond him, and he instead scowls under Isaac's sharp-eyed scrutiny.

"Histories, mostly. I have much to learn, and little else but time for now."

Speaking of which...

"Forty years is not very long, is it? Have you any, surely there's a chance they live."

[wythersake]

"How old do you think I am?"

A question with no good answer.

[allthatgleamsisgold]

Vlast takes a moment to consider. Not out of any sense of propriety, no; why ask a question if you don't want to hear the answer to, after all? Rather, he has trouble gauging the age of humans. He can tell an infant from a child from an adolescent from the elderly, but any in-between adult years are one giant question mark for him.

Still, Isaac has given him a hint.

"Older than forty," he says with all the delicacy of a sledgehammer. "Younger than sixty. Perhaps close to fifty."

[wythersake]

"Well done,"

He doesn't sound like it is - Isaac is, at this very moment, calculating whether he can work moisturizer into the Infirmary budget -

(Strange could use it. He's getting up there, himself.)

"Forty years is a span for all you'll encounter."