abraxaslogs | Open Log

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Open Log

Who: Jon Sims and YOU
Where: A few places in Thorne Castle
When: Before the Festival
What: Getting Acquaint (Let me know if you want to continue a TDM thread, and we can link it here and go on)
Warnings: N/A, will probably add.

Room 7

The first day, Jon just can't let himself just stop moving. He's already done everything he can to try to get the apprentices to give him more information, and they just keep assuring him that he'll know everything he needs to when he needs to. Which he interprets as; when they want him to. But they've also promised his powers will return, whether he wants them to or not, so there's that.

A bunk in a shared dorm doesn't shout 'honored guest' to him. He spends a few minutes stripping his bed, checking it minutely, and then making it again, using the activity of his hands to try to still his thoughts a little. To try not to worry about Martin. And the statement he can only hope he left entirely behind. When he's done that, he takes a moment, leaning on the bedpost to stare out the window beside it.

It's unsettlingly soothing, how little he can see from here.

Upstairs

Jon would have found the library even without it having been on that first rapid tour. He doesn't even intend to find himself there until he's there, looking down the rows of shelves. He prides himself on his research skills, but here he doesn't bother to look for something specific. Instead, he walks down one aisle at random, then another, keeping his hands folded behind his back until the distant, nagging feeling in the back of the head selects one volume, then another, then another.

He does check the flyleafs carefully, however.

In the study hall, he steers wide of those trying to learn to summon flames – Jon's not having anything to do with that, and the observant can guess why – one hand is already so scarred by burns that it doesn't move fluidly. And maybe that's why he's pulled to the young mage demonstrating a spell that heals small wounds.

Downstairs

He follows the dark stairs and rumors down with some anxiety, but it's no Panopticon down here. Only too-cramped cells, and conditions that would seem unrealistic in a movie. He eyes the guards, but doesn't like what he sees, and so keeps his distance as he moves along the cells. He's looking for someone in particular, but he won't find him. Instead, when the guards are out of earshot, he pauses.

“Do you know if there are more prisoners? Anywhere else?”

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Coraline's learned to recognise the gaits of the guards already - flat-footed and heavy, confident in that disgustingly egotistical way - so she recognise immediately the sound of footsteps from someone less grossly self-assured, the light tread of someone not sure they should be here.

Well. Time to put on a show then.

She rolls off her top bunk and shimmies easily to the floor, flopping her too-long sleeves over her hands so she can grip the bars of their cell without further injury, shifting the collar off one shoulder and briefly releasing to mess up her hair some to look even more pathetic and small, and grips back on the bars just as the man comes into view.

Huh. Pretty normal looking - the pock-mark scars barely register, on her scale, but the burned hand gets a quick glance. Tired, but dressed infinitely nicer than her so clearly Welcomed, ugh. But if he's concerned about other prisoners, maybe he's empathetic. She can use that.

Immediately her eyes go wide as she lets them flood with tears, brimming but not quite falling, as she lets her genuine anxiety and fear loose. "I don't... I-I've only seen people in this hallway--" Her voice quavers, the Australian accent buried under her fear. There's only two men in the cell with her, and suddenly the tears start flowing. "They-- they keep taking mister Majima away, though, they keep hurting him...!"

He looks down at her, brows drawn together. He's seen some young people in here, but this is an actual child.

"Have they hurt you?"

She nods, the action a little stuttering, and lets go of the bars to pull back her sleeves - to reveal thick contact burns around her wrists, already blistering and swollen in places. They're only first degree, but they still look painful.

"The cuffs they gave me, th-they..." But her voice catches, and she takes a deep, trembling breath to try and calm her nerves. "They burned me..."

He's not really conscious of the way he touches his own scar at the sight of hers, one hand rubbing the other. When he realizes, he stops, expression changing a little.

"I know- something that might help, a little. They're playing at teaching us spells upstairs." He frowns at the word - magic, despite everything he's seen or because of it, bothers Jon. "I was learning the one to heal wounds this morning."

Her gaze, on the other hand, flicks down immediately at his apparently unconscious motion. Huh. Guess he's an easier mark than she expected. Doesn't seem to like magic, though, that's interesting.

"I-I..." She sniffs, wetly, and flaps her sleeve down to wipe her eyes, only really succeeding in leaving dirty tracks on her face; but her voice is nearly a whisper. "...I didn't think magic was real, until ...until now."

She pulls her wrists into herself for a moment, meek and hesitant, before she very nervously (and unlike her tears, fuelled by real fear but ultimately hollow, this is real, genuine nervousness) sticks both arms out of her cell, being very careful not to let them brush the bars, and looks up at Jon with weeping, narrowed eyes. "Please?"

Jon can't abide suffering. He's seen too much. Whether her tears are real or not doesn't matter, just now. The lie is curious, though.

The hand he holds out is the burned one, and the shape of the burn becomes obvious - someone's handprint, smaller than his own, is burnt into him, the whole front of his hand scarred and thumb and fingers wrapping around the back.

"I'm still waiting for it to be a trick," he says, even as he begins the precise little gestures above one of her wrists. "My world is... far too full of the supernatural, but I would not call any of it magic."

The spell is weak, with nothing to be seen but a soft distortion in the air, but at least it might help the pain. He knows how much burns hurt.

Her eyes watch the gestures far too sharply, even through the tears. If she could learn to do that too, maybe she could take care of herself, and not need any of this pity anymore. She pulls the arm he's not working on back, close to her chest again.

Her fingers twitch slightly on the outstretched hand, as she tries not to flinch from the sudden itching sensation the healing inspires. The blisters go down quickly, but the skin is still red and raised on the area by the time he's finished, and Coraline takes care in pulling her hand back to look at the wound in (genuine) surprise.

"I'm Coraline," she says, with a softness touched more by awe than fear now, as she looks back up at her mark. That much, at least, is real - technically. Chosen names count.

He's a little surprised it worked that well too. He pulls his hand back, working it, and frowns for a moment. The little magic has left the scars feeling stiff, fresh again.

"My name's Jon," he offers back, his tone just as serious. "I'm not sure I can do that again immediately. But I can come back."

Her eyes widen a little, and she's quick to stick her arm back out and take his scarred hand, grabbing the back of it and holding on with a tremulous grip, even as she flaps her sleeve down on the other hand so she can grab the bars again, the folds of it catching between her fingers betraying how tightly she's clutching the iron poles.

"Please," she begs again, rushed and hushed and just this side of desperate. "You-- you're one of the welcomed guests, right? Th-that means you can get me out of here, doesn't it? I-I can't-- I haven't done anything, I'm not a criminal...!"

False. She's just not a criminal here.

His eyes flick down to her hand, narrowing slightly. That doesn't feel quite right. He looks at her again, more closely. But he doesn't wrench his hand away.

"We aren't free here either," he says in a low voice, though he'd never call it imprisonment compared to this. "But they're asking for 'volunteers' to work upstairs. There's a festival." The way Jon says both volunteers and festival makes them sound like punishments themselves. The man eats distrust for breakfast.

Her grip on his hand is warm and tight, but despite her youth something about her hand is unusually rough. And when he meets her gaze again, her eyes might be a little less hazel, a little more gold, even on the sclera and pupil.

"I think I heard the guards talking about us working, b-but..." She swallows nervously. "They didn't make it sound like it was for the festival. If- if you could get me out to help with that..."

He grips her hand back, curious. Not scar tissue, and it doesn't look like it feels.

"I'll ask," he says without conditions. "If I can, I'll get you upstairs for the festival, and we'll see where we can go from there."

If he had to guess... her hand feels like wood. And as he squeezes it, it tangibly shifts, just slightly, lumpy and uneven like a loose braid.

The look on her face is grateful, though, and it's only a tiny big played up. The fresh tears in her eyes are definitely fake. "Thank you-- thank you so much, Jon. I-I'll do my best, I'll make sure I'm actually useful there so you don't get in trouble."

He lets go, holding up a finger. "You don't need to keep up the act," he says quietly. "And I don't care if you actually do any of the grunt work they're looking for."

Her expression stays surprisingly even at that ~~underhanded~~ understated comment; not a single ripple of movement across her face, as she races through the potentials in her mind. She was good, she knew she was by necessity, but if he was an honoured guest then maybe his magic hadn't been turned off- he already said there was supernatural stuff in his world, maybe he could tell, she'd let him touch her...

She pulls her hand back - still taking care not to touch the bars= - and flaps her sleeve down so she can use the heel of her palm to dry her eyes. "Well, you're no fun," she grumbles, and her voice is lower now - not just volume, but pitch as well, dropping into her more natural register now that she's dropping the act. Her face is still red and blotchy, but she also folds her arms and raises an eyebrow at him. "What gave it away?"

When she actually does, a hint of a smile touches his face. He wants to like her, although the very urge makes him wary. Something about her feels... Well, a little like the creatures of the Unknowing. But the quiet trickle of knowing tells him that's not quite it. If she's of the Stranger, it's not in a direct sense.

"I am not any fun at all," he agrees. "You're very good. The real tears help. I just tend to know too much."

"I feel like it's cheating to not tell me if you're magic," she says flatly. With the very strong implication that she is, too, but she won't clarify that out loud.

Still, she can't say she minds too horribly being called out like this. It stings for sure, but there's something comforting in knowing there was indeed someone who could see through very good bullshit.

"I wasn't lying about hearing the guards gossip," she feels the need to clarify. 'I dunno where we're going but it can't be good."

"Fine. I'm magic," he says back with equal flatness. It's as good a word for it as any other. He doesn't want to explain 'avatar.' "I don't know everything, but just assume I might know anything."

"I'll find out. The guards aren't good to ask, but I know who else is."

She leans an elbow on the bars, leaning her head against her folded arm as she stares at Jon evenly for a few seconds. It's not planning out some new emotional manipulation, it's just thoughtful.

After a few seconds, though, she gives him a slightly begrudging smile. "Well, try not to leave me hanging too long while you sort that out."

He leans back from the bars, looking down the corridor. He knows the guard on duty is about to come through again - yes, there's the door at the end opening.

"I'll be back soon," he says, looking back at her, expression earnest. "Keep your head down."

And before the guard can reach them again, he's turned and gone, striding back to the stairs without a backwards glance.

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