abraxaslogs | [closed] she wears short shorts i wear t shirts

Fine, [is echoed back with all the feeling of a word thrown down a pit. His smile however is slow a curling—some flicker of legitimate, if mean, humor. All right then. Don't play along with this little game of invasion dressed as hospitality. It makes little difference to him, says the man's casual disregard for her gesture toward the tent's pinned back flap.]

That doesn't sound very fine to me.

[The dog headed cane is tipped back and hooked thoughtlessly at the chair's arm of his chair.]

Though I suppose anywhere must be better than the cell the High Mage had you pitched in.

I've been in worse cells.

[ Although it is hard to really make the argument that warming stones and fine sheets really made for a worse cell. Far more of the principle of the thing. Thorne's dungeon didn't pretend to be something it wasn't. Convincing illusions somehow make the ultimate end worse.

And it wasn't all bad. Mage Jolene was on her side, Alina tells herself in a pattern as predictable as the rise and fall of the sun. ]

Are you going to tell me why you're here?

[ She leans over the back of the empty chair, impatient. ]

[In the way an oil lamp's light might be reduced by the turning of a key, so too goes that flicker of humor. The glint of it ebbs from out of his dark eye and leaves only the shadow of that curving smile behind. Worse cells indeed.]

I shouldn't. It's a bad idea to reward rude little girls with what they want when they refuse to ask nicely. [And yet see him, the very spirit of generosity, with his dark eyes trained on her round face like a dog waits for a fat duck to be flushed from the reeds:] The general sent me.

[Liar.]

[ Her face twists in insult. Her temper knocks the chair forward with a little shove. She wears all the unwise and unearned defiance of a little girl who doesn't contemplate the full strength of the bully she's standing up to, the depth of the fight she's jumped into.

In all the well worn books with bent spines tucked under a lonely Ravkan orphan's bed, the hero never needed anything but will to survive, and she's been practicing that without anyone's help for long enough. ]

Tell him I don't talk to errand boys.

[Is this the response he'd anticipated? Difficult to say. He'd caught only the barest look across the length of Thorne Castle's expansive execution yard, and all of it so drenched in the high arcane that to parse one thing from any other was tantamount to identifying a single thread in a great woven hanging. Not impossible—just difficult when attempting to keep track of a dozen other things at the same time. But here in this unreal place designed by the shape of their impulses, she is more easily identified. She is the hum of a harmonious note in compliment to a sound he is growing to recognize.

The light which burns high casts a long shadow.]

How interesting, [says the dark eyed man in the chair, unmoved by this show of defiance.] He hasn't told you anything about me, has he? I wonder why that is.

[If he finds himself inspired by some other question, Ralston pockets it. It's a question better used to ply Kirigan with directly.]

Edited 2021-09-11 22:44 (UTC)

Yes, I wonder. [ She doesn't. ] He's had more than enough opportunities.

[ She of course means when she was locked in the dungeons not thinking to imply the depths of their connection this implies or how this is phrasing she would never use in front of Mal to protect him from a fight that isn't his. She is not referring to their encounter before she leapt through the portal. She cannot be referring to their clandestine encounter in the Horizon, which was equally a lie and a truth, but one she holds in a part of her mind in the same space that you might keep a dream that you want to deny.

Part of her is insulted that he wouldn't face her here himself.

She makes a little frustrated huff, but she cannot help but poke this bear. She may be a saint but no one ever claimed that she was smart. ]

He probably didn't find you important enough to mention.

[The line of his chin raises by a degree, by two above the high collar of his shabby coat. It's resistance to that notion, yes, but it's something else too—the way an animal cocks when fascinated by something; the stubborn tip of a hard mouthed horse's nose in its bridle.]

No, I don't think that's right.

[This, slowly. Turning a stone over and musing over the things he has found wriggling beneath it. He studies her down the length of his nose (a feat, given their relative positions), knowing in that moment perfectly well what his importance is to the general is. His utility. Without that there would be no association to speak of, much less one to obscure—]

Ah. [His smile widens into teeth.] He doesn't trust you.

[ Each moment that passes, her grip tightens more on the back of the empty chair, her impatience wearing thinner and thinner. She has little tolerance for games.

And then the stranger says that and all tension pours out of her. She is calm, almost amused that this is the apparent tactic he'd take. The clarity of an animal caught in a snare when they stop struggling and know their fate. She is a fool, but it's hard to forget a lesson when it's woven into your skin.

She stands back up to her full height, shackled hands swaying loosely in front of her, tipping her chin up to show her collar. The consequences of disobedience. ]

Well I knew that already.

[Flick, flick go those shadow dark eyes in the stranger's face. The sudden change of temperature in the girl's demeanor has spurred some further examination. Anyone can be anything in Horizon; her accoutrements may mean nothing at all.

(Then why is his coat so drab, and why is the pin at his collar tarnished rather than gleaming? Old habits, he thinks for the very first time since passing into this place. And it would be silly to make any alteration now while she's looking.)

But then again, they might.]

He didn't mention you either, [he says after a beat, a statement in stark opposition to The general sent me. He is unattached to the lie, and gives it over easily in favor of:] But I suspect that isn't due to a lack of importance. Why has he been hiding you, little bird?

[Those are antlers about her neck.]

Little doe.

[ Her nose wrinkles, not just at the diminutive, but the though that she is something of his to hide. That makes far more sense than the initial lie the stranger had offered up, though. If Kirigan wanted to visit Alina in her horizon he would have done it himself.

The fact that this stranger has gone behind his back intrigues her. And then, after a moment, she slips around the chair and finally takes the seat meant for her. ]

He has a habit of only telling half a story.

[For a man who only an instant ago had seemed quite comfortable if terribly patrician in his seat, her taking that chair dispels that illusion. The straight line of his shoulders slants. He settles fully back into the chair, nigh on slouching there in the manufactured shadow of this make-believe tent he's pitched at the bristling heart of her imagination.

Trespassing is such a chancy business and he doesn't much care to have his chair overturned with him in it here too. The consequences might not be as nearly as impactful, but humiliation is it's own sting.]

So it appears. And here we are, both at a disadvantage because of it. [He doesn't offer his hand. What he does:] Maejyr M. Ralston, Their Majesties' Royal Magicians, Order of Imperial Service[—yadda, yadda, yadda, says the flick of two fingers—] Entirely at your service, of course.

[More or less.]

[ It wasn't so long ago that she wouldn't have had the confidence to let silence hang so heavily in the air, the side of her head propped up on a shackled hand, eyes narrowed and openly suspicious.

Her demeanor is a little forced. Awkward and stilted as she tries to guess what sequence of events has led this stranger (not a stranger anymore, he's given her his name). Her face being too much of a tell is a weakness, but not one she'll contend with anytime soon. It's strange to have something that others want. Being invisible was so much simpler, and even if part of her longs for that to return, more of her does not despite what she says. ]

It seems to me that you're the only one at a disadvantage here.

You're meant to introduce yourself in return, [is first helpfully supplied. Then, in more direct reply:] By what measurement, do you estimate?

[Disadvantage. Maybe that would be true in Thorne, or the Free Cities or Solvunn, or indeed almost anywhere in Abraxas proper. But if he's being honest—here in the Horizon, with the sensation of the arcane lingering all about him like a sweet perfume, that descriptor is the least applicable it's been for fifteen years. This simple fact provides him a lever to ply upon waking, doesn't it?

No. He's quite certain she's wrong.]

[ It might be obvious that this is a role she is not particularly skilled at, her hands folded across her lap as she tries her best at stoicism. Deals and half-formed half-truths already feel sour on her tongue.

We all do what we must to survive, and briefly she thinks perhaps Aleksander is not who she should take inspiration from, but he is devastatingly effective for getting what he wants. Still, her hero's heart is still too earnest. ]

Information. Experience. [ In regards to Kirigan specifically, but she doesn't think she needs to clarify. It comes after long moment, still ignoring his request for a name. ] He's got your attention for some reason or asked you for something. I can offer you some advice: don't.

Edited 2021-09-16 03:32 (UTC)

[In the shade of that clever little field tent, Maejyr Ralston's smile flexes briefly wider. For the barest instant, some specter of real humor lurks in the shape of that expression. It reaches up to touch his dark eyes, and to form a secret series of wrinkles. And then, as a card turned face down, that indulgent glint is once more made invisible. Obtuse. Shrouded.

Still—it's a good joke. That Kirigan solicited his attention; that the general asked for something. How rare must it be for the man to find himself burdened by the inconvenience of another person's wishes?

No wonder he's so short tempered.]

Don't. Why not?

[ Where to even begin with Kirigan that doesn't reveal too much of herself? As if she is already clearly not a petulant girl over her head in the down-turned curl of her lips, the uncomfortable shift in her posture. ]

He will...

[ Suddenly the warning feels like stuck in her mouth, her tongue dry and trying to shape words around cotton. Maybe any warning is unnecessary — she simply was not wise enough to see what was plainly in front of her. Shame coils up her spine and for a moment she can feel each place her skin is pierced by the treasure she led him to. ]

Do deer need a reason to warn each other about the wolves?

[ She has never felt so helpless, so much like prey, even in a world that was content to let her whither. Deer cannot run forever; their best chance was to have never been found in the first place. ]

[He doesn't recall the exact circumstances which led him to be delivered to her Ladyship's house; certainly that wasn't what began those terrible dreams, for they were led him to her (or her to him). But he remembers still the dark shape of them—not, surely, because the wolf in his nightmare had been so significant as to warrant the memory, but because her Ladyship had made it so with her hands on a small boy's shoulders and by lying, 'There is no beast, Mister Ralston.']

I know already that your General Kirigan is dangerous. [It's why he'd selected him, wasn't it?] It would be far more useful for you to warn me which direction the blow may come from.

[His dark eyes alight briefly to that string of antlers about her neck, lingering for a moment in an impulsive attempt to puzzle out the strange shape of them and the pressure exuded by them onto the world; it reminds him of something, but he can't recall what. Abraxas is all full to bursting with the arcane and sorting one thing from another is diligent work. Then, quick as falling, his attention rises back to her pettish face.]

You'll forgive me for saying so but you've given me very little reason to trust you, little nameless beast.

[ She would rather be a beast than a doe, and perhaps that is more fitting for her grotesque adornments around her neck. She tries not to sway under his attentive gazing. She did not need to master light and shadows to be invisible, but it already feels so long ago like another life. ]

Aleksandra. So I am no longer nameless.

[ Aleksander has stolen so much from her, what does it hurt him to borrow a name that's likely false anyway? ]

And I'm quite happy to not have the trust of a man who chooses his company so poorly.

You're extraordinarily bad at making friends, [is mild even as he mentally marks Aleksandra with all the zeal of a naughty boy dog-earing a significant page in a borrowed book.]

And here I thought we might be useful to one another. If I were to trust you and your opinion on dangerous things, who knows what insights from within Thorne I might bring you. I imagine a clever girl advantageously positioned in the Free Cities might be able to find some value in that.

[The rap of his fingers at the head of the cane hooked over the chair's arm is the most idle form of punctuation. Ralston's smile is unaltered, loosely hanging on his features like a coat from a hook.]

To say nothing of the fact that I am here with him and you are there so far away and how you might find it convenient to have a confidant in the man beside him. Who might act as a warning, as it were.

[He doesn't trust you, he'd said. But maybe the real answer is He knows you're frightened of him.]

[ Another comment that would be a dig if Alina wasn't already acutely aware of it. If she's insulted, it doesn't show, or, at least, it doesn't add to her aggravation. The number of people who wanted to keep her company before she started to be of any significant use could be counted on one hand.

Ralston's proposition is tempting, and he is of course right. She has no eyes on Aleksander. How can you hide from a man who controls the dark?

A measured breath. Always at the disadvantage, and she knows it. ]

I have no assurances that you wouldn't just turn around and tell him what you find out about me.

[ Was there anyone in the Little Palace that wouldn't have delivered her back to the Darkling no matter how much she thought she trusted them? Still, her tone has shifted as if she is searching for excuses rather than making a real protest. ]

You don't.

[It's jarringly brisk agreement with her assessment, with no hint at reassuring her or allaying any suspicions. As far as deceitful negotiations go, he is either very good at them or very poor.]

And as I've said, you haven't given me much reason to be confident in you either. So it seems to be that either we agree to lend one another the benefit of the doubt, or we continue to fumble blindly about in the dark. I don't know about you, but to my ear that latter one seems to the exclusive benefit of our mutual friend.

[ Well, at least he's not being needlessly cryptic. His honesty is a cautiously earned mark in his favor. She sits back, crossing her arms across her chest. Where to even begin with Aleksander?

And she does begin, without even agreeing to any terms, as if they had already negotiated them. ]

He is powerful. Purposefully deceitful. He cares for no one but himself despite any lies to make you think otherwise. [ All fairly standard, but inadvertently revealing far too much of her own pain. A pause, and then: ] Patient.

[ It feels strange to think of something so normally so virtuous as something evil, but here she is, Ravka's saint greedy and impatient. ]

I'd sorted all that out for myself, [is rude to the point of counter productivity—why be smart with her here in this moment when she's finally her pride far enough to give him something directly?

But turn about's fair play, and he isn't here for broad overtures. Maybe that's why Ralston offers her:]

He's hurt me once already.

[Never mind that it's not a difficult thing to do; that doesn't change that it's true.]

[ Alina is close to leaving, imagining the way her feet could kick out the chair legs from underneath him. But then he has to go say something like that, and she thinks perhaps she has misjudged Ralston. Maybe he just needs help.

She is still wary and guarded in her movements. She shifts in her chair, the internal fight obvious. He wants to know what Kirigan is capable of? She wears it on her skin. Can't even escape it in the Horizon. ]

He did this. [ Her thumb brushes underneath the wound of a collar making its way in and out of her skin. It almost seems to pulse with the attention, but her face seems so stiff. So purposeful in her attempt to seem detached, invulnerable. ] Trying to... take something from me. Use me.

[The line of his dark eyes falls to follow her fingers, lingering there at the wreath wrought so purposefully about her neck. If he considers the shape at length, it reminds him of a trap. A thing made of ravenous teeth made ready to spring shut.

(This is a dangerous business, he knows. It isn't a lie to say that the general has harmed him. Purposefully? No. But he has seen the aftermath enough tines to recognize a lack of a chagrin. What would Kirigan do, were he to tell him of this meeting and the pretenses under which Ralston has pursued it?)

His eyes return to her face, with all its purposefully fixed qualities.

A more sensible man might, in this moment, feel some flicker of trepidation. But no one has ever called Maejyr Michael Ralston such a thing.]

Use you. For what?

[ More power she starts to say, but it's not just that. Her hands fall back to the arm rests of her chair, scratching at the wood, antsy like a caged animal. ]

Control. [ He would never let a little thing like personal agency get in the way of his plans. ] I assume you've seen his shadow summoning by now. He tore my country in half with it. Hundreds of years ago because he's actually ancient. [ Why is that the bit that annoys her so much? ] Turned the people in its path into monsters that still kill the people desperate enough to try and cross it.

[ She turns her hand, fingers curling around a little sphere of light that's amassed there. As her fist closes it spills out like sand into the atmosphere of her domain, not content to be kept. ]

I thought— [ And she turns her head, letting out a breath because she seems so stupid in retrospect. He hadn't even promised her that, she just let herself believe a carefully worded half-truth. ] —that we were going to destroy it. And that with both of our power we could accomplish that.

[ It's a wonder her sign isn't the fool. ]

Edited 2021-10-17 20:16 (UTC)

[The mesmeric shape of the light in the confines of the tent canvas plays like a shaded lantern from between her fingers. It isn't a matter of seeing it, but feeling it—the sensation of vibrant sunlight shifting on the other side of a pane of glass to which he has his cheek pressed, the presence full enough that he is aware of the warmth. Here in Horizon, it's so near that he might almost reach out and touch the shape of it himself. Consequently, the urge to do so is quiet and remote. In this place, where he may glut himself on the arcane, starving impulses are at their least powerful.

Still, he isn't without appetite. Even a sated animal finds the scent of a meal appealing. So there is something intent in his study of her, eagerly parsing where she begins and Horizon ends. It's a complicated subject—the two things being as close knit as consequences are to actions.

Luckily, he is practiced with this study.]

What did you hope to achieve by repairing it?

[ Alina nearly recoils, her face bemused. Her face is not subtle. What an odd (stupid) question she thinks. ]

What do you mean? [ But her question is sharp, and she is not really interested in an answer. Her country was broken, people trapped and desperate dying in fruitless attempts to cross it. Her hands clutch tightly around the arms of the chair, the temperature of the tent rising as the beams of light that filter in pulse like a breath. ] People are trapped by it. My whole unit died crossing it for a stupid supply run. The fold— [ at my parents, her mouth fumbles around the thought, stumbling to stop it. They were probably crossing it because of her. Just how large was the Sun Summoner's body count?

She could cut him. Hurt him to make him leave. It's not like it's even real.

But that would make her like Kirigan, wouldn't it? The light that had moved forward like a gust of air retreats as she leans back into her seat, her mouth moving carefully around each of the words. ]

Grisha, like Kirigan— like me —are not exactly trusted where we come from. Useful. But not trusted.

[ Grisha women scare me, Mal had joked, and still it echos around her head. But Ravka's begrudging acceptance is still better than being hunted and slaughtered. Easier to deal with than the constant uncertainty straddling Ravkan and Shu but belonging to neither. ]

And I just have to.

[ A Saint that will vanquish the fold. It's a children's story, but stories repeated often enough become real. She just didn't think it would ever be so literal. ]

[closed] she wears short shorts i wear t shirts

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