abraxaslogs | • OPEN •

[that much is fine by her. at this point, she takes no offense of sandor's more colorful vocabulary, for she can tell that despite the sharp edges to his words, there is a general softness buried deep within. she is better off not poking that bear, though, nor alluding to it.

so, without giving him a response other than her silence, wanda continues carving out a spiral shape on the moss. once that's done, she uses the very same knife—after swiping off the mossy remains from the blade—to cut a straight line from the tip of her left hand's forefinger down to the palm, just over the line of her wrist. blood emerges from the incision immediately, and wanda presses her hand down onto the carved out spiral.

the words she speaks next are quiet, not for sandor's ears, but they remain just as secretive as she speaks them in her native tongue of sokovian. an offering to dispel what ties her chaos magic and soris's necromancy with whatever this gift of blood the singularity has given her, so that she may control it with neither interference nor bane. that her magic may remain her own, despite her offering it to the old god she's made a pact with.

pulling back, she glances over her shoulder, already wrapping a bandage around her hand. he still stands there.]

Did you see my horse on the path?

( He watches. His silence is not reverence, but rather a keen curiosity that he does not often allow others to see that he has. Most times, he adopts an air of disinterest and does his best to seem deliberately obtuse — but the fact of the matter is, he's observant. Thoughtful, in ways he wouldn't admit to being.

There's something wrong with her magic. She's trying to fix it. This is particularly interesting given he's seen her do plenty of fucking magic since he arrived here, which can only mean that these things she can do... this is what she can manage injured, or otherwise inhibited. What, then, is the full extent of her power? Exactly how much is she capable of?

Perhaps that should make him more wary than it does. )

Aye. ( He agrees after a beat, his voice perfectly neutral. ) Grazing.

His name is Clover.

[which she has been told is a girl's name for a horse, but she doesn't care about that. standing up, she puts the knife away in her bag and moves over to the side, to take the burlap sack and carry it off by some mangled roots of a nearby tree.

digging into the bag as she crouches down, she pushes the different bones between the roots; some buried a few inches into the ground, but for the most part protruding. she will come again tomorrow to dig them properly. some of the bones, grimy and deformed as they are, are left with an imprint of her blood as she moves them about with her hand.

finally, she stands, turning to him, empty bag in her hands.]

Do you want to offer a prayer?

[she has a feeling he won't.]

( He's inclined to agree, Clover is very much a girl's name for a horse. Then again, maybe his opinion ought not be taken into account — every horse he's ever owned has been named Stranger, after the god of death. Not exactly overflowing with creativity, nor a beacon of health masculinity.

He ambles a little closer, just a few yards, to get a better look at what she's doing there with the bones and the roots. The blood of her hands clings to them, and a frown pulls at his lips. It's not his business if she wants her hand to fester, though, so he keeps his fucking mouth shut.

He snorts at the question. )

The gods have nothing to offer me. Why waste the breath.

I thought you'd say something like that.

[wanda will not give him the usual lecture that this world is unknown to him, that it is good that he becomes involved. if nothing else, to not be caught unawares by something that is unknown solely to him.

she walks a little closer to him, down the naturally-born path, back straight and chin held aloft.]

This is the shrine of Soris Immaneus, the patron for dark blessings. [now standing beside him, she offers him a glance upward.] Taking a break from your walking around?

[clocking him for his sticking around nearby.]

( It's not that he's necessarily against learning. He's here, after all. He's watching, paying attention. He can learn about the gods without subscribing to them. He doesn't need to pray to figure out what they're all about — and, to speak for true, he doubts they'd want his prayers. He's a thrice-damned dog, the second son of a lesser house with more blood under his fingernails than most murderers. He's a traitor and a failed guard, who lost his charge when he was bested by one single bloody woman. What god would want his faith?

As she stands before him, he gestures her onward toward the path — and then falls into line naturally, settling somewhere just behind her left shoulder as they walk it. The right and proper place for a Kingsguard escorting a Queen as she takes a turn around the grounds.

But of course, he isn't Kingsguard anymore, she isn't a Queen, and they aren't at a castle garden. Old habits die hard. Things feel adjacent enough to it, it's nearly right. )

Might be. ( He agrees vaguely, his eyes casting about in an absent scan over her head. Always alert; it's second nature to be aware of their surroundings as they go. If hee's at all embarrassed she's caught him hovering, he doesn't remotely look it. ) What dark blessings are you hoping a god will offer a witch?

[there's that gesture—inviting, somewhat—and wanda takes it for what it is, starting her way down the path while he walks behind her. she resists the urge to look back at him, for she isn't used to an escort, but given the emotions he exudes? he seems particularly comfortable with this positioning.

she isn't about to tell him that she can look after herself. it might earn her a grunt and nothing more.]

Would you not expect a witch to ask for dark blessings? [at this, wanda does turn her head over her shoulder, momentarily, but presses onward, where the path leads them to a path with less scattered trees around them.] I wasn't always a witch.

[folding the burlap sack in her hands, wanda is not going to answer his question yet.]

My brother and I—we got these powers to protect our country. People feared my powers afterwards. Is that how you feel about witches in your world?

Edited 2023-11-09 20:52 (UTC)

( He listens to her story impassively — from any other man, his silence might be taken as disinterest. With Sandor, frankly, the fact that he isn't interrupting her to tell her to shut the fuck up is the closest anyone's likely to get to genuine interest. Some pieces resonate. The picture of her, while still blurry and largely negative space, begins to fill out a little more. Bit by bit.

He hums thoughtfully at the question.

Up ahead a few yards, Clover continues to graze. He veers toward the horse to gently catch the reigns, heading the beast back toward the path with an absent pat along its muzzle. He likes horses more than most people. )

Depends on the witch.

( He turns his gaze to her, eyeing her up and down for one discerning look — then casts his eyes back forward toward the treeline again. )

In my world, they might've thought of you as a Red Priestess. You look the type. Not like those spooky bitches that hide out in huts in the woods, boiling rabits.

( What, truly, is the difference between a witch, a priestess, and a sorceress aside from aesthetics and fancy clothes?

At length, he finally answers: )

People fear what they don't know, witch or not.

( Which is not, as she asked, a clarification on how he feels about them. What's it matter what he thinks? )

[sure, he doesn't answer her question, but he sure gives her some clues as to how he feels regarding the matter at hand. it gives wanda context, too, which is one of the better things one could hope for, especially with these quieter sorts that got pulled through with the ritual.

there are plenty of witches in his world, and they seem to have different names for themselves, it seems. they boil rabbits, too? which sounds—genuinely—kind of gross. they should be baked, in her opinion.]

I'm not even remotely close to a priestess. [that implies a faith, even if the 'red' is a shared trait. she pauses to watch him bring clover towards them, then continues.] I'm more normal than you give me credit for.

[this assumption he has of her, despite the magic she has portrayed and the dealings she makes in the dark parts of the forests.

the path gives way to the outskirts of the forest, finally, and wanda pauses, going back towards clover to press a hand to its muzzle, before moving towards the saddle and the bag attached to it. she brings out two apples—one for clover, and the other she offers to sandor, arm straightening out towards him.]

A lot of unknowns in your world?

( I'm not even remotely close to a priestess, she says, and he turns to give her a pointedly skeptical look. Doesn't say anything, but the implication's there — didn't he just catch her making offerings and saying prayers to a god? Seems pretty fucking priestess-ly, if you ask him, but what does he know? At any rate, those red women aren't the typical chaste, devout sort like Septas are. Mystics, more than anything, in his opinion. She seems the mystical sort.

She earns herself a nice little scoff at I'm more normal than you give me credit for, but doesn't actually say anything to that either. If she's normal, he's a fucking prince. )

Aye.

( He agrees, pausing to glance between her and the offered apple. On the one hand, maybe he ought to resent being treated the same as a bloody horse. On the other, food's food — he takes it, and brings it to his lips immediately, thoughtlessly. He takes a messy bite, and speaks around the fruit flesh. )

More unknowns than knowns, probably, but if we knew how much we didn't know it'd probably send us all weeping to the grave.

[the thought crossed her mind, that maybe he would find offense to be given a ‘treat’ just like her horse, but figures he’s less complicated than that. thankfully. clover eats his apple quick, tossing his head afterwards.

it’s in remembering his telling her about his ‘purpose’ prior to being summoned here that wanda, after tucking in the extra bag she carried, starts walking down the path again. clover snorts, and takes two uncertain steps forward. sandor can guide him forward, in any case.]

I get the impression our worlds are very different. [not that that was ever in question, but she wonders… turning back slightly towards him.] How do you communicate with people who are far away? Letters? Email? [uh] Birds?

( He doesn't have the first fucking clue what email is, which should probably keep him from looking at her like she's a little daft for even asking the question. It doesn't, though. A faint trickle of amusement slips in as he wryly studies her from the corner of his eye, accompanied by a slightly imperceptible, humorous shake of his head. )

Ravens.

( Comes the gentle correction — she got it close enough with birds, but still he feels the need to specify. )

Most holds have a rookery. Some letters are sent on horseback, but urgent news is sent by raven.

[definitely very different worlds, if ravens and horseback are the most 'modern' means of communicating with others as a distant. maybe it makes the culture shock significantly easier for him, being in abraxas.]

Ravens are pretty smart, but I can't imagine how long it'd take to train them to deliver letters.

[the path starts descending a bit, so wanda pulls back and grabs hold of clover's reins to give herself something to brace against; the grass is still wet from some recent rains, and she'd hate to slip.]

We have devices we can use to call people and talk to them no matter how far away they are. It took a long time to build that kind of system, though. [now that she wants to explain it, she finds that it's quite a bit complicated.] How many kingdoms are there?

[in his world, that is.]

I figure Winterfell is one. Right?

( She's not wrong; the culture shock here has been minimal. The overall concept of changing worlds has been the strangest part. Even the magic isn't unheard of, though how common it is has been something to adapt to.

To the concept of training ravens, he can only shrug. Wasn't his job, he hasn't even the faintest notion of it. Hardly matters here, he thinks — at least, not for the Summoned. If all those annoying fuckers on the network taught him anything, it's that everyone can communicate over any distance, whether he bloody well wants them to or not. Maybe her devices aren't too dissimilar to that; it's probably the closest he can come to conceptualizing it, at least until someone shows him twenty-first century technology in the Horizon sometime. What a day that'll be for everyone involved.

A hand reaches out absently to rest on the pommel of her horse's saddle, something to hang onto as they descend the grade. )

In Westeros, there's seven. It's broken up by territory. Winterfell... that's the capital of the North, not the whole kingdom. Then there's the Mountain and the Vale, the Isles and Rivers, the Rock, the Reach, the Stormlands, and Dorne.

( Essos is an entirely different story, but who gives a shit about Essos? )

Edited 2023-11-30 07:23 (UTC)

[it feels a little uninspired, to have names like north and mountain, but she figures there’s no real need to create a name when just naming places for what they are is more than enough. she wonders if the name of stormlands means it storms a lot.

crazy to think, too, to think that there’s only seven. best not mention the world map’s situation to sandor—someone else can do that, if he cared to know—for now she has an interest in one particular thing.]

Did you travel to all those places at some point? Which one is your home?

[just curiosity, from someone who is far removed from anything like the world sandor comes from.]

( Well don't look at him, he didn't fucking name them, did he? Uninspired, sure, but at least everyone knows exactly where the fuck you're talking about.

He's been content to parrot out answers like an encyclopedia up until now, where it seems just a touch more personal. Like she's prying for information about him specifically. It has him cutting a sideways look at her, studying her discerningly, eyes narrowed. )

What's it matter? Why do you care?

( It's less that he's protective of the information, of course — it matters not whether he's from the West or the North, it's not like she'll be able to wield the information against him. He just doesn't like the thought of being under anyone's attentions, he doesn't like being under the spotlight. The greater implication, the perils of being known.

Best to uno reverse card this situation before she can even answer those two questions, sharply returning fire with: )

Where are you from? How many kingdoms are on your continent?

[the same look that she shoots her, wanda shoots right back, not the slightest bit intimidated by his attitude, height, nor physical prowess. he's probably used to strong-willed women, if nothing else.]

I'm sure you've heard about conversations.

[there's no need to get half as defensive as he is, but wanda takes no insult of it.]

I am from a country called Sokovia. Small, surrounded by mountains. It doesn't exist anymore. [a shrug, as she turns her gaze to the front again, as they reach a more level plane on the grass.] We don't have kingdoms anymore, but we do have seven continents with a lot of countries. My continent is called Europe.

[sandor will probably think it's a dumb name.]

I'm not an expert in geography, so don't ask me too many questions about it.

( Gods, is he ever used to strong-willed women. Let him be fucking spared from them, if the seven divine have a scrap of bloody mercy between them — but of course they don't. Ladies like her, like Claire, like Sansa, they're all his punishment for his vast array of sins.

Sokovia; he notes. Europe. It'll do him absolutely no good to learn these names, but he files them away nonetheless.

I'm not an expert in geography; he snorts — a proper laugh, nearly. Only a touch mocking. )

What, and you think I am?

( Asking him questions about his own continent, like he's any better at it. )

Do I strike you as a particularly well-read fucker? Don't worry, I can barely remember my own bloody geography, I won't go interrogating you about yours. We're both here now, anyway, aren't we?

[the 'mocking' she doesn't get, because all wanda can gather from where their conversation has rolled towards is that she's nearly made him laugh; that there's amusement well in the air, just about brewing.

clover, the horse, snorts, avoiding a large rock pressed onto the path and forcing wanda to follow after its sudden shift, holding tight onto the leash, steps hurried for a moment.]

I don't know what kind of fucker you strike me as, Sandor, but you're not half as uninteresting as you might think you are. [all this said, words returned, with a generous lilt of amusement in her voice. if he were to turn to look at her face, he will find that wanda is smiling.] We'll leave the reading to others. Doesn't help us that much here in Solvunn, anyway, so you're right about that.

Edited 2024-01-02 00:03 (UTC)

( She's right, that amusement's brewing and it doesn't stop when she parrots back his language at him; I don't know what kind of fucker you strike me as. Something about the phrasing... He shakes his head slowly, amused.

He doesn't look at her to see the smile, but he doesn't really need to. He can feel it well enough.

They walk in comfortable companionship back to town this way, in better spirits than he normally wears, never quite laughing, but close enough for her to maybe feel some sense of a job accomplished. )

• OPEN •

tw: blood

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seems like a decent place to wrap ? 🎀