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abraxaslogs2022-03-13 11:50 am
lackingtalent) wrote in abraxaslogs2022-03-13 11:50 amEntry tags:
lackingtalent) wrote in abraxaslogs2022-03-13 11:50 am
[closed;] Emet-Selch (pre-eclipse)
The door is bolted and magically sealed, but Emet-Selch would find the seal very simple- child's play for any of his kind. Five sigils denote five elements upon the door, and undoing the latch would merely involve tracing links from each element to the opposite. It is both simple and it is not. For seeing the sigils would require soulsight. Any other would simply see an unadorned wooden door with no handle- and therefore no means of opening it short of destroying it.
When Emet-Selch enters, perhaps something would be called to mind. The ground floor is rather dark and quite bare- save for circular shelving. Circular shelving lines the entirity of the bottom floor, and on these shelves are a collection of varying wines of varying vintage, varying type and varying year. For most, it would likely be impressive. For them, whose lifetimes lasted so very long, a collection like that was nothing out of the ordinary.
Yet that is not what may jog his memory. That, instead, is a staircase. It is iron- intricately wrought, strong and yet decorative- forming a spiral as it leads up to another floor. ...And that floor.
That floor.
If his memory had not been given a good jogging as of yet, it surely would be. For upon this floor are all manner of things reconstructed from memory in painstaking detail. There are Instruments of measurement- models and scales and charts all but essential to determining matters relating to the spiritual world- as well as book after book after opened book dedicated to the recording of such esoteric study.
There are mementos, too. Ancient maps depicting the locales of adventures long past (and secrets still to be discovered) lie upon free table space, old journals, old reports and even old correspondences from the people that Emet-Selch had met on these past journeys. Within a multitude of concealed drawers, there are even some gifts. Little things, mementos more than anything, of a sorcerer quite sentimental (daresay fond) of the different peoples, and cultures he had witnessed. Not all are there. Items that Hythlodaeus did not understand- such as staves, staffs procured from these distant places and kept as curiosities- even smaller items that Hythlodaeus had not been told of (for getting stories out of someone so modest was always a challenge) - are absent.
Yet even all of that is not all. For all of his studies relating to his seat (and all of the mementos of times past) that are stored here, this is a sorcerer's place. Therefore, the main purpose of this room is not that of archive. It is that of creation. There are a number of (regrettably empty, for the recreator did not understand these objects well enough to properly recreate them) glass phials, alchemical supplies and consumables, as well as what would have been fabulously rare and precious raw materials stored carefully within this room, as well as a number of compounds that would have been completed in the original laboratory, yet the recreator does not have much of an interest in alchemy himself. Therefore, these things are not properly understood, and their phials are filled with nothing but approximations. Coloured water in some. Shavings of things similar in colour and texture. Some phials, of things Hythlodaeus simply could not recall- are just empty.
Importantly, the engine of this room (a cauldron, as well as a series of devices intended to keep things hot, or keep things cold, extractions and vacuum systems both) are Amaurotine technology. Hythlodaeus has recreated them faithfully enough. He also has enough of an idea of how they work in order to create working replicas- yet they remain dormant and still. For being of Amaurotine origin, they require a power source to function- something which Abraxas so far lacks.
The only difference, really, to Emet-Selch's old sanctuary within Amaurot is the decor. This room, this recreation, has had a few liberties taken. Chiefly, the decor. It matches the stone of the outside and the general Solvunn aesthetic quite wonderfully. This recreation's architect is either telling a joke with this choice- or it is a wordless comment on how Emet-Selch had treated the rest of the house. There is that difference, of course, yet there is also another. There is a large bay window turned bed which has been constructed to afford a comfortable enough night's rest for when Emet-Selch simply could not bring himself to be torn away from his work. ...An improvement on the original, Hythlodaeus would say. For he does recall, (and he does recall well) happening upon the sorcerer (more than once back then) crammed up into an uncomfortable looking chair, asleep- and distinctly grouchier than usual thanks to the poor quality of it.
Speaking of sleep.
Emet-Selch would happen upon Hythlodaeus within that very bed as he looks upon it. Or, more accurately, on the top of it. He is clothed- typically so, in a dark purple robe and with his hood pulled down- sleeping quite deeply. For he was not Emet-Selch. His creation magic- the stores of aether within him- had a limit. And a cursorary glance of him would likely inform Emet-Selch that his aether stores are almost entirely tapped out from the recreation of this place. There is little need to worry, though. Despite how he would enjoy anyone thinking otherwise, Hythlodaeus is far from a foolish man. He had taken measures to protect himself from overburden- and his soul flickers hale and strong as his aether regenerates itself.
From the way he is sleeping, half on his back, half on his side, his arms spread to the sides of him- it appears he's collapsed onto the bed rather than curling up on it, but the smile on his face as he sleeps suggests that even in this position, he is very, very pleased with himself.]
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Still, as well-suited as the outside is to the rest of house he has never been entirely able to deny his own curiosity; if Hythlodaeus has gone to such trouble on the outside, then what might await him on the inside?
Unlocking the door proves almost trivially easy, though he knows it was likely meant to be - the faint trace of aether about the door is enough to have him realize it has been locked magically, and it takes almost no thought to connect the elements correctly once he turns to his soulsight. And though he may, eventually, wish to alter the means by which it might open, for now he leaves it be. The thrill of discovery, of seeing all that has been offered in this most princely of gifts, is too tempting. Not to mention he has yet to learn of anyone else who might happen to be gifted with the same sort of sight as they even if he has not exactly made a thorough study of the matter.
What he finds, immediately upon entering is nothing like what he'd expected. It's like walking into a memory. Another fragmented bit of his past that had been all but worn away over the long years of duty, and he spends a long moment simply lingering in that first room, letting his fingers trail over the wine bottles as he passes them by, and every now and again pulling one out of its resting place to give it a proper look, before returning it back to where he had taken it from. Still, the ladder lingers in the corner of his eye, and once he has satisfied his curiosity with regards to the wine, he does finally ascend the ladder, letting his fingers trail over the railings as he climbs.
Only to be again stopped in his tracks once he reaches the next floor. Once he sees the instruments of measurement, and the books carefully laid out. While the tower itself might have been gift enough, this is nothing more or less than a piece of himself. Of his own past, rendered carefully in maps of long-forgotten places, and little glass vials. In the comfort of the room, though it is wrought of stone and not the more familiar walls of Amaurot (though the cauldron itself, he is pleased to see, is in the style of Amaurot, rather than anything lesser). He cannot even complain about the liberty Hythlodaeus has taken with the window, and there's a soft smile, as his eyes finally land on Hythlodaeus himself, fast asleep on the bed nestled into the bay window. (Almost on instinct, he turns to his soul sight, and is relieved to find that it is naught more than the deep sleep that often comes of the need to replenish one's aether.)
He cannot bring himself to leave, though. Not when he has no shortage of thanks to give Hythlodaeus. Instead, he takes a moment to gather up some of the old correspondence and a few of the books, and gently takes a seat on the bed, careful to not jostle Hythlodaeus as he does. A moment later - and with a gentle wave of his hand, rather than his customary snap - he creates an extra blanket, settling it carefully over both his legs and as much of Hythlodaeus as he can manage. And that done... he settles in to read, while he waits for Hythlodaeus to wake.]
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Yet as he regains more of his reserves by every hour that passes, a number of things happen. All subconscious, most assuredly. All subtle, all tiny. All his soul responding, and craving closeness, with this familiar one- this dear one- without conscious thought.
An hour or so in, his legs move. Two or three pass, and he's turned to face Emet-Selch. By the fifth hour, his hands have threaded themselves unto the fabric of the other man's legwear. And ten hours in, his head has found itself, with a sigh and without breaking his sleep, nestled atop the other's lap in complete unconscious trust.
And finally, a whole day and a few hours later, he finds his eyes opening. His head lifts, just faintly- as does an arm- to slowly gather his thick waves upon waves of pastel hair from where it has settled, and to heave the lot over his shoulder.
And he yawns, urging himself up, just to rest his head, again, on the other's shoulder.]
How regrettable...
[His voice is relaxed. Lazy. And the light within his iris against the pages of what Emet-selch is reading is tellingly dim.]
...I overextended myself, it seems. And subsequently, missed how you reacted.
[A light, affectionate touch of the bridge of his nose to the side of Emet-Selch's neck follows.]
I hope you are pleased?
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And he absolutely doesn't miss the way Hythlodaeus shifts all but unconsciously to draw closer to him, actions that he makes not the slightest attempt to stop. Not when there's more than a little comfort in it, and one that he has missed for far too long.
(Eventually, he suspects they will need to talk about where they stand, in regards to each other and the relationship they once had. But for now he means to make the most of the easy comfort that they have returned to without so much as really thinking about it.)
He stirs back to proper wakefulness with the sun, and after realizing that Hythlodaeus is still fast asleep returns to his books without so much as a second thought, working his way through what he has been gifted.
By the time Hythlodaeus finally stirs, he's in the middle of what appears to be a collection of old correspondence, neatly bound; a handful of other books and journals sit beside him, finished but not yet returned to their proper places. For how could he have, when to get up to do so would have meant denying both him and Hythlodaeus that closeness that had been sought even in the depths of sleep?]
More than pleased. It has been... far too long, since I last saw any of this.
[Millennia, at the least. Lifetimes upon lifetimes, none of them devoted to anything even remotely like what this tower will make possible. And if there a soft fondness in his expression well... surely it is not so hard to imagine why, between the sheer scope of the gift he has been offered and the feeling of that light touch Hythlodaeus offers to the side of his neck besides.]
Though I should have been glad to lend my aether, had you wished it.
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As stated, all is well- comfortable, easy. ...And it is enough. A sound, vaguely amused, comes from his throat as he is answered, accompanied by a warm breath against his neck before he raises his head properly.]
Your more private possessions, unfortunately, are approximations. ...Or approximations of approximations.
[And there were some items, yes. Yet not hoarded as a matter of distrust. For every single item in the room (and there are a great many) speak to trust. A rather large amount of it. Both on Emet-Selch's part for explaining each and every one to him, yes. Yet also on his part, for the hours upon hours he'd whiled away in the past watching him work.]
I imagine if the effort had of been part yours, viable recreations of those things would have been quite trivial. [But there would be no surprise. Unacceptable.] And given your attention to detail, it would have been quite the fight to convince you to allow for minor revisions!
[Such as replacing the old chair he had often seen the other hunched into replaced with this bed. And it is working as intended. Despite sleeping for as long as he has, he doesn't feel sore. Not even when he seperates himself from the other proper to allow for a good, long stretch.
And once that is complete:]
Oh, before I forget. This gift does come with a catch.
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Compared to the rest of the tower, those few possessions are but trivialities.
[Trivialities that, yes, held meaning for him. That would still hold meaning, even now. But meaning or no, they cannot hold a candle to that which Hythlodaeus has already offered. That and he is capable enough of recreating much of that which might otherwise be lacking, should he so desire.]
And this alteration [he runs his fingers over the blankets lying atop the bed] is one I might have been willing to allow.
[He might not have minded the chair that ought to have stood in the room, yes. But though he might have spent more than a few nights hunched over in that selfsame chair, fast asleep, neither can he deny that the bed Hythlodaeus has created in its stead will be far more comfortable. And not merely for sleeping, besides.
But he says nothing more on the matter, instead taking a moment to simply enjoy the sight of Hythlodaeus as he stretches. Even he does very nearly follow it with a sigh at the words that follow.]
What manner of catch?
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[Mid-stretch, he opens his eyes and catches a glimpse of the other, for he cannot help but be surprised. And he cannot help but laugh. It's... a good surprise though. For well he remembers Emet-Selch as the great mage, the most honorable third seat, yet also as the solemn alchemist. The man that would toil away for days upon end in a room very alike this, determined to answer what was presently unknowable.
Not for Convocation matters. Nor for advancements in magical theory that might make has mastery of the dark arts all the more profound- for he needed neither. Simply because he wanted to know, and in a sense? Downtime. For he enjoyed it. Hythlodaeus could tell. Even when his back was sore, the tips of his fingers stained with his materials and his hair reeking of something both burned and drowned, there was a joy to be had in it. Such was evident in the light behind his eyes that came with his complaints at all of the above.
And these trivialities took pride of place amongst his materials and instruments for a single purpose. Alchemy was not an instant science. It took time to coax reactions out of materials, and time to have things behave as theorized. And while he attended his work, stayed close to it, these trivialities- letters from faraway correspondences, old notes, even books depicting the most recent works of Altima's words, were his companions when Hythlodaeus himself- lacking the patience he had- had grown somewhat bored and ventured away for a few hours.
It was a beautiful life.
And if they could not return to it, would a recreation not fill the void, just a little? But ah, the bed. He can't help but laugh, his eyes shining with amusement, the dimmed light behind them brightening just a touch, fleetingly. For while he is amused, he most certainly still lacks the energy.]
Oh? I imagined the suggestion being met with a curt refusal. That the chair was good enough and that you wished to use the space it would take for something more of use. Another gigantic machine of some kind. Or another rack of unusual tinctures and poisons!
[He's beaming now, even after he flops back down to lie across where Emet had moved his hand. And with another smile upward, another shift of his hair from his face...]
The catch is as follows. For every ten hours you spend, consecutively, within this room, I'll ask for an hour of your time. Should you refuse, I'll have to take certain measures. Such as filling this bed to bursting with frogs.
[Another smile. And gently:]
Threats would normally not be needed. Your word is all that would normally suffice. But I do know how invested you get.
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[There's a nod with the word this time, confirmation in the face of Hythlodaeus' clear surprise, for all that it seems to be a good surprise, or at least not one that Hythlodaeus has taken objection to.]
Easily enough replaced, at any rate, something that could not have been said of this tower itself, much less the memories contained within.
[And those that he may come to make, now that it has been returned to him. After all, Hythlodaeus has gone to some considerable effort to create not just it but as much of what had lain within its walls as possible, and though he hadn't not specifically intended to return to old and all but forgotten hobbies... he has never had it in him to not make as much out of a gift as he can. Least of all to someone who has known the whole of him, once. No, it is here, and so he will once again turn to the explorations that had taken so much of his time, all those millennia ago. To figuring out how - and perhaps why - the very world on which they now stand differs from that which they had called theirs or the shards that had arisen in its wake.
But he says nothing of that. Not when Hythlodaeus turns instead to gentle teasing.]
Say rather I have come to prefer a certain measure of comfort. And would not wish to spurn any aspect of the gift you have offered.
[That it does also afford him a moment to simply enjoy Hythlodaeus' presence has not gone unnoticed, and he is more than willing to let the moment be.
Or rather, he is until Hythlodaeus mentions filling the bed with frogs, which pulls a frown from him instead.]
I am perfectly capable of keeping my own word.
[In theory. He knows just as well as Hythlodaeus how invested he had gotten when the world was still whole - and how much so he still does, though he might not often admit to it.]
But you will have the time you have asked for. Threats or no.