[open]

[brittlest]

Who: Michael Ralston & Various
What: Catch-all for August
When: post-Horizon, but will probably use this space as I see fit throughout the month.
Where: Castle Thorne
Notes: Feel free to hit me up on discord or plurk if you want to plot something or want a ~*~bespoke~*~ starter. Prose or brackets are a-okay; I'll match your preference. See Ralston's optional opt-in info HERE.

THE CASTLE.

There is a man in Castle Thorne who walks with a cane and has made little effort to seek out anyone's company. By all accounts, he is easily missed and cuts a fairly unremarkable figure—he is neither particularly tall or short, nor especially good looking or plain. In fact if not for the tell-tale tunic and trousers and a penchant for haunting the guest quarters, he might be easily mistaken for some servant or native of the castle who is only as interested in these out-of-world travelers as he is employed to be.

And yet—

[A] Here he is, making use of the library available to Thorne's 'honored guests'; he has rooted his way to some back series of shelves, and is presently standing at the foot of a ladder clearly doing the mental math on scaling it to reach an upper series of books when movement at the end of the stack draws his attention. Ralston snaps his fingers at whoever has had the distinct misfortune to cross paths with him, saying,

"You. Step this way for just a moment."

[B] Or he is in some quiet courtyard available to Thorne's guests, sitting on some bench in the shadow of a high stone wall where the air of the day is most temperate. He has an orange in hand, and is peeling it slowly with every appearance of waiting for someone. Ralston's dark eyes search out any figure who happens to pass across the yard. If he happens to recognize them as either an ex-prisoner or someone who has demonstrated a particular talent for the little magic spells being taught by the Thornean mages, he will whistle to get their attention and motion for them to come closer. Worst comes to worst, he might flick a bit of orange peel in your direction to clarify the urgency of his demand for conversation.

[C] Or, rarest and strangest of all, Ralston might be found in some part of the castle where he shouldn't be. Perhaps it is a merely a rarely used back staircase, or a quiet corridor in some wing of the castle which guests have ostensibly been discouraged from visiting, or he is quietly letting himself into a room in which he has no business being.

WILDCARD.
[You know the drill. Feel free to hit me up on disco or plurk if you feel moved, but I can roll with pretty much anything.]

Comments

closed to the darkling.

[brittlest]

He waits two days.

Whether it makes any difference to exercise such patience in the aftermath of their return from Horizon, from the edge of the Singularity, through the portal and back to Castle Thorne is hard to say. After all—he petitioned for Kirigan's release, didn't he? It's hardly as if their association is unknown. He might have bent Kirigan's ear the moment they woke scattered in that encampment and it would have been no more suspicious than it is now: the pair of them engaged in some quiet tête-à-tête in a shaded walkway at the fringe of some little side garden off the guest quarters.

Ralston has perched himself against the rail which divides walkway from garden. It is late in the afternoon; this square is more shadow the sunlight, cooling the sweat that has begun to prickle at the back of Ralston's neck as a result of the walk that led him here.

"A wall," he says. It is in the tenor of a statement, not a question. "Hardly subtle, General."

[sankt]

"Take it up with my inner self," he says, as though being directly and immediately confronted about this doesn't inspire a response that can be perfectly summed up as ugh, "and see how far that gets you."

What's so suspicious about two people meeting in the garden? Pulled from the same well by the same magic, made to wear the same arcanum—as far as anyone is concerned, that's plenty enough in common to draw them together. Dark-haired and dark-eyed, nearly the same height, both experts in scowling—like calls to like, they say—

"But before you try, know that it will hurt just the same as it does out here."

See? Friendship.

He stops at a respectful distance, straight-backed and unsmiling, and does not lean on the rail.

"What else did you see?"

[brittlest]

Ralston tips his head. The gesture is some combination of practiced and instinctive—learned with intent as much as it is habitual. It denotes some flickering sense of superiority; the pleasure of closely studying a thing knowing that you are the cause of it. If Kirigan's barbed little threat were an object, he might be compelled to take it over in his hands and turn it over to observe it from a variety of angles.

Instead, he smiles. Ralston hooks his free wrist across the hand currently in possession of the borrowed cane.

"Oh, all manner of things. Just between you and me, I wonder whether Ambrose understands exactly how motley the crew he's assembled here is. If what was made in Horizon is any indication, the High Mage has been fishing in the Well with a net rather than a hook. I almost admire the commitment to risk."

Dangerous, isn't it? To play with a thing only partially understood.

[sankt]

Yeah, yeah. Laugh it up, fuzzball.

"Yes." The commitment to risk. His thoughts linger on that phrase a moment, appreciative of it, before he goes on.

"'For the sake of all universes, we must contain all threats.' And yet he brings both prisoners and guests alike to that which is called the most important place in all existence, and leaves them to mingle unsupervised." Mingle being pronounced with the correct amount of awareness that it is mildly ridiculous in this context. After a quick facial shrug, and with a turn of his hand, "So the distinction is meaningless. It's simply a means of control."

[brittlest]

In the shade of the covered walkway, Ralston's smile flexes wider. There is something in the arrangement which is unpleasant, a certain devotion to the parody of good humor in order to avoid slanting toward a frown. Meaningless. Yes, he might picked a similar word.

"Before we were sent through that portal, one of the others asked whether I'd met any visitors who might have come before us. Clearly there must have been someone, otherwise how would Ambrose know anything about our unique"—unique; sure—"relationship to the Singularity?"

No, he'd told her. He had not.

"I confess I've a particular distaste for half truths."

[sankt]

"Mm," is mere acknowledgement. Too bad. Kirigan deals deliberately in half-truths as a matter of course; but if not this, he expects Ralston will choose some other reason for being irascible. He seems to have a surplus at the ready.

"One does wonder. Still, it's possible we are his first experiment—or an early iteration, at least. That would explain a few of these decisions. And when I was dragged from the well, he seemed to rely on that book of his to determine that my arrival was undesirable." The wry pull at his mouth is thinner than Ralston's, and no more pleasant. "'Another failure', he said. 'Wretched creature'," spoken with a gentle lift and turn of his head, like he's quoting a lovely verse. Like he finds it funny.

[brittlest]

"And yet all too happy to give you your liberty with only a simple request. —Not to diminish my part in this, of course."

He worked very hard to get you out of that hideous cell, General. Asking nicely for anything is well outside his wheelhouse, you know.

Though the point stands: what rhyme or reason has there been to any of this? Either Ambrose and his ilk are master manipulators, or whatever plan they have is piecemeal—scrambling to account for what among their harvest is simple detritus and who can be made to work and those that have proven poisonous. If Ralston had any intention to stay here, he might bother to be troubled by it all. After all, no one likes to be a passenfer in a carriage in the care of an uncertain driver.

Yet—

"In any case, it hardly matters. Our trip to the horizon confirmed what I already suspected. If you care to return home, we need only find a way to reach the Singularity in the flesh without—" A small turning gesture with his free hand. "Slipping into that other place."

There'd been no option but to when they'd first been yanked across that dividing line.

A. The Library

[gruesome]

"... Me?" The creature that steps out of the shadows at the end of the shelves is very likely not what Ralston was expecting. Keeping his forebody low makes him look even longer than he is, sinuous as he comes into the blue glow of the lantern hanging from the ladder. The tunic, though, looks outright silly on him.

[brittlest]

The creature slithers around the edge of the stack and for a moment—

It doesn't matter. If Ralston pales or if his expression grows very thin in response to the thing which unfolds itself at the end of the row, it is a short lived moment of revulsion. He has done his reading, and he knows a thing or two about the shape of beasts in dark and dangerous places; why should he be surprised to find something like that here?

He takes a silent step back from the foot of the ladder. It isn't a no.

"There's a book up there. Arcane Recitation, volume six. I seem to be having trouble reaching it."

The heel of the unadorned cane is tapped against the floor for emphasis.

I'm sorry for my idiot.

[gruesome]

He looks at the ladder, up into the recesses of the stacks. So these are books, he's guessing from context. "... If I point to it, will you be able to tell me which one it is?"

Even as he asks, he rises up onto his hind feet, nearly twelve feet tall as he grips the shelves to steady himself. "Which ledge? This one, or higher, or lower?" he asks, touching the book at his new eye level.

bless

[brittlest]

As the long creature unfurls towards its full height, some hindbrain instinct has Ralston taking a further half step back. He doesn't think to question it until after it's already happened—a sharp little flare of annoyance sparking high behind the ribs. What are you frightened of, you silly old man?

"No I won't be able to tell you which one it is," he snaps back, impatience flaring. "Just bring them all down. Everything from that higher shelf."

[gruesome]

He looks down once more to check that he has the right shelf, and then picks up the two dozen or so books in four hands, passing them down from hand to forefoot to floor with care. For all his size, he's very precise in his movements, setting them down square to each other.

"What are they for?"

[brittlest]

"Reading," is the dry answer he supplies the creature with. He uses the foot of the borrowed cane as a hook to fetch closer the first volume within arm's reach so he might read its title while it remains on the floor.

"Or kindling, if its anything like this." The volume is shoved dismissively aside and his attention passes to the next in the long, excessively carefully laid out row.

c

[extremethirst]

"Sneaky, sneaky."

Nero makes his presence known purely by calling out to the young man. He has his hands shoved in his pockets as his mouth is curved into a wide, pleased smile. His eyes drift from the human to the door that the "welcomed guest" was attempting to let himself into.

"Hoping to uncover some secrets of this place?" He cocks his head to the side. It seems like it would make sense. There is still a lot that isn't known, too, but that makes sense. "Or up to some other naughty doings?"

[brittlest]

His hand goes light on the door's handle. It's an automatic thing—the natural instinct of a person being caught doing something they shouldn't be doing. It is the opposite of what he ought to do, of course, which would be to strengthen his grip there and act as if there was nothing at all out of the ordinary about the presence of his hand there. But what child doesn't shy away from the having their knuckles rapped for misbehavior?

No trace of that hesitation shows in the man's expression as he turns to face this untimely witness however. He is frowning, dark eyed and sullen about being interrupted. And his hand, though the touch is light, remains faintly at the latch.

"Is there something you need?" Is not an answer to either of those questions.

[extremethirst]

"Yeah, answers to the questions that I just asked."

The elf shifts his stances so that he can lean against the wall. He crosses his arms over his chest, as his eyes drift from the door to the man's face and back again.

"You know... a welcomed guest could do enough bad things that they become unwelcomed." He makes his face twist to look comically sad. But he soon turns his head to the side to let out a single chuckle. "But don't worry, I won't rat you out."

[brittlest]

"How kind," is his droll assessment. My, if only everyone in Castle Thorne was half so considerate. "Happily for both of us, idle curiosity doesn't seem to be enough to warrant a stay in the dungeons."

(Tell that to Jonathan Simms, isn't a joke Ralston knows to make, but even if it were it wouldn't stop him.)

Adopting a benevolent fuck you smile, Ralston withdraws his hand from the latch. He shows his palm, wiggles his fingers for effect—look Ma, no hands—and then twists to draw away from the door.

[extremethirst]

"Aw, you're clever."

He says his compliment more like he is being let down. His pointed ears turn down a little in disappointment. Here he thought he could needle the man to saying something by hinting that he'd blackmail him if he didn't tell him what he was up to.

Would Nero actual blackmail him? No. That shit is for cowards. But he has no issue with pretending to be a coward. Spot the difference?

"But this place really is a confusing one, don't you think?" The elf carries on like the two of them aren't at odds. He takes a few steps forward to draw in closer to the man. "It's like trying to unravel a mystery in figuring out what the fuck is going on. Am I right?"

[brittlest]

You're clever, and something in the unremarkable man's expression flexes toward some unpleasant twist of humor. Why yes, thank you for noticing. As a matter of fact, he is.

(And: two steps. His attention lowers to the space remaining between them, to his own hand wrapped around the handle of the borrowed cane, and then finally rising back to the man sharing this narrow corridor with him.)

"I can certainly understand how you might feel so. But no,"—the foot of the cane clicks softly against the floor as Ralston shifts to extract himself before the door; he clears intends to take his leave, ejecting himself from this conversation as promptly as he's able—"I don't find it particularly confusing at all."

riffing off castle b 👉👉

[rehandle]

Magic isn't the same as muscle. Muscle withers alarmingly quickly when given the chance. Magic doesn't work like that and he knows it. It's all knowledge and muscle memory and wielding whatever's out there to draw from, more like riding a bike than hitting the gym... but that doesn't mean he's got any intention of taking the risk.

Practice may not make perfect, but it makes sure.

To that end he's out in one courtyard or herb garden or empty study chamber or another each and every day, the same cause that brings him striding easily out into a certain courtyard in search of a peaceful place to—

Well. So much for that. There's no need for the whistle or the peel, just a few seconds of patience as Stephen arrives at the inevitable conclusion that it would be a waste of time to bypass Ralston now when they're going to end up enclosed in the same few walls by end of day. A resigned rise and fall of his brow and then he's stepping out across the cobbles to greet the roommate who probably appreciates the courtesy as little as Stephen appreciates giving it.

"Don't tell me, you've got a date."

Hi, great to see you, aren't you glad he's here.

[brittlest]

"No need to be so jealous of my attentions, Strange."

It's a blithe, off the cuff thing and punctuated with a smile that is as automatic as it is mean. Aren't you glad you stopped to say hello?

The last of the orange's peel is shed. With a bright burst of summer smelling juices, Ralston divides the orange. One half, peace offering bright and glinting, is offered out at the length of his arm. Whether the dark eyed look that accompanies it is a dare or a genuine welcome is highly debatable.

"Have I interrupted your morning constitutional?"

[rehandle]

The dare, if it is one, is taken up. He won't be intimidated by an orange.

"Yup. But since you're in a giving mood, I don't mind."

In fact, he doesn't mind so much that he invites himself to a seat, turning to settle down with his accepted half a fruit far enough along that somebody else with exceptionally poor judgement could still fit in the gap. Pulling a segment of the orange away from the rest he casts a look Ralston's way, pointedly placid.

"What about you? Assuming you're not here for the view."

The castle is impressive from certain angles, sure, but sequestered away in the shadow of towering walls with nothing much more to see than the passageways walked by unsuspecting passersby and the slits of windows too high up to tell any stories? It's not exactly a prized breakfast spot.

[brittlest]

It is evidently the correct amount of distance to maintain. Surely by this point, Strange has gathered how Ralston uses the line of that borrowed cane to enforce his personal boundaries; here, he makes no move to fetch the thing up to ward him off. Instead, Ralston simply crosses his leg ankle over knee and shears a segment from his half of the orange. There is some figment of—good humor is not the right light to cast in it. But something near to that. A dog recently loosed from its leash to run still keeps some of that elastic energy even after he has been called back to the chain.

"Perhaps I've just been after some quiet place to think in. Rather a lot to consider these days."

And perhaps he is the crown prince of the Second Chair.

He eats a sliver of orange and asks, "Did you enjoy our trip?"

[rehandle]

Stephen huffs out a short, amused breath. Perhaps.

The conversation drifts on, apparently disparate but not necessarily disconnected, and he eases another segment away from the bulk as he responds with an easy, "Oh, yeah. There's nothing I love more than an impromptu amnesiac's tour of another dimension."

Come to think of it, he hadn't seen Ralston. Not that he would've known either way at the time, but he remembers the rest of it now and it's doubtful his memory's that selective. It's not a huge surprise. There are a lot of faces he didn't see there. A lot of people who might have seen his if he'd bothered to open his door.

"Nice that we've got a season ticket. Have you been back?"

[brittlest]

Beside him, Ralston's hmm is a mild thing. Another segment of orange comes free in his hands with a spit of sweet smelling citrus juice. The pale flesh of the orange has left behind some viscera under his nails.

"I have not," he says. And then, with a sharp toothed smile and dark eyes lacking in humor, he adds— "It seems I've become something of a realist who has trouble imagining himself elsewhere."

That isn't true. That much is obvious; maybe that place frightens him. Or maybe Ralston had done something there in the throes of memory loss that he is now ashamed of. Or, or, or. Who can say.

"And yourself?"