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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.]

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

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."

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."

"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.

"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.

Edited 2021-08-17 04:10 (UTC)

How easy he makes it sound—but that's all mad plans, isn't it? Laughable, in one way or another, until they succeed.

"If we're to learn anything worthwhile of that other place," no there isn't any reason to pick on this term for it, and yes he did so anyway, "such as how to avoid it, odds are we'll need to return there intentionally. Hopefully it will less resemble a schoolyard if our thoughts are intact."

At last, his attention slips sideways to land on Ralston directly, rather than only lingering around him in the fashion of one accustomed to overlooking the humanity of his accessory humans.

"Have you tried?"

Edited 2021-08-17 04:39 (UTC)

Ralston is looking at him already, shaded eyes nearly black in that half light. His study is very fixed, but benign. It lacks some sharp, cutting edge and instead is—

Expectant.

"No," he says. "I haven't. You?"

General Kirigan, so named, is accustomed to being watched. In fact, outside the Little Palace, his mere existence demands it. Many times has he stood before the king, with all the eyes of the court upon him, felt all their fear and fascination and contempt and been empowered by it. But away from the public, it isn't so: most Grisha will avert their eyes in deference, especially when his attention falls upon them; when there are fewer bodies to dilute his awareness, that makes it all the more likely they'll look away.

So here, when he sees he's being stared at, he turns his head to meet it directly.

"Not yet." His eyes move, down and up again in cursory flicks. "But I can feel it. It wants us to come."

Is that true?

Standing at the edge of that portal while High Mage Ambrose had droned on about intent, he has felt the pulse of that thing through the doorway opened to it. A current, sucking prone bodies along with it—indiscriminate in its appetite. They had seen lesser mages of Thorne be held back from the pull of it, hadn't they?

He'd known that pull once before. How hungry unshackled possibility is, how blind. Yes, he imagines it does want them. But that hardly makes them special.

"Feel it how?" Patient, unblinking. A thoughtful animal crouches behind its blind and waits. "Describe it to me."

Now he looks like he might smile. Like his face is threatening it.

That constant awareness, at once urgent and patient—Ralston must feel it too. From what Kirigan has gleaned, they all do, guest and prisoner alike. That the Singularity itself has shown no such distinction makes the High Mage's efforts all the more farcical.

"Why?"

Because now that they have been removed from the brink of the thing and there is no open portal before them connecting directly to it, the roar of it has been reduced to something tinny. The remnant of a loud noise buzzing softly in the ear, and he needs to know if—

Something in Ralston's dark eyes flickers. The lines in his face subtly shut. A bolt of temper is what's left over. Two days is long enough for the fear that he won't be able to return to that other place like the rest to metastasize into anger.

"Is it constant? At what force? Have you noticed any points where you feel it more strongly? These seem like reasonable questions if you mean to work out how to return there."

In contrast, the general's expression eases in understanding. It isn't a kind look—there is no pity to be had—but he is neither interested in making light of Ralston's affliction nor in discussing its particulars any more than they already have, so he simply moves past it. Simple. It's almost as if he doesn't care.

(Almost.)

"It lies there," he says, and without any apparent thought points to the garden; not the garden, but the building beyond it; not the building, but the wilderness beyond that, the miles of land between where they stand and the monument that sings to him even now. As easy as if he were, indeed, indicating the garden. And then he turns his hand on its way down to snatch a glance at the ring on his finger, still undecided whether or not he likes it; his other hand crosses his waist to fiddle with it afterward.

"It's constant," he concedes with a tip of the head, "and less distracting now than it was. Straight after we returned I could scarcely think of anything else."

He almost turns to follow that gesture. The flickering desire to see drives the faintest—

But he checks the impulse. He doesn't need to look. Instead his eye is drawn naturally to the shifting of that ring on Kirigan's finger. Some muted light dances on the surface of the metal, snatches of it living between the shade of the General's hand.

"The working of all magic requires concentration," he says after a moment. When he glances away, it's down the length of the covered walkway rather than out. Rather than into the garden or toward the specter shape of a distant thing. "It's possible you need only apply yourself."

Kirigan watches him, watches his eyes move, his head turn. How he so deliberately avoids what he cannot himself sense.

"It's possible, yes. I've been considering it."

Ralston has never said anything to him that didn't stem from self-interest. He could tread delicately around this, try to ease his way toward the subject, but Ralston's social hyper-vigilance is so sensitive to condescension, if he senses he's being obliquely humoured he will almost certainly have a tantrum about it—

"Were I to apply myself to this particular thing, I could use a witness."

—luckily, the Darkling has centuries of practice at feigning insufficiently concealed self-consciousness.

"In case something unexpected happens."

"Unexpected," he parrots, tilting his attention back. There's a flicker of amusement lurking at the corner of his mouth as if to say, 'What unexpected thing could you possibly be wary of?'

Only, yes. He supposes there is that possibility—gods only know what lurks in that place, and they are allegedly not even the gods either of them might ostensibly he familiar with—and so that flicker of mean pleasure is smoothed away. Tucked into some pocket. Ralston's features adopt a more straightforward arrangement. Measuring.

"Are you asking me to keep you safe, General?"

"I am asking you to observe."

The warning edge, that comes free of pretense. To rely on another person can be beneficial as an elective choice; needing to, that's an offensive enough condition that he must consciously rein back his reaction to it. In doing so, he resets his posture, shifts his gaze restlessly and then returns to leaning it heavily upon Ralston.

"Should safety become a concern, I expect you will do whatever benefits your interests."

So, in other words: yes.

"You're the only one here I would trust with this."

This must be a very difficult thing to admit. See how he conceals his discomfort, like he expects to be turned away, like he resents how vulnerable he must make himself but has no other choice—that they've pledged themselves to a common goal outside of Thorne's ambitions makes Ralston the only real person who might be even half-genuinely invested in his survival, and oh, he hates it—

(He's had centuries to practise lying, too.)

This prospect—no, reality—of being anyone's confidant is so absurd that it almost makes him laugh. This really is another world; it may as well be proof positive that Ambrose is entirely wrong about the Singularity's attachment to the worlds from which they'd come. No place with even the tracest connection to Kalvad would see so much as a thimbleful of trust placed upon the likes of Michael Ralston.

The novelty of the thing makes it difficult to examine.

"How mercenary you make me sound. I'm almost offended." No he isn't; trust and self-serving ambition are the two cardinal virtues of the capitol. Saint him now, Fathers.

"But if it means so much to you, then certainly. I'll keep watch."

This the general accepts with a simple nod. No trace of sentiment, no relief, only a nod.

Of course he'll keep watch, he's thirsty for it—and Kirigan, who has already been to the Horizon twice before this meeting, wants to see what this parched man will do when asked to sit so near the water without tasting it. If he conducts himself well, he will be rewarded. It's as simple as that.

"Then let us waste no time," he says, and opens his stance with a gesture down the walkway. One may correctly interpret this small injection of charisma as pleasure for having gotten his way. "Your vigil awaits."

Their shared quarters makes as good a laboratory as any in which to conduct this experiment, Strange's absence permitting. It seems they're likely to get it. There's a stillness about the air in the space which might border on unpleasant if they weren't on the verge of poking the arcane with a stick; that is momentum enough to lend the room some illusion of life fit to clear the stuffy atmosphere.

Ralston shifts the narrow pane in the window to let some breath of air in regardless. If this works, he will find himself sitting in a dreadfully still room while Kirigan treads some distant plane more or less at his leisure. He may as well make the work a shade more pleasant for himself if able.

"I suspect you'll have to make yourself comfortable," he remarks, and then dredges a little table sideways to block the door. Oops. How did that get there?

Strange furniture in this place, always moving around on its own, must be enchanted—

"Hitting my head on the floor might make it easier," he says to his bed, leaning over it to brush down the linen, as though it isn't already as neat as can be. He hates this little room. He hates sharing this little room. He hates having to perform regular humanizing functions, such as sleeping, in front of anyone not of his choosing. True, he's slept in places far worse than this—worse than that wretched dungeon, even—but as far as he's concerned, he's earned his comfort a thousand times over.
The beds are turned down for them, at least, as they should be.

That done, he slips off his shoes (more slipper than sandal, the closed toe preferred, why should just anyone be allowed to see his feet) and climbs in to sit. Placement of the pillows between his back and the headboard requires a little more fussing, but soon enough he has indeed made himself comfortable, legs folded and all.

"I trust I needn't encourage you to mind your manners while I'm... away." Or whatever.

Edited 2021-08-20 02:51 (UTC)

"I assure you," Ralston says, punctuated by click of the cane's foot as he eases himself down to sit at the very foot of the esteemed general's bed—the place for all well behaved dogs. "That I am the very definition of respectful."

He makes himself comfortable there. The borrowed cane is hooked at the footboard's post; he crosses his leg, ankle over knee; if there were a clock on the nonexistant mantle of this neat little room, he might take its measurement now.

"I promise not to turn your limbs toward any embarrassing arrangement."

Where Ralston chooses to rest is fine, more or less; it's the suggestion of moving Kirigan's torpid body that sucks all the humour out of his expression.

"You will not touch me for any reason," he says, with a sudden severity that may seem incongruous to his restful posture until one notes the closed fists resting on his knees, knuckles up. "Is that clear?"

The sharp edge to it draws his attention and in answer some flickering shape is made narrow and keen. For the briefest moment, Ralston there at the foot of the bed seems startled, a stripe of uneasiness written with bizarre clarity in a face that is otherwise so remarkably closed and barbed.

And then it's tucked away, made hidden or erased as quickly as it had manifested. Aware enough of himself to be cognizant of his own vulnerability, Ralston adopts a sneer in its place.

"You may rest assured that I've no interest in laying my hands on you."

"I didn't ask if you were interested." Still quite serious, but nonetheless seeming mollified, more by the surprise in Ralston's reaction than by the assertion that followed it. Aware, too, of the depth of curiosity likely to be reached by his sudden demand—and that look is as good an indication as any that it was. Now closing his eyes, "You will keep your hands to yourself."

And that's the last of what he says before making himself tranquil by rolling his shoulders, giving his head a little shake—less birdlike than if he were to nestle down into the thick fur-lined layers he so often wore in Ravka, but not by much. The awareness of his own fists seems to come on a delay, as after a moment of silence he stretches his fingers wide, turns his wrists, and leaves his hands newly relaxed where they lie. Last of all—even after the deep breath that seems like it ought to be final—is the brief flexion and scuffing of his toes. Then he is still.

After not too long, his jaw loosens behind his lips, his spine loses its formal stiffness, and he seems to relax against the headboard.

He waits.

One might expect it to be a natural state for him. After all, what are years spent in a dark place good for if not perfecting a man's ability to be idle? To say nothing of Ralston's habit of depositing himself in chairs for hours at a time or his practiced disdain for anything resembling being made to romp through the countryside.

But this is a different thing. Sitting at the foot of that bed, watching the tension ease of out Kirigan's body, he is aware of some prickling of irritation—a sulky resentment that is so childish that it's difficult to master. Jealousy for the thing that Kirigan is reaching out to. Balking resentment for being told what to do. Restlessness, in the way that caged animals often are. A long time ago, he had been that prone creature looking out and someone else had been in this role he keeps now. How loathsome it is to slip so easily into the space left behind by her.

He waits, his foot in a soft shoe rocking quietly from heel to toe and back again in a quiet restless rhythm. And looking closely as he does, there is something which creeps at Kirigan's edges that he can nearly parse. A dull shape. A point of pressure which slowly extends from the general to press like a thumb somewhere at Ralston's awareness.

"Kirigan," is a soft call. Can he hear him?

Edited 2021-08-20 17:12 (UTC)

He can, says the frown that so gently plays at pulling his eyebrows together, the way one in deep sleep might seem to perceive some echo of the voice that tries to wake him. A reflex, brief, quickly smoothed away.

He can, less distantly than it appears. How tempting it is to sit still until it seems like he's deserted his body, while really waiting in ambush for the right moment to open his eyes into glittering black slits of judgement. But Ralston is likely to know the difference—he can sense these things. And the Singularity's call—that is very real. And so, grazing the cusp of departure, he decides he will slip away, but stand in the Horizon only long enough to count to ten. That seems to him a sufficient compromise. And so he does.

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