abraxaslogs | [open]

Entry tags:

[open]

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.]

Threaded | Top-Level Comments Only

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."

"... 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.

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.

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.

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."

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?"

"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?"

"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?"

"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.

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.

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.

"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."

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."

"I don't know those words." He steps around the line, still careful in how he moves, looking at the covers. "Are they art?" he asks, touching one with a forefoot, its fingers following the embossed lines of the cover.

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."

"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.

"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?"

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.

"Most certainly not."

Each offending volume is knocked an inch or two out of its diligently ordered space until, halfway down the line, the point of Ralston's borrowed cane pauses. With a clever flick of the wrist, he draws open the front cover and then—evidently satisfied by what he finds on the facing page—finally bends down to retrieve it.

Art. Only a self obsessed maniac pens a book.

"You may return the rest," he says.

"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.

Obligingly, he stacks the rest up, unaware of which way is actually up for any of them, but careful with them all the same. But watching Ralston, he does pause a moment, and curiously opens one like he has.

"Oh," he murmurs, gently leafing through the pages, his primary pair of eyes wide.

"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."

Threaded | Top-Level Comments Only

Page 1 of 4

[open]

closed to the darkling.

A. The Library

no subject

I'm sorry for my idiot.

bless

no subject

c

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

riffing off castle b 👉👉

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject