deercountry | Closed | Study Sessions with Professor Big Ben London Star

Iskandar was having an absolutely enthralling conversation - at least in his opinion - with all the people that came to visit. His lion, curled in a shimmering ball of golden fur at his feet, did not deem appropriate to grace Waver's return with anything more than a one-eyed glance, before returning to sleep. Iskandar shook his feet free from the lazy creature before rising to greet Waver.

"It is fine, honey, I'd entertained our guests in your absence."

To his credit, Iskandar managed to act like a proper host, offering everyone food and drink, from what little they had in the kitchen. Slightly cranky host too - not he would ever show this - since he's rarely pleased by being unprepared.

"You might want to change, though, before joining us. I see that the weather outside remains atrocious."

An unexpected boon, for Iskandar very much enjoys the spectacle, and that's pretty obvious given his wide grin.

Duty is an easy guest, particularly with Ortus for company. Iskander has been a gracious host, and the time to observe the basement apartment is not a waste.

A quick glance at Ortus without words doesn't let much get communicated as such a recent friendship. However, Duty knows the regard Ortus has for him and not uses it with the utmost respect.

"We are content to wait," he says. Nothing unusual there. Duty has always been good at waiting.

"If you need your partner's assistance," Duty vaguely motions toward Mackenzie's hair, "We can entertain ourselves." He's deadpan, but no one could miss Iskander's enthusiastic interest.

Ortus has always been keenly sensitive to awkwardness. He had already been soft-spoken and overwhelmed in the presence of both Iskandar and Duty as they waited for their overdue host, with every minute ticking by a tightening of his apprehensive anxiety.

The tumbling in of the thoroughly dishevelled, and frankly ill-smelling, wizard therefore has him bolt upright on the couch, his paint creasing between his eyebrows as he looks from person to person in the room to judge how he ought to take this. Necromancers turning up coated in unspeakables is an expected thing, and it seems, to his mixed relief, to be the same here.

"It is no trouble, Lord," Ortus confirms, nodding perhaps too avidly, "We have been ably accommodated by your -" there is a word for this arrangement, one Ortus feels a slight swell of self-assurance in knowing "- roommate."

No one was more awkward than Waver in that instant, realizing that each one of these men referred to him by a different appellation, that Iskandar had likely hammed for the unwitting duo, that the shopping he had initially set out to do remained undone, and that he couldn't just rush into Iskandar's arms like he wished.

"I'm glad it wasn't an imposition," he said briskly, already undoing the rest of the buttons on his shirt. Gray skittered over to the grandiose lion reclining in the living area and tucked her small body amid Chrysokomes' strong paws and presence while Waver seemingly brushed past everyone on his way to the wash room.

"Sorry to say, the shopping didn't get done. There's tea; don't wait up for me, I'll be back shortly."

Already he was feeling the odd sensation along his nerves, like he had a couple of weeks ago after a certain incident on the beach. She was prowling, agitated-- he could all but hear her yowling like a phantom on the inside of his ears...

Abruptly he stopped and glanced back towards his room mate, his partner, his--

"Rider."

It was rare that he used the title Iskandar bore as a Servant these days. In Trench, they weren't bound by the bloody thaumaturgic ritual that summoned ancient heroes that bordered on myth to fight for a treasure that transcended time and space. However, in that instant he knew he needed to be more than just himself as Mackenzie, or himself as Waver Velvet.

He was a Lord, and there was a potential danger in town.

"My love, my King. Please don't touch anything I'm going to be taking off right yet. It needs to be incinerated until I resolve a... problem. For now I'll need the waste bin."

He would take it outside for disposal later.

"I'll also be needing my microscope and some slides. Duty, Ortus. I don't know if you to have seen or heard anything, but do yourself a favor and stay away from a woman with peach colored hair and a foul attitude."

A beat passed-- and, knowing he had to explain, Waver heaved a long suffering sigh.

"This is my second encounter with her, and I have reason to believe she forces an empathic bond on people just by being near her. She's a flesh mage... and a messy one. Fluids may be involved in the process."

Edited 2022-08-21 01:26 (UTC)

Were the situation less dire, Iskandar would have laughed hearing Ortus confused attempt of properly addressing him. Never laughed at him, for he has great fondness for the skittish poet. Still, it would have been difficult not to find the whole thing amusing.
If only ...

The information that no shopping has been done, hence no provisions arrived that could replenish their already strained stores, is only met with a shrug. In life, as in war, you either adapt to changing conditions, or you die. It's a waste of breath to complain about the change. It will happen no matter if you like it or not.

"Never had a plan survived the battlefield intact," he simply states. "Get cleaned first, I'll bring you what you need. Then, and only then, we'll talk what to do next."

Harm mitigation needs to go first. There will be time for strategy once that's resolved. Iskandar turns to their guests.

"Do excuse me" he states with a small nod, before vanishing in the other room to pick up a waste bin and a set of fresh clothes for Waver.

While the laws of hospitality are sacred, even guests were expected to take up arms, if a need to defend the household of their host arose. There's no such need right now, all they have to do is wait until Waver finished whatever cleansing ritual he needs to perform. Their counsel though might be of great value later.

Duty recognizes Rider's departure to help his adept. It's a duty easily understood by either guest, since they come from a similar enough system of relationships. Though the reason to witness the connection is due to some level of threat—Mercymorn is never one to be taken lightly, even among her friends—it's a pleasure to witness.

He waits, then, until their hosts are both gone. Even then, in someone else's home and one of small quarters at that, Duty does not assume that he and Ortus are truly alone. He looks to his comrade and asks, "What experience or familiarity do you have with the woman our host described?" It has been months for Duty, and he did not know of her return.

Ortus watches Iskandar rise to follow Waver with a warm pang in his chest. He would not describe himself as a romantic, except in a technical, abstracted sense, but the fondness between the pair of them is nearly overwhelming to witness. The Ninth House would blush at such a display; Ortus is, as ever, grateful for his obscuring paint.

Thus he is lightly distracted when Duty makes his inquiry, turning to him with an owlish blink (he has seen owls, and does not care for them except through a window) as he processes it. A woman with peach colored hair and a foul attitude, and a flesh mage on top of that, seems like she would stick out in his memory.

"None," he answers, frankly, with the respect for the Saint's title heavily implied if not articulated aloud, "Do you know of one who fits that description?"

It was his firmest hope that they wouldn't have to call upon the full breadth of the reach of xenia, where both host and guest were obligated to help one another should it be called upon. However modern Trench may seem, in many ways it was a prime example of a situation where the ancient rituals of the sacred host-guest friendship could be called upon. For the moment, however, Waver couldn't fight the light blush that colored his cheeks at his own vulnerability.

"You've all my thanks," he said curtly, and dipped for... a quick shower.

Baseline decontamination procedures were in play first, meaning hot water and plenty of soap were the primary tools for this 'ritual'. Prior experience told him that the full extent of this exposure would be over by the time the night was out-- but he had no idea about contagion.

That woman's mean-spirited manner and outrageous moods were not something he wished upon anyone.

A few moments would pass before he exited with only his flannel lounge pants and a dark robe on, with his long hair tied off out of the way and suitably embarrassed look on his face. This was the absolute last situation he wanted to be in with guests in the house!

There are few situations that could possibly make Iskandar feel that he has embarrassed himself. Even fewer still involve attire - complete or not. At this point though, he understands that his Waver has many reservations. So some things need to be discussed in private.
For his part, Iskandar plans to make an offering to Apollo whenever they get to burn the now cursed clothing. Whether his prayers and offering have a chance to reach any of his gods' reach from this strange and far land. It just never hurts to call upon a favour of the Lord of the Plague when dealing with matters as they do. A flesh mage fully qualifies. Besides, Iskandar hasn't figured out the local deities properly yet, and he'd rather not offend one by offering in the wrong intention. Apollo it is then.

"Very well," he speaks up when Waver emerges from the shower significantly less dishevelled, if still looking shaken. "Now, before we go talk and plan, tell me this: were you harmed?"

His need to know this stems both from his personal worry and the need to decide what his stance will be as a king. How he would approach the woman in question very much depends on the answer Waver is going to give him. It's also not something he can ask in front of other people either.

Privacy is respected, for both honorable and practical reasons. If Duty comes to care for another set of enemies, that shall be familiar and managed according to its needs. Humanity's mix of caring for each other and selfish motivation readily represented in Trench's population. Very well. If it is Joy, Mackenzie is not the greatest concern in any regard. Once again, all avenues lead to John.

"Possibly," Duty tells Ortus. He has, after all, known many over the myriad, but none are as memorable or as powerful as Mercymorn. "Messy sounds wrong." Mercymorn has always prided herself on being tidy, even in murder.

"How are you and yours handling this month's difficulties?" he asks. The Ninth House, as Duty understands it, is among those staying at the dojo. He's mostly kept his distance, but he cares about all three of them.

The wise thing to do as a member of a House that, if not an enemy of the First, is certainly not on good terms with it, would be for Ortus to maintain ambivalent, polite nothingness when they are asked after. But that is a broad wisdom, and there are exceptions. Duty is not a tale-teller. For all his loyalty to the Lord, matters that do not concern the safety of his own holy House are still ones Ortus trusts him with.

"Sandbagging the dojo, mopping out what water gets in. We have maintained vigilance about the disease that seems to team in the waters." He sighs, rearranging his robe about him in a fidget. "Lady Harrowhark has secluded herself. I doubt we will take our leave from there for some time."

Secluded being a delicate euphemism for cocooned, but that he retains less for discretion and more out of concern for her privacy. Harrow would be put out to know that news of her gooey slumber was being bandied about carelessly.

"What of yourself? And of the Saint of Patience?"

Edited 2022-08-24 20:23 (UTC)

'Shaken' was an apt word to describe his general state after meeting with that loud woman who was as prone to shrieking over tea as she was to slip her far reaching tendrils inside the depths of his ear and up-end his sense of equilibrium. At this point, Waver would not have been opposed to leaving an offering for Apollo. He had, after all, left a coin for the ferryman upon her lips in hopes that she would be spirited back. to whatever underworld she hailed from.

He wasn't one to play with Gods. They were capricious at best-- but, so were the Pthumerians. All bets were off.

Casting a furtive glance towards where he heard the soft murmur of conversation in the main living area, Waver quickly closed the distance between them and threaded his fingers amidst Iskandar's. Between the shower and his own instinctive need to be cleansed of that filth drawing him to take a dip in the sea before returning to the apartment in Cellar Door, he was satisfied that any contagion via casual touch had been mitigated.

...The truth was, he felt safer and more comfortable with Iskandar than with anyone else.

"She left no lasting injuries," He explained quietly, brows knit in his own disgust over what happened. "However, her magic resembles that of the Caster we fought in Fuyuki. While I doubt she will reach that level--"

That being the unrepentant slaughter of dozens of children in the area surrounding Fuyuki and the creation of a horrid leviathan of writhing flesh, tendrils, and cilia that threatened the whole of the very fabric of mage society if it reached the shores of the river from which it was birthed.

"--She did temporarily paralyze me. I made my point known and she left. The magic binding me released the moment she was distracted."

Sloppy. Impulsive, sloppy, and powerful was a dangerous combination in any scenario. Waver leaned forward and rested his forehead upon Iskandar's chest.

"I don't know what manner of being she is, but she's as powerful as a Servant."

Edited 2022-08-25 00:30 (UTC)

Distracted and overconfident, those are both good flaws for an enemy to have. Iskandar doesn't relish the memory of the cursed river monster. Nor the Servant that summon that beasts. It was the worst part of their Grail War, forever tainting the whole endeavour for him. There were noble duels in this war, but the mere fact that such an abomination could not only be called a Heroic Servant, but was allowed to be summoned to their battle, was evidence enough that the ritual had been far from righteous from the beginning.

Not that he ever liked the concept of it, but he could tentatively accept it in its official form. As long as it let him cross blades with the greatest heroes of history, he was fine. Iskandar was already rather disturbed that coward, Waver's former professor, was allowed to summon such a grand personage as he did. Equally offended how this rat of a man treated the Celtic hero.
Caster and his Master though? They were the epitome of filth.

His mood improves when Waver clings to him. Now, that's better There's not Master - Servant bond between them any more, but even without it Waver should be able to feel the warmth radiating from Iskandar. He leans down to leave a quick kiss on the top of Waver's head, giving his fingers a gentle squeeze. His love deserves at least this much comfort. He will give him more as soon as they are alone. Now, there are people they need to return to, danger to deal with, plans to make.

"Servant or not, we shall deal with her accordingly, when the need arises."

But it doesn't mean they need to return now. They might as well linger a couple minutes more.

"Hmm," Duty considers the information on the dojo. He hasn't met Harrowhark (Nonagesimus? the First? both?) since his arrival. Even touching her shoulder, Duty could not determine her lyctoral status. Even without it, she could be more effective than sandbags. He doesn't press, only accepts that secluded means some distance from helping others.

"A bone wall surrounds the house," Duty says. No waters have come in since it rose. No mopping or bailing. "Patience is reflecting." To solve problems instead of cause them. To help avoid the worst, if everything can be worked out. Duty's sure Augustine's work will amount to something useful. In time, people may slowly accept it.

"I work and help the cursed," Duty says for himself. He's ever learning more, one of the reasons he's come to Cellar Door tonight. Learning and Ortus's company.

Nonagesimus, to Ortus, and therein lies the conflict he seeks to avoid. He has chosen to breach the walls of loneliness in a manner that leaves him with loyalty that, while not torn, is tugged.

"A bone wall seems a neater solution," he says, with another weighty sigh, glancing towards the door through which their hosts vanished. "I am glad to know that Patience is at rest."

Reflection is not rest. Not truly. It is a great preoccupation of the mind, and he cannot imagine what thoughts course through his or his brother-Saint's as they grapple with the knowledge of what God is, and what God has done. To live with the one who allowed your own heart's light to be swallowed without cause - his gratitude for his own lesser troubles deepens.

"It is good to fill one's time." Even unnecessary sandbagging. "Perhaps he will join you in your activities, when he has had time to recover himself."

God and his Saints know many things. Neat solutions to old outstanding problems is only one of them. Ortus may not have gone to Canaan House himself and seen the flooded waters, but floods are nothing new. They've long learned to handle weather. In Trench, it is a general onslaught, not targeted.

"Patience and I have different inclinations," Duty answers without judgment. Not of Patience, not of Ortus. Augustine could use magic to work construction. He could hunt beasts. However, Duty knows he is better suited, by personality if not skill, to other work. Which is just as well, as it makes them more diverse and adaptable.

He did feel the warmth radiating from Iskandar's chest, and Waver took comfort in the knowledge that Iskandar was simply present in this world. Whether it be Servants, Pthumerians, or something more that threatened them-- they surely would take care of all of their troubles when it was time.

Though he longed to return Iskandar's kiss, he knew it was unwise. Later, however...

Waver hummed, torn between his own selfish wishes and the fact that they still had guests in the next room over.

"We will. She seemed rather busy in the sewers. I don't think we'll need to worry about her right yet."

Even the fact that she shared tactics with the Caster they had encountered made his skin crawl. Although he knew rationally that he was clean, he for that moment wasn't certain if he would truly feel clean any time soon. Instead of dwelling on this, he cast a regretful look towards the door.

"Until then... we probably shouldn't leave our guests waiting."

While he thinks that there are times where Waver is overly cautious, Iskandar must agree that it's at least impolite to leave people waiting while they take their time. Especially, people he treats as potential allies in a situation that quickly became a lot more serious that he anticipated.

"Yes, let's head back."

He takes Waver's hand and leads him back to the room. Only when they are seated does he ask his question.

"Does the earlier description remind you of someone you may know or heard of?"

Both Ortus and Duty are perceptive men, each in their own way. It would be a folly not to consult them in such a dire matter. If this wretched woman is anything like the Caster he and Waver fought in the Grail War, they will need all information they can get now. Even if it's hearsay.

"But surely not so entirely -" Ortus is saying when Iskandar and the Lord El Melloi reemerge, shutting his jaw with a nigh-audible pop.

"No," Ortus reports, shaking his head dutifully, "Perhaps a flesh magician - but the Ninth knows little of such magic, and myself even less."

By way of explanation, he gestures at his painted face. They are more interested in things that rattle than squelch, a fact Ortus can still find a surfeit of gratitude for, even if it renders him of little use in this investigation.

"I hope you are feeling improved, Lord El Melloi," he adds, more gently.

"'The Second,'"

Waver's tone was brisk and business-like as he cut in, instantaneously dropping his 'wife-guy' manner at Iskandar for the quick correction.

"That title alone isn't mine, and is indeed too heavy for my shoulders to bear," he explained, shaking his head as he hovered near Iskandar. His predecessor was a small-spirited man, who was more concerned about the status of his curriculum vitae than in truly participating on the front lines of the war they had been opposed in. And yet-- somehow, his life had been sworn in dedication of this man's work.

As someone who was once a student of the esteemed Lord El Melloi, however unwanted, he still had his duties to uphold.

"Please, you don't need to worry about titles here. I'm not at all certain of how I wish to be remembered by people here yet. Waver is enough. Or Mackenzie. My 'grandparents', such as they are, remain my only living family. Even worlds apart, I'd like their kindness to be remembered as well."

A smile ghosted over his face when he spotted Gray the cat rolled over onto her back amid the powerful lion's paws, lazily batting at the beast's tail. Maybe he could have a cat someday... in another life.

Perhaps Trench was that other life.

"...I am doing better, though. Thank you for asking. That woman hasn't openly disclosed her name to me, but I think I've heard her referred to as Woe."

He snorted in grim humor.

"She certainly brings woe to those who meet her. I can't imagine how many others she has trapped in the sewers right now."

Edited 2022-09-07 21:50 (UTC)

"Woe," Duty repeats, like he's trying it out. The connection is all the more likely, the apparent, with that name provided. Woe, the opposite of Joy. Woe, the rejection of the Emperor. Woe, the vice for which she wishes to be known. Woe, a title much like Duty. Woe, he trolls Mercymorn from afar, like woah—awe, warning, stop...

"Possibly," Duty answers Mackenzie/Waver and Iskander the same he did Ortus. The name increases the likelihood, despite the mess. Woe is her indeed.

"Trapped to what end?" Duty asks. "In which section?" It takes intel to do anything about it, one way or another. Whatever injury or illness may have been done to their host does little to put him off.

"Does a cat have motive for knocking over a glass?"

He asked dryly, bristling now at being asked to interpret her actions.

"I have no idea what her motives are, nor why she was so angered by an offer of tea and scones. I do rounds as a Waker every month, looking for my apprentice or any of my students. Tea and scones are normal in London."

Waver glowered irritably at this, looking towards the kettle sitting on the stove and sorely wishing for a nice cup of tea himself. Some Jammie Dodgers wouldn't be amiss, either...

"Whatever she's planning, she's underground somewhere between here and the general market in Cellar Door's main square. Everything was... unpleasantly wet, but she's got others down there. How many, isn't something I can say."

Edited 2022-09-15 01:27 (UTC)

"Who knows what are the customs of strange, fickle creatures like that."

Gods and monsters are always unpredictable. Iskandar is less surprised that the offers of food and drink were refused. That only adds evidence in his mind that she's not human. Few humans would reject hospitality, none would feel offended by it. If she were some fey creature, no normal human rules could probably apply.

"That the first step would be to gather information. To strike a beast in its lair is always a risk. Often necessary, but a risk nevertheless. One who takes risk, prepares for them, so the more we know about the situation, the better."

What all this practical consideration laid out, is he really suggesting they go hunting? Not necessarily. He still feels he knows too little about this new strange threat to act now, but he does take every threat to Waver rather personally.

"My experience with magicians being what it is," Ortus advances, cautiously, in the presence of so many more experienced in every possible sense, "I would concur with your roommate, L- Mackenzie. Caution will not go amiss."

Privately, he is also not surprised that a magician proved to be difficult, but in such august company as this he is too abashed to make any such statement against the established order of the world. It is known that necromancers - and by extension, he assumes other users of magic - are prone to sensitivities beyond that of mundane mortals.

"If there are others so confined...I believe we would be remiss to leave them so, however," he appends, with a trace of reluctance. Not for the idea of rescue, which is right and proper, but for the idea that there is a 'we' inclusive of himself that might be called toward it.

"With any Sleeper," Duty points out, "any plan—even their death—must plan for their return. Missteps pay dividends." Even correct steps given Trench has not worked out how to live together in unity.

"A goal, like retrieval," Duty inclines his head toward Ortus, credit where it is due, "and intel"—another nod toward Iskander—"first. Planning second. Action third."

He sighs. "Even then, unless there's means to motivate Woe halts, it's like fighting heralds," Duty says, "there will be more. I'd like to know what she's doing to people." The difference between minor Trench hazard and corrupting beasthood's a big one. Where does Mercymorn fall?

'We' certainly included Ortus-- and, in a moment, Waver was going to help the man be certain of that.

"I have one piece of information," He said in a low, uneasy tone. "Her affairs with me are personal; otherwise, the same conditions we face also apply to her."

No one was being murdered in the sewers. That much, at least, he was certain of. Their status otherwise was unknown to him, but killing anyone in a way that mattered was no easy feat to accomplish in Trench. The worst that could happen was that the victim would return to their squid form and awaken when appropriate.

Thoughtless slaughter would only add to the blood pollution that plagued the town, and Woe clearly had more planning behind her actions.

Squeezing Iskandar's hand one last time, Waver pulled away and headed for the small kitchen. Tea was in order, but also...

"Ortus, there's a microscope in the cabinet behind you." And, knowing what little he knew of the Nine Houses, he explained: "It looks like a small table with a scope that has lenses on both ends. Could you bring it over?"

The Bard had previously offered to help with small things like that, and Waver already had his hands full with both setting the kettle on heat and pulling down a small box of tools. Glass slides, dropper bottles filled with saline, cotton swabs to get a sample.

A kitchen was far from a biochemist's laboratory, but Waver was not a biochemist. He could feel the distant buzzing that was 'Woe' brooding in the sewers along his nerves and in the awkward cadence of his heart.

It was fortunate he had already dealt with his share of murder attempts. He needed to get a look at things while he still had a chance.

Iskandar watches Waver leave for the kitchen, but not before he mentions the microscope, and Iskandar's eyes light up. He loves watching Waver work. The way he's able to infer information from seemingly innocuous observations, tie facts together to expose their connections and draw conclusions from there. It's fascinating.

To see him do it the first time during the war, was the first sign to Iskandar that this scrawny, complaining boy might have greater potential than Iskandar was giving him credit for. And he was right to follow that feeling. He was right to listen then. It makes it only more enjoyable to see it now.

"What are you expecting to see?" he asks, confident that Waver already has a theory. He always does.

Iskandar's own talents lies elsewhere. He's good at leading, planning, strategizing, but no great strategist, no leader can act without information. And information is where Waver excels. That's what makes them such a great team.

Ortus obediently sets off to retrieve the microscope, mildly touched that Waver thought to elucidate what it was via description. It's one of the reasons he classes Waver among the better classes of magician, like Lady Pent or Master Warden Sextus, and why he has begun to trust the man's intentions regarding students. He does have a teacher's way about him.

When he turns around with it very carefully cradled in his hands, he pauses only slightly to see how Iskandar looks to his adept with a shine in his eyes Ortus has seen only a handful of times before in his life. It paints a warm line down the back of his neck at the same time that it almost feels like an intimacy he should not be party to, something private between roommates meant to be kept behind locked doors.

But he felt the same at the echo of Canaan House when he saw Magnus Quinn rest his hand on the back of his wife's neck, her hand coming up to cover it, both of them held within the dim light of a lantern turned low, and he thinks that moments like that always have something enclosed to them that only those within their arc may truly see.

"Here," he says, softly, setting down the microscope near to where Waver has assembled his tools, and he steps away in deference. He is content to listen and serve.

Duty moves near Iskander—out of Waver's way but with as good a view as any. Microscopes aren't the sort of equipment whose default design let more than one person see the results at a time. Work done in an apartment like this, not a lab, doesn't raise his expectations on that front. Just as well, he doesn't need to see the sample himself, and Duty's sure Waver will share the results.

"Trench or home universe based?" Duty asks. Whatever it is, he would bet Mercymorn—Woe—didn't try to kill Waver. She's competent at that. Their original purpose can wait.

He turns toward Iskander. Let the mage work. "What are you still looking to do in Trench?" Duty asks.

"Thank you,"

Waver commented to Ortus, gratefully accepting the microscope and setting it carefully on the table. With a gentle touch, he grasped a glass slide by its delicate edges and carefully set it down amid his tools. Should Ortus stay, Waver would show him step-by-step what he was doing-- that being scraping the swab firmly along the surface of the glass and squeezing a few drops of saline onto it before dropping the razor-thin cover atop it.

For Iskandar and Duty, he clarified: "I'm hoping to see some evidence of a visibly foreign substance among the cells on the inside of my cheek. It's secondary school science, honestly."

Any kind of microscopic examination is far above the levels of scientific inquiry that Iskandar is familiar with, so he doesn't even know it can be improved upon. To him, it's already sophisticated, and Waver's dismissive comment about it does nothing to change his opinion.

Still, he doesn't need to understand the technology to know it is better to let the specialist work in peace. So he too turns his attention more to Duty.

"There's not much in a way of conquest here, but I find its people and its gods utterly fascinating. I was always of the opinion that you learn a lot about the people through the gods they worship."

Ortus is so interested in what Waver is doing that he cannot overhear Duty and Iskandar's conversation, in a manner that is nearly suspiciously convenient and deliberate, if not for Ortus being above such petty tactics. Besides, it truly is an interesting process.

"I know of researchers of other Houses, and those of the Imperial fleet," he says, quietly, "But I had rarely considered what tools they might employ in their studies. Such a device as this would allow those without the aptitude to study the smaller forms of the body access to the field...an intriguing concept. And this is a commonly taught thing in your world?"

Duty nods in agreement. There's a potential trap there, given John's status as God back in the Nine Houses, but he'd rather not dance around that point if it's one Iskander means to make. "The gods they worship and how they worship them," he agrees. "Have you learned much about the Pthumerians?"

A small gesture to indicate he means to interject into the other conversation as well. "Waver, would you be generous enough to show Ortus what bone looks like under a microscope?" Duty asks. He looks at Ortus, "I presume you have some." Ortus is the Ninth, and the Ninth always have bone.

"I'm an alchemist, not a necromancer,"

Waver uttered, his words quick and dismissive even as he slid the box of glass slides towards Ortus. Surely the man in what he guessed was ceremonial paint of the Ninth House would have a bone or two lying around.

He narrowed his eyes as he adjusted the focus of the lenses, the scope itself adjusting the relative height of its lens with every turn of the dials. While he was always fascinated by discourse of gods and lore, he had more important matters-- and, evidently, an eager student.

"As humanity grew and became more aware of its place in the world, various individuals started applying their senses to understanding the world around them. The Mysteries that made them fearful of the dark began to wane after those who studied the world collected their knowledge together and created the Sciences. Since then, magic has eroded-- and most people use tools like this."

Brows lifted when he finally got focus, and the tiny wiggling epithelial cells were revealed. The solution they swam in carried familiar sediments-- clear, round circles that were probably collected salts and other materials found in saliva. But, also--

He clicked his tongue, satisfied. A minute shift of the glass had revealed what he was looking for. It was a round particle of Vileblood green with a haze around it's edges and a mottling over its surface that resembled mushroom spores he had collected during a lesson in basic identification. Spore prints could be crucial to telling the difference between a toxic amanita and an edible agaricus.

Motioning for Ortus to come take a look, he continued explaining.

"When the Mages Association was founded, they enforced a strict Concealment of the Mystic on all practitioners in order to protect what was left of the mysteries of the ancient world. As a result, the very same people that use tools like this have no idea that the same text message they're sending on their phone is being conveyed with ink and paper by touch of a skeletal hand repurposed for the task. Likewise, the people choosing to keep alive the learnings of their three-times great grandfathers would never be willing to entertain the idea of using a cell phone."

Iskandar had to develop the ability to focus on more things than one at the same time at the very early age. Growing up on the court of his father was never a safe affair. So he has no trouble following Waver's explanation while himself replying to the question that Duty has asked. A very interesting question to be frank.

"I learned some. Not as much as I'd like to. They seem not that dissimilar to the deities my people worshipped. They definitely are more active than those of my people were at the time I was alive among them. But then we were at the end of the Age of Gods. Here it seems to be in full swing."

He does raise an eyebrow when Waver describes Concealment of the Mystic. It might be a topic he might like to raise when with him later. It seems to him that something was lost in the knowledge transfer from his time to the time the Mages Association begun.

Ortus fumbles with the bone chip when he produces it from his pocket, shooting Duty one of his still-awed, grateful, humbled looks that he so often bestows on the Saint when he gives Ortus any regard. He slides the tiny fragment onto the table beside Waver's elbow, meekly, and gives himself over to attending to his explanation again.

"Necromancy is nearly an inverse of what you describe," Ortus tells Waver, "The better it is understood, the more mastery a necromancer may exert. The development and application of improved theorems has driven much innovation in the art- ah!"

The interjection comes after Ortus sets his eye to hover just above the lens, not wishing to contaminate it with greasepaint, and lay his sights on the twitching, squirming, globulous puddles revealed by the microscope to him.

"They are like little animals," he says, after a moment's astonishment, "Is this their usual condition?"

Duty lets Ortus explain necromancy to Waver. The Ninth's understanding naturally covers this major divergence between the two forms of magic. Mysterious though magic can be, especially in the early days, they approached it with scientific hypothesis, experiment, observation, and theorization. Repeat repeat repeat. Revering it as a mystery makes little sense to Duty. It's not the mystery that fascinates him.

His attention, mostly, returns to Iskander. "You and Waver are both, then, from the end of an era," Duty says. Different eras, different endings, but some commonality all the same. "It's not difficult to find Pthumerians to interact with. The population in Trench is condensed and, to some extent, the Pthumerians with it." Mariana is deep in the ocean. Moon Presence is high in the sky. However, the Reckoning may be called upon for justice, and Moss King can be gambled with most nights. Nevermore is in Mutter, ready to teach. They are here, able to be seen and to interact with, whether one likes the interaction or not.

"Have you interacted with any of the gods, at home or here, since you've arrived?" Duty asks, "A couple nights a week, I gamble in Cellar Door, with Moss King." The Pthumerian who knows the future, save what is determined by chance.

It was hard not to feel encouraged by Ortus earnest joy and amazement over something which he had come to see as mundane. Like with Iskandar and the war planes of the 1990s, sometimes a reminder was all that was needed to appreciate the simple things. While the world has changed a great deal with the end of the Age of the Gods to the Age of Man, the fundamentals still remained the same.

People were always people-- whether they be gods or professors or monks separated by millennia between them.

"That's right," Waver said, a small smile warming his face as he watched Ortus. It was moments like this that reminded him of why he taught.

"They are little animals, and human bodies are made from multitudes of them "

He reached for his tweezers and picked up the scrap of bone, holding it up to the light to determine it's relative thickness and opacity. If he could get a sliver of it...

"Unfortunately, the very thing that drives Necromancy in your era is what has eroded long standing disciplines, like creating Homunculi, in mine. The more we've understand about the hard details that we can interact with, the less effectively these Homunculi can function. Only clans that have been working on the form for generations really work with them anymore-- and, even then..."

He glanced up at Iskandar, but thought of the white haired woman that had accompanied Saber in the Holy Grail War from ten years before. She was earnest and energetic.... But so delicate too.

"-- let's just say it's an amazing feat if they survive in the long term ."

"That so?"

Is that envy that colours his voice? Maybe. Iskandar had long prided himself of not being afraid of anything or anyone. The gods though. The gods are different. What a man, even half-divine as he, can do against a divine? How can a man understand them? Speak to them? Not in his era.

"As much as I have wished at time to have at least been acknowledged by my own divine father, he never did. Neither, did I have any personal encounter with any other of the gods of my people. I knew they listen. That was pretty obvious, but they rarely spoke back, and if that through seers and signs. Not directly. Not to me."

Did he regret this lack of contact? No. It was very often more prudent to have no word at all than to cross even the smallest among of the Deathless Ones. There has always been a battle in him between ensuring the success of his campaign, the safety and prosperity of his people... and just plain getting noticed.

So is it truly that surprising he had brought those same convictions, having been reborn here where the gods are not only more active but more visible? He has no great deeds to show for himself here. He has conquered no country, slain no great beast. What the gods might want with him other than to torment him?

"How do you even gamble with a god?"

"I had imagined them more...structured."

In truth, Ortus had pictured them as cells, not unlike his own niche in the stone of the Ninth. In moments of frivolity, he had imagined each occupied in turn by a smaller version of himself, intent on their work in some fashion. There had been no need for a boy born to the hefting of bone and blade to study the body any further than its gross anatomy, so while he had known these were flights of imagination, he had not suspected...this.

"What are Homunculi?" He asks, still contemplating the undulating little creatures that are alleged to be fundamental to his composition (and what purpose a trick?) with gradually lessening shock. He has certainly seen odder things. "Some manner of construct? That is our term for creations animated by necromancy - bone being the preferred material, for its thanergic storage capacity and ease of maintenance. Skilled necromancers like my lady may use even the slight chip you hold to fashion bodies entire, although only the Ninth are true masters of the osseous."

House pride is what it is, even a universe apart from the dark halls of his youth.

Duty respects what gods are capable of, whether that be John Gaius in the Nine Houses or the Pthumerians in and around Trench. However, a myriad exposure to one leaves him less in outstanding awe of gods in general. Decorum and respect may be given (though not guaranteed), but they are beings of some physical form with reason and emotion, with agenda and alliances, with relationship and rivals. In the end, everyone sentient is just that.

"When the god knows the future," Duty replies, "it is a game of chance." He does not mistake tolerance for approval, nor familiarity for friendship. "He does not always play."

"I served one god for a myriad," Duty says, "one of his fists and gestures. These gods do not frighten me." The Reckoning killed him, and the mark of her shot remains over his heart. Even in the face of death, he did not fear it nor her. Sleepers may return from death, but life is never a guarantee. He will live as he believes, be that for a short time or a long one. He expected to be dead long ago.

Closed | Study Sessions with Professor Big Ben London Star

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

cw: mercymorn reference.... and reference to the flesh-horror beast from the mid series battle in FZ

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

Sorry for the late reply

i am glacial turtle crawling out of depth of time - apologies for holding everyone back with this:(

no stress!

time is a flat circle

Here's to hoping October is kinder!

that would be nice for a change

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject