[Paul's explanation, spotty and theoretical as it is, is — well, a relief would be affording Palamedes' mind with an ability to relax that he still hasn't fully realized yet. He feels a brief pinprick of satisfaction about being right, about the blood mattering.
Still, he doesn't feel like the locus of anything. This dinner party plays out while he watches, removed, touching chairs and wandering around the table like a ghost. The question of how this space has manifested, by whose means, itches at him again; is he the anchor of this space? Need his will remain stalwart lest the whole thing collapse? He's fairly sure he wouldn't know how to lose focus even if he tried; he's spent too long holding himself together that he's certain he's doing it even now, out of habit, while he drums his fingers on the back of Abigail Pent's imaginary chair.
Much to think about, and yet — the frenzied light of wondering dims in his eyes as the topic swings back to her in front of him. She is exquisite, a truth separate from all feeling, because no matter whose will powers this place, Palamedes never forgets a detail; she is an embodiment, a symbol, perhaps the true locus this memory spins around for is it not just here to make him angry all over again—]
Necromancy is finite; a construct needs a power source, as does one of my wards — I, on my own, could handle a few sustained minutes before I need another shot of thanergy, unless I wanted to do something drastic.
[Never mind that now; he's glad at least that the thing Paul must here witness is dinner, and not what comes much later.]
It makes one critically aware of their limitations, from a purely conservationist standpoint. I can fiddle with this many bones until I bleed out of every pore, I can spin up this many spirits until I pass out; that kind of thing. And, always, it comes to an end. Thanergy is transient by nature.
[Another necromancy lesson, free of charge. Palamedes shifts, stepping back from Abigail's chair with a sigh and looking towards Paul — and the scabbed cuts on his arm — again. He smiles, tired around the eyes.]
I have a feeling that mucking about in these visions is about the same. Thank you; you have a generous soul. But what happened here is fixed, and I — I'll endure.
[He'll live, Ha Ha. Okay. With a touch more pep he taps the very corner of lovely Cytherea's chair, to finally get to the other question:] She lied to us. More than we were all naturally going to lie to each other in the spirit of inter-House relations, that is. She lied to us, she killed, she replaced; then she had the gall to tell it back to me like it was fascinating and sympathetic.
[He shuts his eyes and shakes his head, stepping away entirely. Regret burns in him for not seeing it sooner, but — it's done. It's happened. He looks at Paul.]
I would like to leave this room. Can you make that happen? If I'm the center and the rules are made up anyway, there might be more than blank nothing outside.
no subject
Still, he doesn't feel like the locus of anything. This dinner party plays out while he watches, removed, touching chairs and wandering around the table like a ghost. The question of how this space has manifested, by whose means, itches at him again; is he the anchor of this space? Need his will remain stalwart lest the whole thing collapse? He's fairly sure he wouldn't know how to lose focus even if he tried; he's spent too long holding himself together that he's certain he's doing it even now, out of habit, while he drums his fingers on the back of Abigail Pent's imaginary chair.
Much to think about, and yet — the frenzied light of wondering dims in his eyes as the topic swings back to her in front of him. She is exquisite, a truth separate from all feeling, because no matter whose will powers this place, Palamedes never forgets a detail; she is an embodiment, a symbol, perhaps the true locus this memory spins around for is it not just here to make him angry all over again—]
Necromancy is finite; a construct needs a power source, as does one of my wards — I, on my own, could handle a few sustained minutes before I need another shot of thanergy, unless I wanted to do something drastic.
[Never mind that now; he's glad at least that the thing Paul must here witness is dinner, and not what comes much later.]
It makes one critically aware of their limitations, from a purely conservationist standpoint. I can fiddle with this many bones until I bleed out of every pore, I can spin up this many spirits until I pass out; that kind of thing. And, always, it comes to an end. Thanergy is transient by nature.
[Another necromancy lesson, free of charge. Palamedes shifts, stepping back from Abigail's chair with a sigh and looking towards Paul — and the scabbed cuts on his arm — again. He smiles, tired around the eyes.]
I have a feeling that mucking about in these visions is about the same. Thank you; you have a generous soul. But what happened here is fixed, and I — I'll endure.
[He'll live, Ha Ha. Okay. With a touch more pep he taps the very corner of lovely Cytherea's chair, to finally get to the other question:] She lied to us. More than we were all naturally going to lie to each other in the spirit of inter-House relations, that is. She lied to us, she killed, she replaced; then she had the gall to tell it back to me like it was fascinating and sympathetic.
[He shuts his eyes and shakes his head, stepping away entirely. Regret burns in him for not seeing it sooner, but — it's done. It's happened. He looks at Paul.]
I would like to leave this room. Can you make that happen? If I'm the center and the rules are made up anyway, there might be more than blank nothing outside.