deercountry | semi-closed

[The first time Palamedes ventures into the Archaic Archives (which is a little on the nose), he nearly leaves immediately and never comes back. The fact that the whole area comes with the feeling of being watched and the distinct impression that whoever built this part of town wants no one else in it is one thing, but a library without any sense of how it should organize its contents? For shame! Absolutely disgusting, and a tragic amount of disrespect for and offensive availability of paper books. Palamedes doesn't miss flimsy, not at all — the journal from within his welcome bag is his favorite possession, by far — but something still feels... dirty about picking a paper book up off a shelf and touching all the pages as if it's nothing.

That's neither here nor there, however: Palamedes has returned to the Archives. It's not his second visit or even his third; not even abysmal book-sorting can keep him away from the place with the books in it, and he's even learning a trick to it: if he leans back from his notes and sighs with the precisely correct amount of weariness, he will spot on a nearby shelf a book that might prove interesting for the, hm, dozen or so things he's decided to look into so far. You know, as a casual hobby.

So things are going alright for him, mostly. It isn't a weary sigh that draws him this time down a row of stacks in a more obscure... corner? This building makes no sense, but it's not a part he's been to as often, he's pretty sure — either way, it's a different Gut Feeling that compels him to pause at this particular stack and look down it. And oh — Camilla.

It feels like a small age ago that he'd quipped to Harrow on the beach here that Camilla-will-be-along, and it has been a small age since he's seen her, and now! There she is! Here, in this infuriating library (lowercase, derogatory)! Palamedes allows himself a heartbeat to sink into his emotions at just the sight of her, then:]

The locals think the being in charge of this Archive leaves it a horrendous mess on purpose. It doesn't get more charming the fourth time, believe me.

[Hi. So. Before he's in big trouble for his various stunts, allow him a brief interlude to flash her a smile.]

I knew you'd come.

[you can take the girl out of the sixth house, but you can't take the sixth house out of the girl. or: in a world in which absolutely nothing makes sense, camilla, naturally, finds herself drawn to the one place that should—only to find that it doesn't. of course it doesn't. cam takes one step inside this strange building, glancing about the entryway while breathing in the dry, dusty air, and cam instantly knows this library (if it can even be called that) is a serious shitshow.

but the alternative is—what? continuing to poke about the city on criminally little sleep? better, she thinks, to hunker down here for the evening, searching for answers she's fairly certain she won't find. at least she can pretend to be productive; at least she can somewhat amuse herself as she weaves through crooked aisle after crooked aisle, imagining what, exactly, palamedes would think of such sights. books sitting on the floor! the floor. all that priceless information and priceless paper, treated so, so poorly...

...it still hurts, on some level, to think of pal, though cam knows that he isn't gone. not really, given all that he has—they have—to do, and yet there's a stark difference between listening to excited extrapolations and watching fingerbones flex.

and there is an even starker difference between watching fingerbones flex and spying a tall, thin, all-too-familiar figure pop into view.

well, first things first: cam doesn't do surprise. she tenses, yes; she turns; she stands stock-still as she takes in the sight of a dead man standing at the end of this aisle, but there is no outward emotion as she calmly assesses the situation. what little she knows of this world is—it makes this plausible, she supposes, though highly unlikely. unless this is... something else entirely? river-related, perhaps. a necromantic trick.

except that pal smiles at her, his face lighting up in that heart-achingly familiar way—and cam's shoulders drop, tension eking from her form. i knew you'd come. if she's honest with herself—if she admits that she is human, that she allows herself to hope—then there is very simple reason she'd made the library a priority stop:]

I knew you'd be here.

[in a different form, perhaps, but here he is! here they are—and as cam is still cam, as she takes a few steps forward to better see the person she hasn't seen in months:]

You're covered in dust.

[listen: she will have a dry comment or two in a few seconds. she will. she's just currently Going Through It™ in a very understated, cam-like way, sir, so please understand.]

Edited 2021-12-10 00:18 (UTC)

[First things first: Palamedes still loves the feeling of being right all the time. Statistically, the odds of Cam following him to this squid-beach horror show of a city are absolutely terrible; telling the Ninth those weeks ago that she was definitely on her way to pick him up and clock him for running off again was, admittedly, partly just to make himself feel better.

But only part. They are who they are, and who they are is the best; of course Cam is here now, against the impossible odds. Palamedes has become a little more familiar with the impossible in these past many months, and so it simply makes sense that he's no longer residing in his own bones (well, beyond the way one is supposed to do that) and Cam is here because she knew he would be. It falls perfectly into place the way nothing else ever quite does except for when it's them; that, and the sight of her, the sound of her voice, is enough.

Like, if this were a trick, it would be expert level; someone less attuned to how they operate would have Cam comment on how dusty he is first thing. He looks down at himself, like yeah, he sure is! Oops!—and ignores it as a state of being as he closes the distance between them to hug her tightly. Not long, not lingering, but it's been a while and some reassurance that they're both solid goes a long way.

And also, about the dust, sorry:] You too.

[Then he steps back, and they are both dusty, and this library sucks some serious shit (but wow, paper!), and yet. He feels better; something shifts that sits the world upright again, despite all the (squid) mysteries.]

The Ninth are here, and — God. He's shorter than I imagined.

[cool shit right cam]

[let it be known that cam would give pal a noogie, if she weren't, like, so happy to find him? so happy to find him hale and hearty and fleshy, which—oh, you know. it is weird, on some level; cam remains well aware of pal's sacrifice, just as she remains well aware of all that was expected of her afterward, but...

...well. fingerbones scurrying up her forearm can't possibly compare to pal's stick-thin arms wrapping around her; she allows herself a second—just a second!—to appreciate the fact that he is, as always, taller than her, arms wrapping about her waist with ease, before she grants a perfunctory pat to his stick-thin ribs. of course pal found a way to come back? of course he did. not that cam wants to think about squids; she would, in fact, prefer to forget that portion of their existence, but: pal is here! pal is back.

and that comes with, like, many a gross Thought, so: she isn't going to think about it! necromancers will do whatever necromancers believe is necessary; cam is merely along for the ride, hence her deep breath as she comes to terms with a) pal being back, b) the ninth being involved, and c) god floating somewhere in the background. sure! sure. anyway, as she accepts that she is, in fact, covered in book dust:]

Maybe you're too tall.

[she's just sayin! and she's also right—but, with one last pat to pal's too-sharp shoulder blade:]

What do you mean, the Ninth? [hmm!] The Necromancer?

[last she saw of gideon, you see... well! you know! shit happens!!]

[Ah, Cam's cursory patting, that's the stuff he craves. Naturally he understands better than anyone else what's going on in that head of hers; he's going through the exact same in reverse, so! Somehow, it's worked out that everything is coming up Sixth, and so a pat on the ribs is, like, a raucous celebration. Maybe later they can even high five.

But hmm, you know, interesting news about Gideon? Palamedes makes a face; not the face that isn't going to tell Cam everything, because that face doesn't exist, but the face that needs a handful more adjectives to describe just how Fucked Up his brief meeting with Harrow in the River was, for context about the Ninth? Maybe?]

I almost feel like I'm committing some kind of sin every time I see him around. [short god... we don't stan] Besides that: yes! And the cavalier. Both of them. Separately, too, which is a relief in ways I cannot completely fathom right now, besides that somebody needs to have a talk with God.

[And he holds a hand up, like, not that he's saying that should be him!—but like, if it were? Gideon is having the time of her life eating fried dough all the time and Harrow is Harrow, so, given all of the available options, perhaps Palamedes would be the best choice. To talk to God. About some things.

He's already put several pins in several new mysteries, Cam. It takes all of his focus to not spit them all out at her right this second, at once. This consideration is a mark of his unending loyalty and care...]

Anyway, the Ninth are... still very Ninth. Did you see the hideous mansion with all the staring statues on it not far from here? That's them.

[let it be known that cam would like nothing more than a high five—but, like? priorities? or: cam attempting to piece everything together as she imagines short king™ god (what does he look like, anyway?) with gideon, with harrow, with—lord! lord. there are too many players on the board; cam finds herself wishing, for the umpteenth time, that this (re: everything) was simply a matter of the sixth house and the seventh house solving every mystery known to man...

...but, you know. squids. one reason, at least, she squeezes her eyes closed before pulling away from pal's strangely reassuring warmth. why couldn't they simply disappear into the stacks o' books and ignore everything else? a real question, even as she thinks back to, like. all of canaan house.]

No, but it's very fitting.

[she remembers the bones littering the hallway to the ninth's quarters, when she had to go check on gideon that one time? shit sucked, honestly, so:]

If the cavalier is back— [maaaan, she is NOT the person to understand/explain this.] What's the last thing you remember, Warden?

[Just wait 'til they go foraging for Fig Newtons in God's kitchen, girl. Things are dire in the spooky Lyctor house. And it would be much easier to disappear into books - real paper ones!! - forever, he's sort of been trying, but!

Well, here they are. God is in town. Squids. Himself, as he must cop to being among the growing list of oddities happening to them both lately.]

I was writing something down. [This is the honest truth, but since it's entirely unhelpful, he offers instead:] And I'd asked Nonagesimus to make us something that articulates, while I was—indisposed.

[It's us, because of course it is. Anyway, he hopes Harrow did that? He didn't ask when they reunited on the squid beach, because there were bad ideas about bone rapiers to be had.

He decides Cam doesn't need to know about bone rapiers just yet. She's already having a Day. He leans his elbow on a poorly-organized bookshelf (derogatory lean) and takes off his glasses to clean them, frowning. He also didn't ask Harrow if she knew about Gideon being in her head back then...

He's had other concerns.]

They were — sharing. The two of them. No one bothered to pick up the hints I magnanimously left about the work being too crude to be finished, so there they were!

[Dingus tier, honestly. He squints at Cam in a very particular way that means to convey that the Ninth are, actually, weenie dinguses, and no one listens to him when they definitely should.]

[cw: plant body horror, human sacrifice, just necromancer things]

[Palamedes was snapped into a particular bundle of antlers without much warning. A memory collected itself and formed nearly as unceremoniously around him.

He was positioned not far from three figures, one somewhat familiar. Ives was entirely recognizable, though not so young. He stood nearly a foot taller, a Goliath before the other two, average sized, human men holding company. The Giant's horns wound three times around themselves. His face was haggard, his skin was scarred in countless ways, all denoting battle. He mostly looked... tired.

A man in a crisp, silken suit was holding a massive deer skull in his gloved hands. He appeared older than Ives, though that was not the case, the age of sixty-some years simply read more clearly than seventy-five on Ives, a Giant only in his relative middle age. A third man was there, shifting nervously, but he was so undefined... clearly memory did not serve well to recall him beyond a white carnation growing out from one eye socket. The older man had branches growing from his forehead like two antennae might curl away from the face of an insect,

Ives spoke with grief in his tone,]

This will bring her back? What will such magic do to her soul, Sherwood-? We need to be reborn together, it has always been that way.

[Sherwood, the man holding the skull, gave a warm smile. Assuring and charming, he passed off the skull to his apprentice, who took off his own gloves to lift the head up ritualistically. Ives looked wearily between them, before being answered by Sherwood who had a confident tone.

"We need her back," Sherwood said, "and she wants to come back. I can reach out and feel her waiting. If I do it, she'll be too weak to fight. All we need is your connection to her, to speed along the process. There's no time to waste on resurrection,"]

If you don't make this right... I'll make you suffer for it, Sherwood. I'll make you suffer each and every life that even a sliver of your soul returns-

["I expect nothing less!" Sherwood laughed, perfectly breezy in the face of Ives' dark tone and clearly very serious threat. The Giant took in a deep breath, before reaching the twisting wooden staff in his hand towards the skull. Closing his eyes, magic swirled and rushed as the two connected. The apprentice shook in place, rattled around, clutched the skull. The eyes of it began to glow,]

Adelheid... we need you back. Please. I need you.

[the skull... laughed.

In a sudden burst of life, white carnation flowers grew, bloomed, and withered to dust. One after the other after the other, crying out from the skull's eye sockets and broken jaw. The apprentice withered, too, aging rapidly with a scarcely defined look of surprise on his face. The matching flower that grew out from his eye spread and grew out from there, swiftly overtaking his whole body. He didn't have time to scream and Ives sneered, but did not flinch.

Sherwood nodded a knowing nod. A man contented to know he made the right choice. Wise of him, putting an apprentice in that place, instead of doing so himself.

The flowers engulfed the apprentice until there was nothing left of him. He turned to dust, which swirled as added energy taken in by the skull. It free floated in the air. A heap of bones manifested from that dust and formed behind it. They arranged to form a centaur-like skeleton. White carnations and fresh leaves acted as connection points where sinew and flesh should hold together. The two rib cages filled with petals and plants, which stabilized and remained beautifully bloomed within. The skull and bones all turned a pale green tone, as if rapidly dyed with color. The ghostly energy pooled and then poured down from the skulls' antlers, forming waves like misty hair, which glittered with bursts of energy.

Dim, golden lights illuminated deep within the eye sockets of the skull. Distant stars in the void of each. Sherwood addressed the newly formed entity before them,

"Welcome back, my darling Adelheid,"

Ives only looked mortified,]

[By now, Palamedes should know better than to touch any antlers. It's the mystery that gets him; the wondering how the powers that be here decide whose memory will be trotted out to be observed by strangers. He isn't particularly worried that someone will catch him in a moment of shame — he's a librarian, his lowest moments are mostly trying to write poetry as a lovesick preteen — so either way: the pull of mystery is strong. It's the powers that be that make him uncomfortable, not the least because of the way people talk about the gods (plural! madness!) here.

And yet.

Here he is, unceremoniously deposited into another's memory, remaining still in the spot he finds himself so as not to... disturb? He's mostly been pulled straight into the action of these things, only dropped in to witness the thing as an outsider when the memory was his own (another thing to theorize about, if he can), so— well, he supposes he should just watch. Besides, that's... a much older iteration of the giant he'd briefly met, hm? He'll just watch.

The one man - Sherwood - is as necromancer as they come, Palamedes thinks, if only because no one else would cheerfully be hefting a skull around making promises about it. Something about the silent, ritualistic behavior about the other man, the... nebulous one, makes him uncomfortable in a sick way; a writhing dread in his stomach.

Resurrection, the necromancer says; Palamedes congratulates himself for being right, and then immediately feels a sharp tug of horror when he realizes the source of energy for this necromantic trick. Despite himself he takes a hasty couple steps forward from his watcher-space, almost stumbling—]

Wait—

[But this a memory, isn't it, and can't be changed; the carnation-man clutching the skull is going to be siphoned clean out of existence no matter what Palamedes does, and he can only watch in fixated horror as the entirety of a person is spent to call up — some kind of revenant.

He looks at the spot where a person had stood for a long beat, then at the strange new construct-revenant, then at Ives. He doesn't even know if he can interact with this particular vision, but he clears his throat louder than necessary and has only one question, first:]

Did you know she would eat him?

[There was a moment when Palamedes spoke up that the memory altered. Everything briefly broke from it's continuity. Ives looked to him and his own, remembered form changed suddenly. The look of Ives flickered in that dreamlike way of something changing without any transition between one and another, like a continuity error where frames were missing. His current self, the one Palamedes met beneath the mistletoe, looked to where the man was watching, focused on him, and asked in a disoriented tone]

Did I-? [and in a whirl of motion the memory continued, Ives' appearance suddenly correct to the scene, aged and ragged. The skeleton creature looked at her own, boney hands, expression unreadable. She curled and uncurled them as her husband moved in front of her with a gleam of enthusiasm in his eyes, speaking "You look beautiful this way-"

And she slapped him so hard it knocked him to the floor. Sherwood landed on his arms, coughed and spit blood. Ives' focus returned to the moment of memory. He stepped towards her and she jabbed a hand to grasp his neck, curling into fur until he gave a choked response. Dropping his staff, both hands reached to pull at her skeletal arm, but the moment he touched bare bone he jolt away in something like disgust. Her grip tightened around his neck. She was not taller than him, but when she reared up like a horse might upon the back legs of her centaur form. She lift Ives clean off his own hooves and held him in the air, so tight that blood began to soak his fur around where her fingers dug into the skin beneath.

Her voice was uncharacteristically soft, despite the terror of her form and her dire words. "Where has she gone, brother-? She can't stop me now,"

Ives struggled to answer, unable to speak until she dropped him. When she did, though, he returned to his current self as he hit the ground... and the memory grew out of focus. The only thing in focus was Palamedes, standing not far away. Ives rubbed his throat, craning his head to look up at the man]

... I see... you're still not avoiding cursed decorations...

[Well, that's not answering his question, but baby steps. He doesn't step forward again, not until the — the whatever this totally healthy sibling exchange is ends and the construct-revenant drops Ives to the ground.

Only then does he come closer, dropping into a crouch an arms length from Ives on the ground, arms folded on his knees. Hmm. Well.

So, here are the facts as he understands them: necromancers still don't actually raise the dead, in his experience, and summoning a revenant straight into a construct made by a freshly-destroyed body is a terrible idea. Great to know. Frankly, he'd have expected something a little more explosive, but the horror of a man dissolving into dust and then being sucked into a revenant vortex is, ah, enough.

But action of it all fizzles and fades, and the momentary spike of terror he'd felt with it. He's quite calm now, like that was all a much more distant thing.]

No, [he says, after a moment.] I'm not. I wanted to learn something this time; I'll take that blame.

[He casts a brief glance around at the unfocused memory, then looks back down. Again, noncommittally:]

Did you know?

[Extremely healthy and nontoxic twin relationship all around, they will not be accepting feedback.

Ives glares at Palamedes when he admits this was a deliberate recollection. Nosey- but he didn't specifically come barging into Ives' memory, right? It seemed unlikely. Ives had been tinkering with the memories when he could, so he's not much better for it. He looks away at the question, to his sister, her form somewhat blurry as the two sleepers were in focus now.

As always, Ives answers with honesty, even if he has nothing but venom to share as much]

I presumed, but wasn't certain. That man... Sherwood. He was stronger by great measure. Bringing along some feeble apprentice-? I could guess...

[and Ives absolutely did not care, there were bigger things to worry about than some throw away Warlock. He'd probably have killed that man later, himself]

[Oh, so it's going to be like that. Palamedes shrugs; he can't control what memories he dips into, so this is not his fault in the slightest, even if he was tooling around with antlers to see if it would happen again on purpose. Every other part of this he is blameless in, so it's — fine.

He considers silently then, shifting to press his fingertips together, knuckles white; then shifts again to lean his chin in his cupped hand, like this is a very normal scenario and conversation to be having.]

I'd say you got what you asked for, then.

[The violence, he means specifically, but as he looks over at the nebulous shape of the revenant, it could seem like either. Siphoning a person out of existence is not, as it happens, a good thing, he's pretty sure...]

Your friend over there didn't do his research, I'd guess — or he'd know that a revenant wouldn't give half a shit about him. [Hmm!] Was it worth it?

All I asked was for my sister back!

[Ives snares, but it's as much anger as it is grief. He clicks his teeth after,]

And you're wrong... it was always just the opposite, he didn't care about her. Turning her into an Incarnate... just a tool he used to cover up for his mistakes.

[For a split second, he frowns; nothing that just happened here was alright, by any means, but — well. Unbidden he thinks of Camilla, who is so blessedly intelligent and always knows what to do and wouldn't do something like this for him, surely not, she would have already — but the emotion is there. He feels it heavy and sick, at the mere thought of how he'd go on without her...

But guilty half-empathy and complicity are not the same thing, so. His frown smooths out again, and he huffs out a short kind of sigh.]

Is that what you call revenants? [kinda menacing! but noted,] I won't lecture you, but...

[It was. A bad ask? By Palamedes' count, the number of winners in this memory is currently zero.]

What mistakes?

Not heard of a revenant... Adelheid is an Incarnate. She'll always be, now...

[Ives sighs, clearly that's the part he didn't know about. He wouldn't have agreed if he know the scope, the weight of the decision. He was convinced by Sherwood, that this was what she wanted, that if she answered his call than it was her choice,

But Adelheid just wanted vengeance. She should never have been offered the change to lock herself up, undying, over pride and petty rage- Ives should have had been judgement and controlled her-

But why was that always his responsibility?]

He opened a door to another realm. There was something there, powerful enough to end the world as we knew it. One of our Gods wanted that for himself and is lover- so we had to kill them and stop it. He needed her help... he leveraged my grief and utterly foolish trust in him.

A revenant is what happens to souls no longer attached to their original forms — either summoned or separated from the body by violent death.

[So, what he's pretty sure just happened! Maybe even both things!

Other realms and killing gods are beyond him, in scope alone; he can only think of the apprentice with the flower for an eye, convulsing in those moments before being dissolved. It doesn't seem worth it. He glances at the necromancer shape.]

What happened to him afterwards?

Incarnate are different. They are souls trapped forever within something precious they owned... Adelheid was summoned back into her own skull. Though, apart of her lived in my staff, as well. She's an immortal, now.

[a staff he still had... half of. But Adelheid hadn't spoken to him through it since it was broken apart some years ago. Now, it's only a powerful magical conduit. Especially now, practically two worlds removed from his sister.

He puffed at the inquiry over Sherwood, answering with utmost flippancy, rolling his eyes]

Him-? He got away with damn near everything. Used her skull to lock that door, where she's been trapped for hundreds of years.

[A moment's pause, Ives shaking his head]

What makes you so curious about the fate of such warlocks?

[That's not the answer he'd have expected, all things considered. He raises an eyebrow, then:]

The two of you killed one person without a second thought already; I thought you might have killed him next for what he did to your sister. At least the second murder would have had a motive.

[A shrug; he pushes his glasses up the bridge of his nose, looks around again.]

You know, in one of these memories I stepped in rotting viscera? I'd rather go back to that one.

I killed him, eventually. Long after I should have.

[this is easy for Ives to admit to, despite not being proud of it. He didn't tell people that back home, he kept it to himself... but here, what did it matter?]

You dodged my question.

Did I? You asked why I asked about him and I answered. If you wanted a different answer, you should have asked a different question.

[He sits properly finally, stretching his legs out from the sustained crouching. There's nothing to do in these things but wait for the magic stag to come along and decide they're done, so - may as well sit comfortably.]

You can ask something else, I don't mind.

[Granted a second question, he just goes straight to the point. Palamedes was just too quick to discuss what a revenant was for Ives to not be fully suspicious. No use in playing footsies, when he can be straight forward]

Are you a necromancer-? Or whatever word you might use. Warlock, druid... it's all the same when raising dead.

I don't raise the dead; none of us do. My specialty is psychometry, not that that matters to you.

[Somehow that raising-the-dead thing keeps coming up, so there is clearly something deeply weird about necromancy everywhere that isn't the Nine Houses. He'll think about it later.]

But yes, I am a necromancer. And a better one than your man over there, in all areas including ethically, I imagine.

What makes you a necromancer, then, if not the raising the dead? Merely tampering with them-?

[he puffs out his nose, all told, not impressed. A serial killer could argue themselves as more ethical than Sherwood, that's no great feat. Not that Ives holds any interested in defending the man as better or worse than any other who tamper in matters they should not have]

Sanctimonious for a murderer, but okay. I was born with the ability to do a type of magic that requires something we call thanergy, or death energy. Our Empire produces thanergy for historical reasons that are fascinating but presently irrelevant, so — while a nearby death produces a plume of thanergy any necromancer could harness, directly interacting with the recently deceased is more of a military thing.

[All said in the tone of a prim little teacher, like an educational placard at a museum about bone wizards. He feels no powerful urge to justify a thing he was born with as more morally upright than killing a dude to conjure a skull lady, like what's-his-name, so.]

Personally, I'm in research. I wouldn't last a minute in a military battle.

What makes up such thanergy? And by what way could you produce it?

[His tone isn't judgmental as he goes on, thinking it best to give some context into how much things work as he's known them. He's genuinely curious about if this is different,]

Upon Myddvai, such energy would be a person's soul, which is the lifeblood of our World Tree. That is not a resource that should be used by anybody. Yet, it was what those of Sherwood's ilk tapped into for power. A cost so hidden they never understood what they were sacrificing.

Cell death. [Does he have to explain what cells are to someone from a place that sounds like a storybook, he wonders; he won't, just in case it's, uh, condescending.] Cells die all the time; a necromancer has a natural amount of thanergy reserves just from existing, but I've known some who'll... well.

[He makes a face, nose wrinkling. This thing is Gross, but:] Eat someone's hair? Bite a finger? It's always vulgar, but it pops a few fresh cells. Most ordinary-scale necromantic tasks don't require that much thanergy — I have enough in me right now to last.

Now! The soul is another story entirely. No necromancy involves souls unless you want to call one up and talk to it — assuming they'll come, anyway, if they're in the mood — and then... that's it. They go back.

[Unless you're God and his fucked up friends, but Palamedes has carefully compartmentalized "necromancers" away from "God and fucked up friends (laymen term: Lyctors)," so he's not touching any of that.]

Anyway, that's how my psychometry comes in; the past-within-the-thing. Thanergy leaves traces on objects and I can read it, you know, see who's been around and what they were doing. That kind of thing.

[Ives listens with calm attentiveness. No, he does not know what a cell is, but he can guess from context clues that it's some unit of... relatively insignificant measure. It's not a soul, at the least, which clear it of his more dire and personal concerns.

He's no longer looking at Palamedes with such harshness, returned to a steady and extremely deadpan tone for... what is not actually a joke, but probably sounds like one]

If you find that little to be vulgar, I won't mention what generates magic in my world.

Okay.

[...Well, eating hair and/or chewing on a friend is pretty weird, so... cool. He won't ask.]

I have a question. [A beat, because he's going to ask anyway, but the illusion of waiting for permission, etc:] Why did your age keep fluctuating for a bit back there?

[Ives is from a whimsical sex comedy with dark humor- his bar for vulgar is pretty high. He does nod when Palamedes take a beat before his question, not that it mattered much that Ives acknowledged him or not]

The events of this memory were four of my lives ago... I am only twenty in this current one. I was closer to seventy-five at this time.

[That explains not giving a shit about the murder, Palamedes thinks. He does not repeat this out loud, for reasons.]

Huh. [old people....] Well, barring a miracle, I only get the one shot. Doing it all over again sounds... tiring?

[Unproductive?? He'd hate to be twelve again, for instance. Might as well just keep getting older without stopping.]

All souls upon Myddvai are reborn, but they are usually... shuffled about, not born in the exact same order. The Giants are exempt of this, we are always reincarnated the same and with our twin sibling. We can begin to recall the memories of our past lives once we're adults, around our latter teens.

[a brief shrug, in short:]

So, yes, it is extremely tiring.

[no arguing there, it's why Ives looks like a fresh faced, young twunk while acting like some world weary grandpa most of the time.]

If you do not count my being reborn in this place, I am on my 24th life of note.

No offense, but that's the worst.

[Super mega the worst... he'd have lost it by now. He accepts this as the truth, at least, not just for having seen the age fluctuation himself moments ago. It's not nearly the weirdest thing that's happened in this place by a wide margin.

So, congrats: Not That Weird.]

Well! By my best guess, these things decide to let us out when some kind of resolution is reached. Or closure — it was closure for me. So...

[A slight nod; any ideas?]

Oh, the stories I could tell that prove you right... [it's pretty intense to deal with, just, emotionally weighed down with so many memories. The fact he's this stable at all is a testament to some serious mental fortitude. He'll brag about it another time...]

Closure... closure, closure... [he repeated with a distracted tone, looking around. How could he ever hope to have something like that from this moment?

Ives' staff lay on the ground in the scene, still in focus. Ah. It was something. He finally pulled himself up from the ground, moved to it, and knelt down on one knee. Hesitating only briefly, he grabbed it with something of a wince.

The memory turned to a void and there was a deafening snarl and then snap of wood. Both would be wrenched from the memory and awaken wherever they had been.]

semi-closed

🥺 cam!!!!

🥺 pal!!!!

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i'm BACK

beeguns all over this thread

besties back at it!!!!!!!!

when do they get sixth house letter jackets

Winter Mourning- Mid December

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good spot to end off!