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[The first thing Palamedes is aware of is how many things he isn't aware of; it's a stupid contradiction and it makes him angry, impotently so, which makes him angrier, and so that is how Palamedes Sextus starts his, what, third go at life?: being pissed about it. There's no clear-cut moment that he's aware in the ways that matter: who he is, what's going on, where he is and has been, etc. No, of course not: only a vague sense of coming back to himself at the same time that he isn't himself, and looping around in that state of mind for a while.
The things he knows for certain: he is no longer a squid, being a squid again sucked very much, and the first two things lead to the third, or: he's still here. Or here again? Here. With that pin in place the rest of the memories settle into where they should be within minutes, because of course they do - Palamedes doesn't waste time and the universe has accepted that, cosmically.
He can't find his glasses. This makes him squint, which really solidifies the "pissy nerd" aspect he's got going on, here in his first moments of new-old life.
That he is not on the beach means that someone has moved him before he managed to come back, which is invasive in a fun new way that he doesn't yet have extant words for. He rubs at his entire face with his palms and presses the heels of his hands into his eyes for a moment, a whole-body Ugh, and then peers at his surroundings through his fingers.
Oh, he thinks, which is what anyone with sense (double meaning) would think when snapped back into awareness and bombarded with an uncomfortably large assortment of necromantic wards. It's the prickly back-of-the-neck feeling but tenfold, and Palamedes stares at the closest mysteriously warded dead thing like he can pick the ward apart just by glaring at it. (He'll work on it.)
What he notices next is the blanket, and the face he makes at it is legendary and tragically unseen by any sapient eyes. He half-heartedly wraps it around himself, capelike, and whole-heartedly attempts to stand up. There's only one person this study- it is a study, upon cursory couch-bound inspection- could belong to unless things have changed very drastically in his absence (which, well, maybe!), and he'll be damned if he fails his whole House by not taking a good look around.
Instead he fails his whole House by being a necromancer with bird bones who's spent several weeks semi-dead and entirely-squid, and so as soon as he attempts to stand and take a few steps, he wobbles all the way down to the floor. It is here he will remain until The Lord Emperor Actually, For Real returns: on the floor, daringly scooting closer to a notebook that doesn't ping dangerously warded. He looks up, and:]
Lord. [hello.] That figures.
[Which could mean anything from obviously, the Emperor would keep tabs on the local necromancers, to of course this is your study, to UGGGGHHHH, or all three concurrent and consecutive, but Palamedes declines to elaborate further. He shifts to sit cross-legged, squinting still.]
I'm working under the assumption that you found me on the beach, correct me if I'm wrong, and I dimly recall being a sea creature for a completely unnecessary reprise, so — it didn't work. You know, that's arguably more embarrassing than being — what, chewed to death? Is that what happened?
[It is at this point that he attempts to stand again using the arm of the couch as support, much like a toddler wobbling onto their feet, except much taller.]
There's nothing wrong with my work, so it must be that damnable ocean. Is that tea?
The things he knows for certain: he is no longer a squid, being a squid again sucked very much, and the first two things lead to the third, or: he's still here. Or here again? Here. With that pin in place the rest of the memories settle into where they should be within minutes, because of course they do - Palamedes doesn't waste time and the universe has accepted that, cosmically.
He can't find his glasses. This makes him squint, which really solidifies the "pissy nerd" aspect he's got going on, here in his first moments of new-old life.
That he is not on the beach means that someone has moved him before he managed to come back, which is invasive in a fun new way that he doesn't yet have extant words for. He rubs at his entire face with his palms and presses the heels of his hands into his eyes for a moment, a whole-body Ugh, and then peers at his surroundings through his fingers.
Oh, he thinks, which is what anyone with sense (double meaning) would think when snapped back into awareness and bombarded with an uncomfortably large assortment of necromantic wards. It's the prickly back-of-the-neck feeling but tenfold, and Palamedes stares at the closest mysteriously warded dead thing like he can pick the ward apart just by glaring at it. (He'll work on it.)
What he notices next is the blanket, and the face he makes at it is legendary and tragically unseen by any sapient eyes. He half-heartedly wraps it around himself, capelike, and whole-heartedly attempts to stand up. There's only one person this study- it is a study, upon cursory couch-bound inspection- could belong to unless things have changed very drastically in his absence (which, well, maybe!), and he'll be damned if he fails his whole House by not taking a good look around.
Instead he fails his whole House by being a necromancer with bird bones who's spent several weeks semi-dead and entirely-squid, and so as soon as he attempts to stand and take a few steps, he wobbles all the way down to the floor. It is here he will remain until The Lord Emperor Actually, For Real returns: on the floor, daringly scooting closer to a notebook that doesn't ping dangerously warded. He looks up, and:]
Lord. [hello.] That figures.
[Which could mean anything from obviously, the Emperor would keep tabs on the local necromancers, to of course this is your study, to UGGGGHHHH, or all three concurrent and consecutive, but Palamedes declines to elaborate further. He shifts to sit cross-legged, squinting still.]
I'm working under the assumption that you found me on the beach, correct me if I'm wrong, and I dimly recall being a sea creature for a completely unnecessary reprise, so — it didn't work. You know, that's arguably more embarrassing than being — what, chewed to death? Is that what happened?
[It is at this point that he attempts to stand again using the arm of the couch as support, much like a toddler wobbling onto their feet, except much taller.]
There's nothing wrong with my work, so it must be that damnable ocean. Is that tea?
[Or: Good morning, party people at the Bone House, there's a new guest sitting on the couch. Literally: Palamedes Sextus is Here Now in the living room, sitting there. On the couch. Someone (no points for guessing) has given him a cup of tea, which is half-empty and mostly cold by now, and he is vacillating between holding a cup and not drinking from it (hence why it's gone cold) and flipping pages in his new welcome pack journal. The pages are blank.
This is, perhaps, a compulsive behavior. Honestly, he would like to... leave? To disappear to the Sixth bunker (tm) and maybe scream, or at least stare at a different wall while lamenting how empty the bunker is these days. But.
Well. Everybody he knows (more or less) is apparently here in this house right now, wherever they may have ended up, and so — here's Palamedes, putting his personal thoughts and feelings about his latest death-and-rebirth away somewhere so he can sit on this couch and not finish his tea. If there's any feeling he has about that that he's allowing to continue existing, it's vague irritation. He had to be dead? For weeks? And not in a space where he could have at least gotten some personal work done? Ridiculous! Infuriating!
Never mind it. He straightens up just slightly when someone enters the room, picking up his teacup very coolly and casually to have something to do with his hands. He mustn't be, hm, flippant, but he must also start talking before anyone else can, so—]
Hi. [nice.] I can't really explain myself at all, which believe me is maddening for all of us, so — what's new?
[that's kind of flippant but also just brand, huh]
Genuinely. I'm asking.
This is, perhaps, a compulsive behavior. Honestly, he would like to... leave? To disappear to the Sixth bunker (tm) and maybe scream, or at least stare at a different wall while lamenting how empty the bunker is these days. But.
Well. Everybody he knows (more or less) is apparently here in this house right now, wherever they may have ended up, and so — here's Palamedes, putting his personal thoughts and feelings about his latest death-and-rebirth away somewhere so he can sit on this couch and not finish his tea. If there's any feeling he has about that that he's allowing to continue existing, it's vague irritation. He had to be dead? For weeks? And not in a space where he could have at least gotten some personal work done? Ridiculous! Infuriating!
Never mind it. He straightens up just slightly when someone enters the room, picking up his teacup very coolly and casually to have something to do with his hands. He mustn't be, hm, flippant, but he must also start talking before anyone else can, so—]
Hi. [nice.] I can't really explain myself at all, which believe me is maddening for all of us, so — what's new?
[that's kind of flippant but also just brand, huh]
Genuinely. I'm asking.
[Palamedes is gone.
This fact has been set down with the facts of everyone else who is gone, that brutal excising euphemism. Palamedes is gone, and there is nothing anyone can do about that except to say it fucking sucks and roll forth the rock over him.
Palamedes is gone, and he has to live with that, like everything else.
Paul stands very still in the doorway, except for the tremble at the tips of his fingers that resonates improbably in the back of his throat, except for the bleached paper crumple of the corners of his eyes. He opens his mouth, closes it. Opens it again, with a breath that catches.]
Wait. [He swallows, once, twice.] Just - wait.
[He turns on his shocked heel and disappears to the left of the doorframe, his footsteps not falling far. He presses his forehead against cool, worn wallpaper and closes his eyes, digs shivering fingers into the soft giving curve of his inner occipital arches until light burns under his eyelids.
He stays there until he has his resolve. It takes almost five seconds, a near eternity, and he's no closer to inner resolution about what he's doing to do (how he's going to feel) when he steps back into view, except for this: he cannot keep fucking up.]
I had my ears pierced. Harrow did it.
[A shade too brightly tense, vulnerability like the still red, wounded edges around the two small bone studs in each ear, but it's better. It's closer to right, as he stands in the doorway a second time and still doesn't know if he believes this yet.]
Anything new with you? [He attempts a smile; it doesn't go well.] Besides the four limbs?
This fact has been set down with the facts of everyone else who is gone, that brutal excising euphemism. Palamedes is gone, and there is nothing anyone can do about that except to say it fucking sucks and roll forth the rock over him.
Palamedes is gone, and he has to live with that, like everything else.
Paul stands very still in the doorway, except for the tremble at the tips of his fingers that resonates improbably in the back of his throat, except for the bleached paper crumple of the corners of his eyes. He opens his mouth, closes it. Opens it again, with a breath that catches.]
Wait. [He swallows, once, twice.] Just - wait.
[He turns on his shocked heel and disappears to the left of the doorframe, his footsteps not falling far. He presses his forehead against cool, worn wallpaper and closes his eyes, digs shivering fingers into the soft giving curve of his inner occipital arches until light burns under his eyelids.
He stays there until he has his resolve. It takes almost five seconds, a near eternity, and he's no closer to inner resolution about what he's doing to do (how he's going to feel) when he steps back into view, except for this: he cannot keep fucking up.]
I had my ears pierced. Harrow did it.
[A shade too brightly tense, vulnerability like the still red, wounded edges around the two small bone studs in each ear, but it's better. It's closer to right, as he stands in the doorway a second time and still doesn't know if he believes this yet.]
Anything new with you? [He attempts a smile; it doesn't go well.] Besides the four limbs?
[Paul is entitled to his five-second eternity. He says wait and Palamedes holds up a hand gently, acquiescing, turning his gaze to look out the window while Paul has his brief, infinite moment. A hasty eternity is something Palamedes needs all at once, he finds: so many white-knuckled assertions that they-will-be-fine, they-will-not-die, Paul's dreams of Palamedes' fate are not definite — and, well. The irony is thick and heavy with guilt, so, yes: Palamedes would like to stare out this window for five very long seconds. The murky greenness outside, dark even as midmorning rolls inexorably into daytime, is only another reminder that time has passed here, in his absence. Not a few days. Longer.
When Palamedes spent eight months in the River he was mildly horrified to learn just how long it had been. This is not eight months, he knows that already, but the circumstances are... worse? And yet piercing through the muddy guilt is relief: to see Paul (for a couple seconds, shattered in the doorway, even then) whole and perfectly reasonably addled by something like Palamedes on the couch. In the town that existed here without Palamedes, the rest of his friends — weren't gone.
It helps. He still wants to scream, but he can do that later. When Paul comes back Palamedes looks away from the window with his own brand of lopsided quasi-smile.]
I think these are the old ones, [he says, lifting the arm not holding the tea to observe it. Ha ha, jokes.] Due diligence is rolling; I didn't check.
[(But he will, later, and he will find the scarring left from when Paul helped pull bloody gems out of him, and he will wonder for the thousand-and-first time how genuine this body is.)
He is still wearing God's hideous goth blanket like a cape, and tugs an errant corner of it further over his lap as he makes room on the couch. Gesturing,]
Let's see those earrings. Harrow's a genius and the Sixth are not a decorative people, maybe I'll learn something.
[Or: Sit, observe the tangible weight of him (barely) on this couch, absorb that he is indeed a real thing. They don't have to say it.]
When Palamedes spent eight months in the River he was mildly horrified to learn just how long it had been. This is not eight months, he knows that already, but the circumstances are... worse? And yet piercing through the muddy guilt is relief: to see Paul (for a couple seconds, shattered in the doorway, even then) whole and perfectly reasonably addled by something like Palamedes on the couch. In the town that existed here without Palamedes, the rest of his friends — weren't gone.
It helps. He still wants to scream, but he can do that later. When Paul comes back Palamedes looks away from the window with his own brand of lopsided quasi-smile.]
I think these are the old ones, [he says, lifting the arm not holding the tea to observe it. Ha ha, jokes.] Due diligence is rolling; I didn't check.
[(But he will, later, and he will find the scarring left from when Paul helped pull bloody gems out of him, and he will wonder for the thousand-and-first time how genuine this body is.)
He is still wearing God's hideous goth blanket like a cape, and tugs an errant corner of it further over his lap as he makes room on the couch. Gesturing,]
Let's see those earrings. Harrow's a genius and the Sixth are not a decorative people, maybe I'll learn something.
[Or: Sit, observe the tangible weight of him (barely) on this couch, absorb that he is indeed a real thing. They don't have to say it.]
[The last time Paul saw a ghost was two weeks ago, but they didn't speak, or invite him across the room to share a couch with them. Paul crosses a room that feels larger than he remembers it, his eyes never leaving Palamedes as they flicker across his gesturing hands, across the rise and fall of his shoulders, and always back to his remarkable, luminously grey eyes.]
But you do have a consistent color scheme.
[He barely hears himself talk as he takes the offered seat next to someone he is increasingly sure is real, drawing one leg up to tuck to his chest as he looks at Palamedes for another long, wary, fragile moment.
Then he tilts his head to make his ear easier to look at from Palamedes' height, a gesture that half-opens his throat, as deliberate as a cat rolling over to stretch its belly within hand's reach. It's easier than saying I trust you to be real, or please be, or anything else sentimental.]
It's good to see you.
[That should be all right, even if it's softly said, shot through with threads of wondering relief. His exposed piercings are neatly done, as suits Harrow's careful work, and he's kept them clean enough to avoid infection so far.]
But you do have a consistent color scheme.
[He barely hears himself talk as he takes the offered seat next to someone he is increasingly sure is real, drawing one leg up to tuck to his chest as he looks at Palamedes for another long, wary, fragile moment.
Then he tilts his head to make his ear easier to look at from Palamedes' height, a gesture that half-opens his throat, as deliberate as a cat rolling over to stretch its belly within hand's reach. It's easier than saying I trust you to be real, or please be, or anything else sentimental.]
It's good to see you.
[That should be all right, even if it's softly said, shot through with threads of wondering relief. His exposed piercings are neatly done, as suits Harrow's careful work, and he's kept them clean enough to avoid infection so far.]
[Palamedes makes a sound that's almost a laugh, soft like he's merely being conscientious to anyone else still asleep in this house and not weary down to his bones. Apparently that is the consequence of death and rebirth in the right way (the right way, imagine that); he thinks the emotional heavy lifting he's been doing since he woke up on God's own sofa is the more aggressive perpetrator, though.
So: that half a laugh and a shrugging roll of his shoulders, as if to say, Guilty! — of having a color scheme and nothing else, it's having a color scheme that makes his chest burn sick and hot the way it does, and that will have to be enough.
What would he say, anyway? "Oopsie doodle, I really did mean to be twenty paces in the other direction"? No; this is fine.]
It's good to be back, [he says, and it's true. God's own other sofa trumps the rest of where he's been lately, or before Trench-the-first-time, so: good. He twists to lean an elbow on the back of the sofa and tilt towards Paul just so, to peer at Harrow's handiwork. Tidy and clean, of which he credits the latter to Paul - no offense to the Ninth's general medical practices - and his general meticulousness. Which is good, because he's barely been alive twenty-four hours and he would hate to have to lecture so soon.
Palamedes does not reach out and poke the bone stud, he isn't rude, but he reaches out and pats Paul on the shoulder, quietly affirming. Yes, it's a nice piercing. Yes, he himself is a solid, living thing. Yes, it's good to see Paul, too.]
It suits you, which doesn't surprise me in the slightest. [compliment!] What do you think, should I be next?
[absolutely not]
So: that half a laugh and a shrugging roll of his shoulders, as if to say, Guilty! — of having a color scheme and nothing else, it's having a color scheme that makes his chest burn sick and hot the way it does, and that will have to be enough.
What would he say, anyway? "Oopsie doodle, I really did mean to be twenty paces in the other direction"? No; this is fine.]
It's good to be back, [he says, and it's true. God's own other sofa trumps the rest of where he's been lately, or before Trench-the-first-time, so: good. He twists to lean an elbow on the back of the sofa and tilt towards Paul just so, to peer at Harrow's handiwork. Tidy and clean, of which he credits the latter to Paul - no offense to the Ninth's general medical practices - and his general meticulousness. Which is good, because he's barely been alive twenty-four hours and he would hate to have to lecture so soon.
Palamedes does not reach out and poke the bone stud, he isn't rude, but he reaches out and pats Paul on the shoulder, quietly affirming. Yes, it's a nice piercing. Yes, he himself is a solid, living thing. Yes, it's good to see Paul, too.]
It suits you, which doesn't surprise me in the slightest. [compliment!] What do you think, should I be next?
[absolutely not]
[Palamedes touches Paul's shoulder and he thinks phalanges, which turns out to be enough to crack the brittle shell of his remaining doubt. He's not gifted with psychometry, but he's convinced he'd know the difference. Paul lets out a soft, slow exhale that feels like it dredges up every molecule of stale air.]
Thank you. [His smile is better this time, a mote of fleeting sunlight.] I think it could work for you. And a nose piercing?
[He's not serious, but also not mocking. If Palamedes sees fit to celebrate his return to facial features by modifying them, Paul is clearly in no position to judge. He reaches out to push very lightly against Palamedes' blanket-shrouded shoulder.]
Gideon said you'd be back. You should tell her she was right, if you haven't already. [He'll have to tell her, too.] Did you manage to take any notes while you were out there?
[It's an open invitation to talk about it, if Palamedes finds himself overwhelmed with the urge to, and an opportunity to keep brushing past it for now if he'd rather do that. The first few days Paul spent back among the terrestrial most of what he wanted to do was sleep, and here Palamedes is, set up like an ailing aunt receiving well-wishers.]
Thank you. [His smile is better this time, a mote of fleeting sunlight.] I think it could work for you. And a nose piercing?
[He's not serious, but also not mocking. If Palamedes sees fit to celebrate his return to facial features by modifying them, Paul is clearly in no position to judge. He reaches out to push very lightly against Palamedes' blanket-shrouded shoulder.]
Gideon said you'd be back. You should tell her she was right, if you haven't already. [He'll have to tell her, too.] Did you manage to take any notes while you were out there?
[It's an open invitation to talk about it, if Palamedes finds himself overwhelmed with the urge to, and an opportunity to keep brushing past it for now if he'd rather do that. The first few days Paul spent back among the terrestrial most of what he wanted to do was sleep, and here Palamedes is, set up like an ailing aunt receiving well-wishers.]
[Ah, and there: the slimmest sliver of light in the darkness, but a sliver all the same. A shutter cracked just enough to let in the ghost of daylight beyond, which Palamedes thinks is fairly fitting for the current circumstances of the sun going away? For whatever reason that's happening now, it doesn't matter — the feeling is the same.
Mostly, the fact that Paul is not about to shatter on him the way he nearly had all those weeks ago (months now?), explaining his dreams and his alleged misdeeds — that not happening gives Palamedes freedom to make a face, eyebrows near disappearing to his hairline at the very concept of A Nose Ring. Good gracious, the image. What would Camilla say!]
Gideon is a scholar of the highest degree; I'll remind her, although I think she'll put the pieces together. [He is sitting here like an ailing aunt, indeed, and he intends to stay until further notice. This is his own sofa now, actually.] But: no. My— you know.
[He wiggles his fingers; the phalanges. That thing. It occurs to him that this is, likely, a gentle probe about his emotional state, but like, actually? The Implications and Applications are way more interesting than any lingering upset he might have about The Second Time: Crunchier. Later.]
It didn't work, leaving me just as clueless and squid-brained as any of us while we're under. You'd think the pieces of the thing would be the same: souls, water, suspension— but the points of connection must be different. Not accounting for the sea here being much more readily available to the living than the River, so the tethering points would have to be...
[Ah. He makes another face, half-grinning, and lifts his ice cold tea to take an ice cold sip. Bleh.]
I haven't taken any notes yet. Have you got a chalkboard on wheels around here? I've been missing having an audience.
Mostly, the fact that Paul is not about to shatter on him the way he nearly had all those weeks ago (months now?), explaining his dreams and his alleged misdeeds — that not happening gives Palamedes freedom to make a face, eyebrows near disappearing to his hairline at the very concept of A Nose Ring. Good gracious, the image. What would Camilla say!]
Gideon is a scholar of the highest degree; I'll remind her, although I think she'll put the pieces together. [He is sitting here like an ailing aunt, indeed, and he intends to stay until further notice. This is his own sofa now, actually.] But: no. My— you know.
[He wiggles his fingers; the phalanges. That thing. It occurs to him that this is, likely, a gentle probe about his emotional state, but like, actually? The Implications and Applications are way more interesting than any lingering upset he might have about The Second Time: Crunchier. Later.]
It didn't work, leaving me just as clueless and squid-brained as any of us while we're under. You'd think the pieces of the thing would be the same: souls, water, suspension— but the points of connection must be different. Not accounting for the sea here being much more readily available to the living than the River, so the tethering points would have to be...
[Ah. He makes another face, half-grinning, and lifts his ice cold tea to take an ice cold sip. Bleh.]
I haven't taken any notes yet. Have you got a chalkboard on wheels around here? I've been missing having an audience.
[Really, it's Palamedes' glasses having a smudge that saves him from staring at too many giant butterflies. Like, they're big and vaguely horrifying if one takes a moment to look past how the wings are kind of pretty, so he wasn't inclined to look too closely at any of them, or even approach — but it's the way he accidentally thumbs a lens and has to take the glasses off to clean them that makes him realize, huh!
Looking at that thing felt... bad! Cool (not)!
So he makes an effort to not do that anymore, as he makes his way around town. The cloak he was recently convinced to buy has a hood, and so it's like a great, hooded moth that he drifts around a corner, only to find — ah. Another butterfly (nemesis!), this time with an unwitting victim. He takes half a step towards the stranger, hesitates, then strides the rest of the way forward pointedly, heedless of whatever corruption may have already erupted that he can't see from a distance. There's no merit in only looking out for number one when it comes to corruption, so: here goes.]
Pardon me— Hello? Can you hear me?
[Hm... He comes to a stop between stranger and butterfly with his back to the great adorable beast, standing slightly on tiptoe to sort of... just use his cloak here to hide as much giant wing as he can... it's goofy.]
Are you still in there? Your eyes are doing something they shouldn't, you know.
[hello! bud!]
Looking at that thing felt... bad! Cool (not)!
So he makes an effort to not do that anymore, as he makes his way around town. The cloak he was recently convinced to buy has a hood, and so it's like a great, hooded moth that he drifts around a corner, only to find — ah. Another butterfly (nemesis!), this time with an unwitting victim. He takes half a step towards the stranger, hesitates, then strides the rest of the way forward pointedly, heedless of whatever corruption may have already erupted that he can't see from a distance. There's no merit in only looking out for number one when it comes to corruption, so: here goes.]
Pardon me— Hello? Can you hear me?
[Hm... He comes to a stop between stranger and butterfly with his back to the great adorable beast, standing slightly on tiptoe to sort of... just use his cloak here to hide as much giant wing as he can... it's goofy.]
Are you still in there? Your eyes are doing something they shouldn't, you know.
[hello! bud!]
Edited 2022-04-07 02:44 (UTC)
[It feels silly to do, is the thing. Collecting orbs. Hope orbs, or whatever the locals are insisting, but once Palamedes realizes the little globs of light are indeed tangible enough, he figures — why not, right. He goes home, he gathers up some jars (he dumps the pens he stole from various businesses out of the jars), he hits the streets again. He's never caught fireflies before (what, actually, is one), but there's an eerie kind of serenity to it: following these bits of light around in the mostly-darkness and the silence, alone with his thoughts.
They almost start to feel alive as he scoops them into his jars, and so much more pleasant to look at than the great terrible butterflies, which Palamedes thinks are only nice to look at with his glasses off, when he doesn't have to see the whole... thing. Giant insect parts. No thank you. It still makes the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end to see one's massive wing drift past as it makes its way to sit on a different lamppost, and he turns pointedly away to avoid looking at it directly.
With new insistence he reaches out to scoop another orb into a fresh jar, very nearly cuffing a stranger in the process. It's dark, alright; the orb lights illuminate only so much, and he's only concentrating on those.
So then, arm stopped at an awkward angle, watching the orb drift higher than his reach... hey, stranger.]
Hi. Sorry — can hardly see past my own elbows, let alone keep track of them. [He. Puts his arm down. As an afterthought.] Was that magic orb one of yours?
[haha.....]
They almost start to feel alive as he scoops them into his jars, and so much more pleasant to look at than the great terrible butterflies, which Palamedes thinks are only nice to look at with his glasses off, when he doesn't have to see the whole... thing. Giant insect parts. No thank you. It still makes the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end to see one's massive wing drift past as it makes its way to sit on a different lamppost, and he turns pointedly away to avoid looking at it directly.
With new insistence he reaches out to scoop another orb into a fresh jar, very nearly cuffing a stranger in the process. It's dark, alright; the orb lights illuminate only so much, and he's only concentrating on those.
So then, arm stopped at an awkward angle, watching the orb drift higher than his reach... hey, stranger.]
Hi. Sorry — can hardly see past my own elbows, let alone keep track of them. [He. Puts his arm down. As an afterthought.] Was that magic orb one of yours?
[haha.....]
Edited 2022-04-07 02:54 (UTC)
[this would be easier for viktor if his omen was out, but rio already proved she wanted to try and eat the orbs rather than help. he's still nearly certain omens don't need to eat at all, a little less certain if eating would hurt them should she manage it- even less certain eating these orbs won't hurt in some way. all matters he plans on studying further at some point but now? no thank you.
so he's on his own, leaning heavily on his crutch when he moves to capture the glowing orbs in one of the jars he's brought with him. he's finally made himself a new brace for his knee, a little clunky given the materials but worlds better than without. it makes a long day- night?- of gathering what is essentially light and hope in a jar a little easier.
he's a little distracted himself, glimpses of the butterflies fueling the hopelessness of his current situation if he doesn't look away quickly enough (even here he's still decaying, what happens when he dies? does he come back to die the same way again? does it get closer, until the loop is just perpetual death?) mixed with when the little orbs hit his skin and give him a burst of strength (there's so much possibility here, a real chance to be able to not only survive but leave something worthwhile behind when it is his time to go, he hasn't even started down every possible avenue he could take.)
needless to say a bit whiplash at points. he's already exhausted of this month and it's only been a few days.
so he isn't paying much attention either when someone skirts it a little too close, stopping short with a grind of his crutch against the pavement and blinking to the man- oh, collecting as well. he eases a little at that, a soft snort as he holds up his half full jar.]
Eh, if it comes back down it might be yet. Though really, if I have to wave this around much longer my arm will fall off. [a touch dry there and with a czech accent, and he offers a crooked quirk of the lips to show yes, no hard feelings when it's this dark out.]
I see we are of the same mind that these are worth the trouble regardless.
so he's on his own, leaning heavily on his crutch when he moves to capture the glowing orbs in one of the jars he's brought with him. he's finally made himself a new brace for his knee, a little clunky given the materials but worlds better than without. it makes a long day- night?- of gathering what is essentially light and hope in a jar a little easier.
he's a little distracted himself, glimpses of the butterflies fueling the hopelessness of his current situation if he doesn't look away quickly enough (even here he's still decaying, what happens when he dies? does he come back to die the same way again? does it get closer, until the loop is just perpetual death?) mixed with when the little orbs hit his skin and give him a burst of strength (there's so much possibility here, a real chance to be able to not only survive but leave something worthwhile behind when it is his time to go, he hasn't even started down every possible avenue he could take.)
needless to say a bit whiplash at points. he's already exhausted of this month and it's only been a few days.
so he isn't paying much attention either when someone skirts it a little too close, stopping short with a grind of his crutch against the pavement and blinking to the man- oh, collecting as well. he eases a little at that, a soft snort as he holds up his half full jar.]
Eh, if it comes back down it might be yet. Though really, if I have to wave this around much longer my arm will fall off. [a touch dry there and with a czech accent, and he offers a crooked quirk of the lips to show yes, no hard feelings when it's this dark out.]
I see we are of the same mind that these are worth the trouble regardless.
[Ah, they did have the same thought, indeed. Palamedes lifts his own jar in turn - it's obvious he was doing this, but in the spirit of the thing - and the couple of orbs already in it jostle around gently, making their small radius of light flicker a bit. The combined efforts of two mostly-full jars provide enough light to see the man he nearly just clotheslined, at least. Palamedes gives him a cursory glance up and down, taking in jar and crooked smile and crutch one after the other. He absolutely has half a dozen thoughts about that in an instant, but he keeps them contained to a blink and focuses on quasi-grin and jar of lights again.
And the accent, which is nothing at all like primly-accented House, but most accents around here aren't.]
They're worth the insurance policy, [he agrees, briefly tugging his cloak open to fish this jar's lid out of an inside pocket; he has another jar, filled, visible in another pocket when he does this. It's been a long afternoon (or evening? who knows anymore!).] I'd have killed to have a handful of these a few months ago, to stick on people's foreheads when they get into a mood.
[But earnestly, much as he says it like a joke. These are for his many emotional friends, of course, he is fine. Perfectly fine and fiddling with the lid of this jar, then eyeing the other jar, hmm...]
Should we pool our efforts? I've only got the one lid left, but I've already got the other one filled. If you want.
And the accent, which is nothing at all like primly-accented House, but most accents around here aren't.]
They're worth the insurance policy, [he agrees, briefly tugging his cloak open to fish this jar's lid out of an inside pocket; he has another jar, filled, visible in another pocket when he does this. It's been a long afternoon (or evening? who knows anymore!).] I'd have killed to have a handful of these a few months ago, to stick on people's foreheads when they get into a mood.
[But earnestly, much as he says it like a joke. These are for his many emotional friends, of course, he is fine. Perfectly fine and fiddling with the lid of this jar, then eyeing the other jar, hmm...]
Should we pool our efforts? I've only got the one lid left, but I've already got the other one filled. If you want.
[It's pure coincidence that Palamedes ventures out to Lumenwood at all. He's been spending more time in Willful Machine lately thanks to Viktor and his shared workshop laboratory, which puts him somewhat in the area, and the concerns of the locals that puts him onto the trail of, well. Some kind of mysterious blood happenings? He's fully into the mode of research and solving all the puzzles at once, and so following the imprint of blood pollution only makes logical sense.
He's never really been... into Lumenwood before, not past the Lumenarium, and so orienting himself among the mist and overbearing scent of flowers chews up most of the actual search for the source of this blood problem.
But not for long; call that necromantic advantage, but he manages to source the pollution to a source, which he arrives at with his glasses off and squinting, because the blood mist has ruined his lenses repeatedly already and he's sick of cleaning them. He doesn't know what he's expecting — beasts, maybe? Something he's not equipped to handle all by his lonesome, despite wandering this way all by his lonesome on purpose.
Not, though... another lab, which he loiters around outside of until someone comes out of it, at which point he clears his throat and speaks up:]
Your business is making the locals squirm. [Which sounds initially like a disapproval, and it almost is, but not in the context one might assume. To wit:] Do you need a hand?
He's never really been... into Lumenwood before, not past the Lumenarium, and so orienting himself among the mist and overbearing scent of flowers chews up most of the actual search for the source of this blood problem.
But not for long; call that necromantic advantage, but he manages to source the pollution to a source, which he arrives at with his glasses off and squinting, because the blood mist has ruined his lenses repeatedly already and he's sick of cleaning them. He doesn't know what he's expecting — beasts, maybe? Something he's not equipped to handle all by his lonesome, despite wandering this way all by his lonesome on purpose.
Not, though... another lab, which he loiters around outside of until someone comes out of it, at which point he clears his throat and speaks up:]
Your business is making the locals squirm. [Which sounds initially like a disapproval, and it almost is, but not in the context one might assume. To wit:] Do you need a hand?
Edited 2022-04-09 18:46 (UTC)
[this man has been here for a few months, that instantly makes him interesting to viktor, who has only been here for a month himself. it's something he takes note of, that if the man is as agreeable as he seems he may be open to some grilling on a few topics later.]
In truth I've been seeking them out for research. [he admits, though hey, having them on hand if things get bad one way or another? frankly he thinks everyone should be trying to gather some, just in case.] Purification and corruption, I suppose now how there seems to be a somewhat direct correlation to hope in that regard.
[the offer has him consider only a moment before nodding, a quick glance to the side and he sweeps another little orb in before it scatters somewhere else. getting better at this, slowly.]
Honestly that would be a relief. I am Viktor, as it were. Somewhat new, I came in last month.
In truth I've been seeking them out for research. [he admits, though hey, having them on hand if things get bad one way or another? frankly he thinks everyone should be trying to gather some, just in case.] Purification and corruption, I suppose now how there seems to be a somewhat direct correlation to hope in that regard.
[the offer has him consider only a moment before nodding, a quick glance to the side and he sweeps another little orb in before it scatters somewhere else. getting better at this, slowly.]
Honestly that would be a relief. I am Viktor, as it were. Somewhat new, I came in last month.
There's an idea, [Palamedes says, holding out his jar to combine the spoils with Viktor's. Having a collection of instant-relief baubles sitting around is handy, that's true, but:]
I wonder how effectively they bind with other reagents. They seem to avoid combining with each other, but when one lands on a sentient individual... hmm.
[Hmm, and he might be wondering if bottling hope is a real thing that a person - or people, ahem - could do here, and if it could also be fruit flavored. Using impossible balls of light sourced from a giant butterfly is not the kind of research he's used to; he'll get over it.
When the orbs are combined he offers the lid with a slight nod, please take these. They're down one feeble light source, a thing that might become problematic if the giant butterfly a handful of meters away decides to leave and glow pleasingly somewhere else. But surely that would never happen and nothing could go wrong out here.]
That's all yours. I'm Palamedes, and you've got me curious— What do you normally research?
I wonder how effectively they bind with other reagents. They seem to avoid combining with each other, but when one lands on a sentient individual... hmm.
[Hmm, and he might be wondering if bottling hope is a real thing that a person - or people, ahem - could do here, and if it could also be fruit flavored. Using impossible balls of light sourced from a giant butterfly is not the kind of research he's used to; he'll get over it.
When the orbs are combined he offers the lid with a slight nod, please take these. They're down one feeble light source, a thing that might become problematic if the giant butterfly a handful of meters away decides to leave and glow pleasingly somewhere else. But surely that would never happen and nothing could go wrong out here.]
That's all yours. I'm Palamedes, and you've got me curious— What do you normally research?
[viktor helps with that combining, watching for a brief moment as the little lights fall together into their new him in a jumble before his eyes stray to palamedes. he's curious as to the man's thoughts, it's a good observation, one that has him nodding.]
There is a crystal I've been studying that has purification properties, which I already found rather odd. So much of easing corruption in an individual is based off of mental and emotional stimuli, so how and why do objects such as the crystal have a similar effect? More so how could we replicate that effect more efficiently and for great instances of corruption and beasthood?
I believe these may help eh... bridge the gap, so to speak. [he realizes he's getting a little into ramble mode, stops with a clearing of his throat. he nods back in thanks, twisting the lid and regarding their collected spoils for a moment. there's something unnerving about solidifying hope in this way, maybe because he can easily imagine the city he lives in finding a way to commodify it and sell it to the highest bidder.
not that he doesn't expect to see some vendors selling these here, the willful machine never seems to miss an opportunity. still, different when they're passing spoils on the whims of monstrous butterflies rather than churned out for profit.]
I wish I had known lidded jars would be so useful going into this month... Thank you, Palamedes. Oh, in my old world you mean? [he takes a moment to consider how to explain hextech, it's always such a Thing.] I'm an engineer largely, with a focus on robotics and biomedical engineering. In my world though I cofounded a technology called Hextech, which took up all my time.
It ah... hm, magic can only be performed by people born with the innate ability to focus and manipulate arcane energies in my world. My partner and I found a way to manipulate those same energies through technology, such as teleporting airships great distances. Fascinating to be in a world now where magic is used so freely...
[a pause and he has to ask,] You seem a scholar of some sort. What were your studies?
There is a crystal I've been studying that has purification properties, which I already found rather odd. So much of easing corruption in an individual is based off of mental and emotional stimuli, so how and why do objects such as the crystal have a similar effect? More so how could we replicate that effect more efficiently and for great instances of corruption and beasthood?
I believe these may help eh... bridge the gap, so to speak. [he realizes he's getting a little into ramble mode, stops with a clearing of his throat. he nods back in thanks, twisting the lid and regarding their collected spoils for a moment. there's something unnerving about solidifying hope in this way, maybe because he can easily imagine the city he lives in finding a way to commodify it and sell it to the highest bidder.
not that he doesn't expect to see some vendors selling these here, the willful machine never seems to miss an opportunity. still, different when they're passing spoils on the whims of monstrous butterflies rather than churned out for profit.]
I wish I had known lidded jars would be so useful going into this month... Thank you, Palamedes. Oh, in my old world you mean? [he takes a moment to consider how to explain hextech, it's always such a Thing.] I'm an engineer largely, with a focus on robotics and biomedical engineering. In my world though I cofounded a technology called Hextech, which took up all my time.
It ah... hm, magic can only be performed by people born with the innate ability to focus and manipulate arcane energies in my world. My partner and I found a way to manipulate those same energies through technology, such as teleporting airships great distances. Fascinating to be in a world now where magic is used so freely...
[a pause and he has to ask,] You seem a scholar of some sort. What were your studies?
[ New to this world but not exactly new to worlds other than his own, V's experience moving around from before he discovered the multiverse should leave him semi-graceful in adapting. Being a nomad's all about riding from place to place, making the most of whatever's around to survive. It's not a choice, but he wouldn't have it any other way, and there's always excitement deep in his bones at the chance to discover somewhere completely new.
He's just not used to giant butterflies - or, really, butterflies in general given the state of Night City - and why wouldn't he want to stare bordering on trance-like at them? They're beautiful and take his optical implants on a journey around the edges of those giant, green-glowing wings.
So when his line of sight is filled very suddenly with the face of a man, it's jarring in a way that knocks his focus until it's teetering and he feels momentarily like he's floating independently from all things. Disconnected. Sorry, choom, it's not your face that's jarring, just the situation.
And then he blinks, optics refocusing and expression revived from blankness to abject confusion with a hint of melancholy. One hand - purely organic - reaches out to anchor itself instinctively to the figure in front of him. ]
I-- huh? ...who're y-- Wait. I can't look at the..?
[ His optics are drifting upward again, gaze drawn like a magnet because he really wants to see those wings again. ]
He's just not used to giant butterflies - or, really, butterflies in general given the state of Night City - and why wouldn't he want to stare bordering on trance-like at them? They're beautiful and take his optical implants on a journey around the edges of those giant, green-glowing wings.
So when his line of sight is filled very suddenly with the face of a man, it's jarring in a way that knocks his focus until it's teetering and he feels momentarily like he's floating independently from all things. Disconnected. Sorry, choom, it's not your face that's jarring, just the situation.
And then he blinks, optics refocusing and expression revived from blankness to abject confusion with a hint of melancholy. One hand - purely organic - reaches out to anchor itself instinctively to the figure in front of him. ]
I-- huh? ...who're y-- Wait. I can't look at the..?
[ His optics are drifting upward again, gaze drawn like a magnet because he really wants to see those wings again. ]
Everybody Palamedes knows, more or less, may be in the Bone House; that does not mean that everybody in the Bone House, right now, is somebody Palamedes knows. Oops!
Which is to say, the equally-tall-and-thin man who is, however, quite a lot older than Palamedes, who has just entered the room, is absolutely a stranger to him. Also, if Palamedes were to try to necromantically ping him, as it were, he would discover a narrative truth well in advance of most of the people meeting him: if judged solely by the amount of ambient thanergy or thalergy he puts off, he is made entirely of plex.
"Well, there's the wet spot on that couch from earlier this morning," he drawls pleasantly, eyebrows raised in quizzical amusement. "But perhaps you managed not to sit in it?"
Which is to say, the equally-tall-and-thin man who is, however, quite a lot older than Palamedes, who has just entered the room, is absolutely a stranger to him. Also, if Palamedes were to try to necromantically ping him, as it were, he would discover a narrative truth well in advance of most of the people meeting him: if judged solely by the amount of ambient thanergy or thalergy he puts off, he is made entirely of plex.
"Well, there's the wet spot on that couch from earlier this morning," he drawls pleasantly, eyebrows raised in quizzical amusement. "But perhaps you managed not to sit in it?"
Palamedes isn't expecting to speak to anyone he doesn't know in this house this morning, which is silly of him, because he knows that, say, Paul has other friends; Gideon has other friends. Even the Lord himself must have someone who tolerates Him and isn't, like, a sad teenager — still, to look up from his automatic prattling explanation and see a stranger surprises him, in the moment.
And call it a mixture of a handful of things - waking up to being bombarded with the prickling of God's warded study, the rubbed raw feeling of being alive again, his learned-his-lesson-the-first-time kneejerk reaction upon seeing an adult he doesn't recognize in God's own living room! — but Palamedes does not so much "ping" necromantically as briefly flail necromantically, like maybe a little ward being ready will help him in a pinch, if this grown adult in God's fucking house is indeed what he assumes.
He knows better now, after all. He assumes the worst. His moment of necro-flailing appears physically as Palamedes adjusting his glasses and clearing his throat, but if his assumption is correct, he's probably given himself away a few times over already. He thinks, Fuckshit, and then says:
"I'm quite good at not sitting in wet spots, thank you," and then, "If you encountered the one in the other room, sorry, that was me. I had no spatial awareness when I got here." Here as in the house, of course: if someone doesn't like the squidly wet spot on God's study sofa, well, that's how these things go.
He considers. Why not; "I'm the Sixth. You're one of them, aren't you? Which House?"
And call it a mixture of a handful of things - waking up to being bombarded with the prickling of God's warded study, the rubbed raw feeling of being alive again, his learned-his-lesson-the-first-time kneejerk reaction upon seeing an adult he doesn't recognize in God's own living room! — but Palamedes does not so much "ping" necromantically as briefly flail necromantically, like maybe a little ward being ready will help him in a pinch, if this grown adult in God's fucking house is indeed what he assumes.
He knows better now, after all. He assumes the worst. His moment of necro-flailing appears physically as Palamedes adjusting his glasses and clearing his throat, but if his assumption is correct, he's probably given himself away a few times over already. He thinks, Fuckshit, and then says:
"I'm quite good at not sitting in wet spots, thank you," and then, "If you encountered the one in the other room, sorry, that was me. I had no spatial awareness when I got here." Here as in the house, of course: if someone doesn't like the squidly wet spot on God's study sofa, well, that's how these things go.
He considers. Why not; "I'm the Sixth. You're one of them, aren't you? Which House?"
"Well, that's a broad question," the black-hole man in the doorway — ambling in, leaning against the wall, looking all speculative at Palamedes now — points out dryly, as if to underscore the contrast between that, "and another wet spot, is it? Are you trying to tell me you weren't sitting in it when you created it, then?"
Such skills! Especially for someone with no spatial awareness at the time!
(Augustine is well aware that he's being an ass. It's been a tough few days.)
"If you do want an answer," is almost gentle, "you are going to need to be more specific."
Almost gentle. Almost. In one of those iron-fist-in-velvet-glove sorts of ways, maybe.
Such skills! Especially for someone with no spatial awareness at the time!
(Augustine is well aware that he's being an ass. It's been a tough few days.)
"If you do want an answer," is almost gentle, "you are going to need to be more specific."
Almost gentle. Almost. In one of those iron-fist-in-velvet-glove sorts of ways, maybe.
[There are dozens of reasons Paul is better self-regulated this time than the last, and the ones that would embarrass Paul are the simplest and most animal: he's been sleeping in a warm bed under an unleaking roof, eating regular, approximately balanced meals, spending in the company of people who care about him, and safe enough in all three to have begun to be able to bring his guard down.
It was surprising to learn how much energy he'd spent just surviving before he settled under this roof. When he'd been immersed in it, he'd hardly noticed. He'd even been able to tell himself that it made him sharper, when really it had only made him brittle. He'd been weaving between two threats, one real, one imagined, and in their passing, he's found a balance.
So he smiles back at that grin, the subsequent face pulled at the stale taste of cold tannins.]
You should sign my letter of request. I've been saying that we should get a few for the house.
[Paul makes his own squinting face of disappointment at the news Palamedes wasn't able to manifest a bubble of consciousness in the ocean, and it's barely exaggerated for effect.]
I've been thinking about the differences between what you [collective 'you' of necromancers] say about the River and what the sea here is like. I'm not sure how to test this yet, but I wonder how much the unstable quality of -
[Ah, indeed. Paul catches himself up short and smiles sheepishly, looping his arms around his chest-tucked knee.]
Do you need anything else, besides a chalkboard?
It was surprising to learn how much energy he'd spent just surviving before he settled under this roof. When he'd been immersed in it, he'd hardly noticed. He'd even been able to tell himself that it made him sharper, when really it had only made him brittle. He'd been weaving between two threats, one real, one imagined, and in their passing, he's found a balance.
So he smiles back at that grin, the subsequent face pulled at the stale taste of cold tannins.]
You should sign my letter of request. I've been saying that we should get a few for the house.
[Paul makes his own squinting face of disappointment at the news Palamedes wasn't able to manifest a bubble of consciousness in the ocean, and it's barely exaggerated for effect.]
I've been thinking about the differences between what you [collective 'you' of necromancers] say about the River and what the sea here is like. I'm not sure how to test this yet, but I wonder how much the unstable quality of -
[Ah, indeed. Paul catches himself up short and smiles sheepishly, looping his arms around his chest-tucked knee.]
Do you need anything else, besides a chalkboard?
Good gracious, Palamedes thinks, but do they all love hearing themselves speak. Maybe he's too tired to really mind the tone, but something about being almost-gently given the runaround still rankles. He squints, then takes a sip of cold tea.
"Alright, I'll handle those in order, I guess. First: I would call it flopped, not sitting, if you really want to split semantic hairs. Squids don't sit."
Helpfully.
"Second: I don't really need to be told you're a Lyctor, so which of the other Houses has your fingerprint on it? It's not the Seventh."
Maybe if everyone conveniently looked alike every time — hah, but no. He shrugs, like, this line of questioning from himself, the Warden, is to be expected so much that he will even eat up the 'tell it to me like I'm five years old' kind of scraps. "Like I said, I'm Sixth, so color me curious."
"Alright, I'll handle those in order, I guess. First: I would call it flopped, not sitting, if you really want to split semantic hairs. Squids don't sit."
Helpfully.
"Second: I don't really need to be told you're a Lyctor, so which of the other Houses has your fingerprint on it? It's not the Seventh."
Maybe if everyone conveniently looked alike every time — hah, but no. He shrugs, like, this line of questioning from himself, the Warden, is to be expected so much that he will even eat up the 'tell it to me like I'm five years old' kind of scraps. "Like I said, I'm Sixth, so color me curious."
[Well, he's still responsive, which is a good sign as far as Palamedes is aware. There's a nebulous amount of minutes between the trance and the sharp dive into corruption, so — confused but responsive is better than expected. Palamedes doesn't even stop him from grabbing at him; he has plenty of poncho available for anchorage, and it can only help.
But ah, no sir — he tilts into view again, intent on blocking the view once more.]
You can't look at it, no. Not unless you want to go a little insane for a change, which I don't recommend. You might grow more eyes in embarrassing places, and then how would you explain that to anyone?
[Not based on true events, definitely not too specific to be an off-the-dome example. Ahem.
Palamedes lets out a huff of frustration and holds his arms up higher, straight up over his head. Come on, he's doing so many goofy things—] I need you to focus, can you do that for me?
But ah, no sir — he tilts into view again, intent on blocking the view once more.]
You can't look at it, no. Not unless you want to go a little insane for a change, which I don't recommend. You might grow more eyes in embarrassing places, and then how would you explain that to anyone?
[Not based on true events, definitely not too specific to be an off-the-dome example. Ahem.
Palamedes lets out a huff of frustration and holds his arms up higher, straight up over his head. Come on, he's doing so many goofy things—] I need you to focus, can you do that for me?
[Palamedes nods along as Viktor explains his thought process, eyeing the little orbs; there's so much of this place that's based on magic and magic alone — why does he bleed glitter, when his heart yet beats and he can feel the pulse of proper blood in his veins? — so. It's a completely valid line of thought, the why of crystals and balls of light and everything else; he's been preoccupied with other interests of late, but he isn't not intrigued by these ideas.
He puts a pin in "arcane energies" to be asked about later, but first:]
If we're using magic as a point of reference, you could call me a wizard, I guess. [the anti-Empire literature does,] I'm a necromancer; I specialize in psychometry, that is— energy traces, the ghost-within-the-thing, but the nature of necromancy requires knowledge of the body inside and out. There are different types of energies only necromancers can mess around with for us, too...
[So he understands that much, although from the other side of the magician's velvet rope, as it were. And he's hooked on everything about this conversation now, but before he continues he glances over his shoulder, to not-quite-look at the big butterfly looming in the middle distance and ensure it isn't coming any closer.]
Besides that, I'm a librarian — but you make magical items? That's incredible and I desperately want to hear more about it, somewhere else. Away from that thing.
[subtle hint. ahem.]
Fair warning, I've been told I ask a "shitload" of questions.
He puts a pin in "arcane energies" to be asked about later, but first:]
If we're using magic as a point of reference, you could call me a wizard, I guess. [the anti-Empire literature does,] I'm a necromancer; I specialize in psychometry, that is— energy traces, the ghost-within-the-thing, but the nature of necromancy requires knowledge of the body inside and out. There are different types of energies only necromancers can mess around with for us, too...
[So he understands that much, although from the other side of the magician's velvet rope, as it were. And he's hooked on everything about this conversation now, but before he continues he glances over his shoulder, to not-quite-look at the big butterfly looming in the middle distance and ensure it isn't coming any closer.]
Besides that, I'm a librarian — but you make magical items? That's incredible and I desperately want to hear more about it, somewhere else. Away from that thing.
[subtle hint. ahem.]
Fair warning, I've been told I ask a "shitload" of questions.
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