[Despite the rising thrum of readiness in him, Paul finds a laugh to offer up at Palamedes' joke about his vision. It echoes in the still air where the sounds of the living forest should be, their absence conspicuous in the quiet that follows. It's not an easy laugh, and the look he shares with Palamedes is uneasy in its wake, apprehension and anticipation twin sides of a thin coin.]
Soon.
[There's one more thing to produce from the bag. It's a vial no larger than Paul's little finger, sealed with a rubberized dropper he half unscrews as he watches the edges of the clearing. He whistles, a rise and fall of four notes.]
I think you're right about will. Think about how magic manifests through our blood. All the differences...all that time I spent trying to categorize manifestations, and I was forgetting what I already knew. 'My mind controls my reality'. It's an old Bene Gesserit proverb I've been reflecting on.
[The trees rustle. Paul is poised like a bird of prey as a fishbelly pale arm reaches into the moonlit meadow, followed by another, and another, as the guest of honor makes its appearance.
This Beast is a small one, no larger than a human being, but radically different in arrangement. Nine white, hairless arms with too many elbows support an oblong torso with a scraggling coat of grey fur, while three hands are folded across the protuberance at the front of the creature that might be presumed to be a rough approximation of a head. It does seem to be where the whuffing, wet sounds of investigation are emerging from. It's an oddity, but all Beasts are. What stands out about this one, as it approaches the bundled offering, is the silver band wrapped around one of those bony wrists.]
These aren't our idealized selves. Neither are the squid, and neither are the Beasts. But they're all us.
[Paul produces the dropper from the vial, and the black fluid inside of it whispers wordlessly as he opens his mouth and tips back his head to place one void-black, shining drop of the mixture on his tongue. He takes a shuddering breath as he tamps down his gag reflex, letting the astringent, iron-rich substance coat his tongue.
And then, without a word, he launches himself from the tower.
It's not so far of a fall that he can't roll through it, across the cleared patch free of stones he scouted out weeks ago, when he started on this project. He uncurls smoothly to his feet at its end, straightening to a graceful, confident column, as the Beast rears back on hindarms.]
Still.
[The Voice that comes from Paul is not a voice after it leaves him. It splits and refracts, a voice shattered into a spectrum of voices as it sweeps across the space between him and the Beast, the air it resonates through skimmed over with a sheen of unlight that Palamedes wouldn't be able to see even with perfect vision, and wouldn't be able to not see even with his eyes firmly shut against it.
The Beast stills. It falls to its palms and curls up on itself like a dying spider, twitching and trembling. Paul is its dim reflection, his shoulders heaving from whatever exertion it took to issue that wrenching command.
When he looks up at the tower, his eyes almost look blue (but they aren't; not really). In his own voice, shivering and elated, he calls out.]
no subject
Soon.
[There's one more thing to produce from the bag. It's a vial no larger than Paul's little finger, sealed with a rubberized dropper he half unscrews as he watches the edges of the clearing. He whistles, a rise and fall of four notes.]
I think you're right about will. Think about how magic manifests through our blood. All the differences...all that time I spent trying to categorize manifestations, and I was forgetting what I already knew. 'My mind controls my reality'. It's an old Bene Gesserit proverb I've been reflecting on.
[The trees rustle. Paul is poised like a bird of prey as a fishbelly pale arm reaches into the moonlit meadow, followed by another, and another, as the guest of honor makes its appearance.
This Beast is a small one, no larger than a human being, but radically different in arrangement. Nine white, hairless arms with too many elbows support an oblong torso with a scraggling coat of grey fur, while three hands are folded across the protuberance at the front of the creature that might be presumed to be a rough approximation of a head. It does seem to be where the whuffing, wet sounds of investigation are emerging from. It's an oddity, but all Beasts are. What stands out about this one, as it approaches the bundled offering, is the silver band wrapped around one of those bony wrists.]
These aren't our idealized selves. Neither are the squid, and neither are the Beasts. But they're all us.
[Paul produces the dropper from the vial, and the black fluid inside of it whispers wordlessly as he opens his mouth and tips back his head to place one void-black, shining drop of the mixture on his tongue. He takes a shuddering breath as he tamps down his gag reflex, letting the astringent, iron-rich substance coat his tongue.
And then, without a word, he launches himself from the tower.
It's not so far of a fall that he can't roll through it, across the cleared patch free of stones he scouted out weeks ago, when he started on this project. He uncurls smoothly to his feet at its end, straightening to a graceful, confident column, as the Beast rears back on hindarms.]
Still.
[The Voice that comes from Paul is not a voice after it leaves him. It splits and refracts, a voice shattered into a spectrum of voices as it sweeps across the space between him and the Beast, the air it resonates through skimmed over with a sheen of unlight that Palamedes wouldn't be able to see even with perfect vision, and wouldn't be able to not see even with his eyes firmly shut against it.
The Beast stills. It falls to its palms and curls up on itself like a dying spider, twitching and trembling. Paul is its dim reflection, his shoulders heaving from whatever exertion it took to issue that wrenching command.
When he looks up at the tower, his eyes almost look blue (but they aren't; not really). In his own voice, shivering and elated, he calls out.]
You can come down, if you want to. It's safe.