From being an Abandoned who had rarely left the Hollowed Grounds, to embracing the call of adventure, to dying and being reborn first as an Ascended and then as an Ancient, Maea has gone through quite the amount of changes in her life. One thing remains common, though, in her attempts to find out just where she belongs; she’s always had a craving for knowledge which has brought her to so many places and to meet so many people here in Caido. We can’t wait to see what else is in store for her!
Congratulations, Maea!
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Court of the Fallen was created in October of 2018 by Odd, Honey, and Crooked.
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”More nights with me will be what you want,” she says, voice a purr. It’s rather presumptuous, and perhaps not true, though she’s found it generally true in the past. Besides, she’s going to make the assertion anyway, unable to help herself. As he toasts and takes a long swig, she does the same, draining what remains in her glass and pushing it toward the other side of the bar for a refill.
”Handsome man like you with a drinking habit. Are you telling me you haven’t experienced any of our ways to keep warm? I find that hard to believe, unless it’s by choice or lack of free time.” Outlander or no, there were only so many choices in Halo. Having a new choice would give him the pick of the liter, anyone without a significant other likely to jump in his bed. Okay, not everyone; not everyone was quite as loose as she might be suggesting, but plenty were.
He leans forward at the mention of mageglass, and she is reminded of Wessex’s own interest in the diamond. ”It is not a myth. At least not as far as Halovians are concerned. That said, as has been pointed out to me, there’s no real proof of it. Traders have it occasionally, but they usually want your firstborn child in payment and if you aren’t sure it’s the real deal, it’s not necessarily worth the risk. My parents used to speak of a more robust mageglass trade. How or why that’s slowed to a near trickle, I don’t totally know. The barrier. The lack of portals. The fact it’s so damn hard to get in the first place.” She shrugs. The idea of trying to find some has crossed her mind, though not now. She didn’t have what it would take...not yet, anyway.
His next comment is a bit bitter, and she leans forward, closing the space between them slightly. ”You opened the door,” she says, brows raised a bit, voice trailing off. And then she is quiet as he talks, listening with a respect she doesn’t always show except when it matters. This is one of those moments when it matters. When he finishes, she reaches a hand out to cover his, and there is nothing suggestive in the movement, just understanding. ”You will find in Halo that we understand loss in a way other places do not. It is very much a part of our lives, here.”
Removing her hand, she picks up her newly filled drink and gives a little toast. ”To your friend. May he burn brightly.” She assumed the other had died, though it was possible he’d simply left. It didn’t matter though, in the end, the reason for the loss. Loss was loss, and it hurt all the same. Though the words belonged to a funeral here in Halo, the concept still fit. They gave the things they loved to the fire, to warmth, to a bright and impossible future that would not be among those they once knew. ”Free question,” she offers, giving him another without asking her own.
weaver
-- ask no questions, and you'll be told no lies --
Loren let out a huff of laughter at Weaver's confidence, not at all put off by it. If anything, it caused his eyes to glitter with a bit more interest. "I"m not convinced. We might just have to test that theory." He smirked a bit.
Raising his eyebrows, his smirk turned into a grin. "Oh, so you think I'm handsome, then?" Taking a sip, he raised his eyebrows. "I've found ways to keep myself warm. But not with a Halovian." He winked. "That's not to say I would say no if a pretty one offered to show me the local customs."
Frowning as she explained more about mageglass, he found his finger tapping against his mug thoughtfully. ”I see.” Hesitating, he paused with his mouth open, as if he was about to add something else. Then he shrugged. ”I guess we’ll never know.”
As she rested her hand over his, he nodded gratefully. However, his gratitude didn't last. Letting out a bitter and humorless sound, he raised his mug mockingly. "He sure did, what with dying in a fire." Then he screwed his eyes shut and breathed out a sigh. "Sorry. You didn't know." Toasting for real, his lips twisted in a caricature of a smile. "May he rest peacefully in Mort's realm."
Shaking his head a little, he tossed the rest of his drink back. "Has loss been a part of your life?" The playfulness and flirtation was gone, leaving the dull shell that he tried to fill with booze and pain and other people with varying degrees of success.
She laughs at his response, sounding amused. ”Do you think I can be baited into bed with such an obvious trap?” The answer was no, of course. Though Weaver certainly wasn’t waiting for marriage, she did find she tended to choose men that she connected to, in some way. When she ignored this, she found that the sex was little more than going through the motions, that it lacked something vital to it being good and worthwhile. He may or may not fit that bill, and only the night would tell.
”Obviously. Though I assume you know you are handsome.” She’s not hiding it. Why bother? He is handsome. She is pretty. They feel like facts more than subjective truths, though of course it was subjective depending on who was doing the looking. ”How do you feel about ningo feathers? Sheets, beds, pillows...there are a lot of ningo feathers in the life of a Halovian. Drafty windows, roaring fires or wood stoves. Not a pretty, comfortable palace.”
That was the truth of being a Halovian, and she wondered how he would fare spending a night in her home rather than the life he was used to. To live in the palace seemed like cheating, like only posing as a Halovian, though she knew they too had to stay warm in that massive building. Honestly houses here were generally on the smaller side for that very reason - easier to keep warm.
He frowns as she talks of mageglass, and it is becoming apparent that everyone but Halovians believe it could actually be real. There were too many tales of it to believe otherwise, for all tales had some basis in truth. ”Never? That seems like giving up far too early.” After all, she knows a particular demi-god that might be capable of retrieving some, if anyone could. Particularly if led by a knowledgeable Halovian…
His next laugh is bitter and he explains how the other man had died. ”I’m sorry,” she begins, not meaning to hurt him further. “Halovian tradition usually involves burning our dead here. We give them to the fire, to a warmth they did not know in life, to a beautiful future. To die in a fire is to be honored in death.” This was particularly true in her family with a history of fire mages, but it was true of other families here as well.
As he asks his next question, life drains from him. He becomes a shell of himself, something familiar to her. She remembers those first days, after she’d clawed her way back to life. Her days had felt hollow, all blurred and hazy as if she was seeing the world through an old telescope. She’d had to fight past that too, and that had been harder than simply fighting back to life in the first place. ”My father, technically, though I never knew him. My step-father, who raised me. Died of sickness. My mother, who simply disappeared. My older brother. He died saving me.” She pauses, surprised she admitted that last bit, but maybe it would help him.
”It’s just me and my younger brother now.” She pauses, and then after a moment puts her hand beneath his chin and meets his eye. ”You have to fight past the hurt. Because there are two options. The first, it consumes you. The second, it makes your stronger.” It was cliche but true. She should know. Her life has been a string of loss and pain, but it hasn’t stopped her.
She lets her hand drop, taking another swig of her drink. ”Who do you want to be, Loren? If there were no obstacles, no constraints, who would you be?” She’s asked herself this question often, and if her answer doesn’t match with reality, she finds a way to make her answer become reality.
weaver
-- ask no questions, and you'll be told no lies --
Loren shrugged, though he grinned a little as Weaver easily deflected his less than subtle suggestion. "Apparently not. How can you be baited into bed then?" He took a sip from his mug as he waited for what was likely to be another dismissal.
Letting out a huff of laughter, he shook his head. "Not so much, no." Striking, powerful, memorable, maybe worthy of someone's attention every once in a while, yes, but handsome no. Raising an eyebrow at her question, he smirked, deeply amused by her words. "Love them. Better than the rocks I slept on growing up." There was a wry tone to his voice. If she was hoping to deter him by making her life seem deeply uncomfortable, she was going to be sorely disappointed at what he was willing and able to tolerate.
Hesitating, he found his finger tapping on the mug again. "Considering how tight-lipped everyone is about the past in Caido, I imagine we'll never really know the truth of why the supply dried up, if the trade ever existed to begin with." As for whether more could be found, well, he carefully didn't answer that, considering he had a pretty good idea exactly where it was.
"It's a little different burning the living." Sighing, he finished his drink, and tapped the bar for another, losing track of how many he'd had as the foggy tipsiness stole upon him. The drink loosened his tongue a little more than was probably wise. "My family has a similar tradition, though it's always magical fire. From magic we are born, to magic we return." It was just about the only tradition of the Launceleyns he liked, as evidenced by the strange acceptance in his voice.
As she listed off all those she'd lost, he listened, a surprisingly sympathetic expression on his face. Although another mug was placed by him, he ignored it for now. Instead, it was his turn to reach out and rest a hand on top of hers. "I'm sorry for your losses. I know how painful losing family is." Indeed, his sorrow spoke of an intimate familiarity with that particular pain. "It's just me and Neron left, really."
When she raised his chin, he sighed, but met her gaze. At her words, he smiled bitterly, a twisted expression with no hint of joy in it. "Guess I'm in the consumption phase then." As soon as she released him, he lifted his mug and drank deeply from it.
However, he paused at her question. Lowering his cup, he stared at her with haunted eyes. "I don't know." The words came out with a sort of raw honesty. "For most of my life, I lacked that freedom, so dreaming about it was just painful. And when I did dare to dream, it got snuffed out." He glanced away, not wanting her to see the depths of despair and self-loathing that suddenly welled up in his eyes.
She was very good at deflecting. Good at leading you on and then leaving you in her dust. Good at saying no. Good at saying yes only when she wanted to. ”Earn it,” she says simply, as if that explains everything. ”I can usually have my pick, Loren. So I pick the ones worth my time.” This is not meant to be cocky, but rather honest. It isn’t that hard to get a boy into bed with a few careful touches and light kisses. It doesn’t take long for all their brainpower to be diverted, after all. That game was far too easy, and she only likes easy prey when it’s the kind she was going to eat (literally, not figuratively). She wanted more from a partner.
His next response is slightly more surprising, that he doesn’t realize he was handsome. She begins to wonder how he grew up, what had brought him to this place of feeling so low. It is moments like this that she feels lucky. She may not have her family anymore, but they had been so good to her. They lifted her up in various ways, turned her into something fierce and wild and free. They influenced, as all family is wont to do, but they never forced. There was an important difference.
She does grin as he says he loves ningo feathers. ”You surprise me, it seems.” Because the thing is, she wants him to like the ningo feathers. She wants to be led by someone who can live like a Halovian and enjoy it, at least in part. And maybe some part of her just wants him to be worth her while; to turn himself into something more. ”Where did you grow up that you had to sleep on rocks?” she asks, losing track of the cadence of the game. Not that it mattered now. The game had served its purpose, to break the ice, to break down walls (aided by the booze and the buzz).
She shrugs. ”I suspect most of that tight-lipness is simply because we don’t know much more to tell you. History has a way of getting distorted, lost. Throw in the war, the barrier, and everything else, and information has been pretty scarce around here.” It’s a shame they don’t quite trust each other enough to talk more, because maybe together they could find the mageglass. Maybe one day they would trust each other enough to try it, though today is not that day.
She listens as he talks of his family more, curiosity in her gaze. ”Were you all mages, then?” The Launceleyn’s she had met were, so it seems like a logical assumption. Much of her family had been as well, beside Korbin who seemed to be the family’s white sheep (or black raven, technically). Though a very well loved white sheep, because he was an adorable pain in the ass.
He places his own hand on hers this time, and she finds herself moving her hand to simply twine their fingers together. She may not be jumping into bed with him, but the gesture feels right anyway and so she does it. Willing to simply sit in comradery, understanding, for what pain feels like. ”It hurts, of course, but not in the way I thought. There’s always a hole where they belong, always that moment in the morning when I get punched in the gut with realization, but then it fades and they are with me. I am lucky to have had them. Luckier still to remember them, to hear the sound of their voice in my head, to carry them with me. We cannot live, not really, without loss and pain. It makes it all the sweeter.” She feels so very cliche at that moment for a girl who tries not to be, but maybe she is a cliche. Maybe it doesn’t matter because it feels so very true. It hurts, but it’s a liveable type of hurt.
”Here’s the thing about calling it a phase. It makes it sound like you will just move past it. You won’t, Loren. You have to choose too. And trust me, I’ve been there. You won’t find peace in a bar or a bed. You’ll find it the hard way, by grieving, and learning to live with the grief.” He answers her next question honestly, turning his head away, and she does not reach out to bring him back. She lets his gaze stay that way, simply squeezing his hand slightly. ”If you could dream now, what would you dream? Sometimes dreams aren’t big things.” That is always what her mother taught her, that the world was hers to take if she chose. There would be obstacles, hardship, roadblocks, wrong turns, but in the end it was always theirs for the taking.
weaver
-- ask no questions, and you'll be told no lies --
02-13-2020, 09:33 PM (This post was last modified: 02-13-2020, 09:34 PM by Loren.)
The white sheep of the family
Grinning a little, Loren toasted Weaver. "That doesn't surprise me in the slightest. Guess I'll just have to strive to be worthy of your time then." Tilting his head to the side, he took a sip from his mug. "Got any tips on how to do that? Or is that question beyond the scope of the game?" His tone was playful, since he very much wasn't expecting her to make it easy on him.
Drumming his fingers on the bar, he smiled, though there was something sad around the edges of it. "I'm chock-full of surprises. Stick around long enough and you might see a few." When she actually believed him, and followed up about it, he raised his eyebrows. "In the Launceleyn compound." His eyes grew haunted for a moment, and he sipped from his mug to hide the way his expression darkened.
Nodding in agreement, he ran a hand through his hair. "Fair enough. And those who do know aren't telling, or are only giving part of the answer." He smirked a little at her, giving her a sly look. "Of course, Halovians would never keep things to themselves on purpose." Tone wry, he let out a huff of laughter.
"Not all. But most. The ones without..." Grimacing, he let his voice trail off and took a sip. ”We always valued magic and power.” Tone bitter, he found himself unable to meet her eyes.
However, he looked back when he felt her fingers slip into his. "It does." He took a deep breath, then let it out with a sigh. "But what I wouldn't give to make just one more memory with them. And there’s a limit to how much loss someone...I...can tolerate." His lips pressed together and his eyes tightened. Then he forced himself to relax, take a deep breath, and look at her. "What was it like, growing up here?"
When she squeezed his hand, he pulled it back. For a moment, his expression was wild and distant, before he focused on her completely. "I've made that choice. Over, and over, and over again until I forgot why I was choosing it and was just doing it out of reflex." His fingers grew white-knuckled around the mug.
"Honestly?” He stared into the distance. ”To not have to make that choice again, one way or another. If I thought I could do that by finding a profession I’m passionate about and settling down with someone I love, and having a nice little life, I’d do that.” Lifting his mug, he paused with it just before his lips. ”But I don’t.” Only then did he take a long drink.
She joins him, taking a long sip of her drink with a wink to Loren. ”I crave connection,” she says, drawing out the phrase, making it dramatic in a very Weaver-like way. It is clear that by connection she does not necessarily mean commitment. They were two very different things, and while she was not against commitment, if the bug bit, it was not something she sought. It was hard to put into words exactly what more was; rather, she always knew it when she found it. ”I am not just your distraction, though.” Because that was not something more. She wasn’t going to be just a warm body to him. She wanted to be the face he saw when he was with her; wanted to be something worth coming back for for herself and not because she was convenient. After all, Weaver was anything but convenient.
His past interests her, and it takes all of the self restraint she happens to have from simply asking him to explain it all. It’s clear it hurts, the darkness around the edges of it visible, tangible almost. And while she has very little self restraint, she has just enough not to always be an outright ass. ”I do think I am willing to stick around for these surprises. Though tell me, did you really sleep on rocks, or were they just lumpy mattresses?” she teases, wondering what the Launcelyn compound was actually like. For that matter, how many of them had there been? Her family had been around a while, and they had a house. A decent sized one, for Halo, though not large by any means. But a compound?
She laughs, loudly, amused by his sarcasm. ”No, never. We are very outstanding, honest citizens all the time.” Though they were probably more open than the fae. Honestly she had few secrets, but she would reserve information. She wasn’t leading anyone to a dragon if she didn’t think they could handle it. She wasn’t bringing anyone to Halo’s underground unless she thought they were trustworthy. But of course, who doesn’t have a few secrets?
”Not quite the same values you will find in Caido,” she muses. Not that they didn’t value power, but magic? That was a funny subject here. What they were, Abandoned, was a thing to be frowned upon. It meant disdain from the Gods and none of their favor. It meant power, yes, but at a disadvantage. Not that the Attunded lacked magic, or the fae, or the demi-gods. There was magic. But not the kind they had, not exactly. She tries not to dwell on it, but the thought makes her bitter anyway.
”There is only so much loss someone….I...can tolerate.” She understands that train of thought, and for a moment she sits in silence, fingers twined together, nearly close enough to kiss and yet without doing so, though the thought crosses her mind. ”I have a feeling, Loren, that you are stronger than you give yourself credit for.” That was often the difference between people, not their actual strength but their perceived strength. There’s some truth to the whole “if you think you can” mantra.
She leans back slightly, wondering what to tell of her childhood. ”It was kind of what you’d expect, honestly. It was cold and hard and we grow used to death here at a really young age. If it’s not your immediate family it’s your neighbor or your friend. But at the same time, it’s not a bad place to grow up. We are a small place, and everyone helps one another. I had two brothers and a street of local kids and we’d play in the snow when the wind wouldn’t freeze your nose off your face. We fought and we trained and we lived like kids, despite all the things that could go wrong.” She smiles slightly, nostalgic. Life had been so good here, and in many ways it still was, just different, and she wouldn’t say she didn’t miss the way it had been. ”I’d be a kid all over again if I could. How about you?” It’s a somewhat generic question, giving him space to share what he wanted. She knows she’s dancing on a topic that may be best left alone, but she is so so curious.
He admits a dream, of sorts, and her gaze softens just a bit as she takes another sip of her drink, listening to him. ”Would it be so bad to make that choice if, before you have to make it, you had a life you loved and a collection of wonderful memories? Because that doesn’t sound like a bad life.”
weaver
-- ask no questions, and you'll be told no lies --
Loren nodded in acknowledgement of Weaver's preferences. "Noted and noted." Voice quiet, he raised his mug, toasting to her terms.
Shaking his head, he snorted. "Nah I never did well enough to earn a mattress. They put me in the cells instead. Hard stone for me." His lips twisted in a twisted caricature of smile as the memories washed over him. Nervously, he rolled the mug back and forth between his palms.
However, he managed to pull a small smile out at her response about the people of Halo. "Sure. Besides your loose morals, of course." His tone was slightly teasing, though not in a mean or cruel way.
Shrugging, the smile slipped away. "I've noticed." Taking a sip from his mug, he gave her a considering look. "And what are your thoughts on magic? I've always seen it more as a tool and a gift, but then again I'm not from Caido." He spoke cautiously, each word chosen carefully on the off chance she was one of those who resented or hated the Abandoned obviously not knowing she was an Abandoned herself because timelines.
"Maybe." He sighed, and gave her fingers a gentle squeeze. "But...sometimes I wonder why I'm still here and others who are more worthy are gone." Giving her an almost apologetic look, he pulled his hand back, not exactly trusting himself to accept such a simple comfort in that moment.
Smiling a bit as she reminisced about her childhood, he found himself smiling again at the end of it, shadows momentarily banished. "It sounds nice, honestly. What did you train in? Or with?" Seeing as the three worlds he'd lived in had death lurking around every corner, that aspect of it didn't bother him.
When she asked about his own childhood, however, his smile faltered again. "I'm not sure I was ever really a kid to begin with." Turning away from her, he took a step to the side, eyes staring into the distance, gaze haunted. "My family...was...complicated. All the mages in it were bound by a magical oath, to obey the crown else be killed instantly. Even an accidental refusal could be fatal. So they..." Swallowing, he bit his lip. "They, they tortured us into compliance." For a moment, he was far away, transported back to the compound and then Northaven, at the mercy of family members who didn't care that he was weak and curious, demanding strength from him that he didn't possess yet.
That he still might not possess.
Throwing back his mug, he set it down on the bar just a little too hard. Her follow up, about his dream, didn't help much, though he did look back at her. Expression darkening, he shrugged. "It wouldn't be. But I don't...ever see myself having a nice little life." His voice came out equal parts bitter and guilty.
His voice is quiet, but he agrees to her terms. Not that he necessarily had any choice, but it’s moments like those when she always wonders what they will actually do next. It’s the boys who don’t stop coming around, who treat her first like a person and second like a pretty object, that she’s looking for. A lot of them don’t come back, don’t care to try. It’s those that she weeds out with her declarations, with her stipulations and “rules”. Because they were not really rules at all but guidelines and a test.
The next bit has her raising an eyebrow. Cells? In his own home? She bites down hard on the questions that come to mind, sure this is not a topic to press with someone you have, essentially, just met. It is also perhaps something he just would prefer not to talk about. So she lets the conversation drift on, grinning as he responds. ”Besides our loose morals, of course. But who doesn’t have loose morals?” Anyone who said they didn’t was probably lying. No one was as good as they thought.
His smile slips away at the mention of magic and Caido. Apparently he has felt the brunt of what that means here, how quickly and easily the gods turn their back on their own simply because of what they can do. Even The Voice, who was the reason the Outlanders were here, didn’t seem overly interested in those that did not want to Ascend (though she does know there is some small exception to that, according to Wessex). Still, she doesn’t quite understand the gods and their motivations. They didn’t make sense, and yet, here they were all the same. ”It is a tool and little more, though a very useful one if you master it. Some of us are born with magic, or manifest it so young we don’t understand the consequences anyway. I’ve had it as long as I can remember, and have been shunned and ignored because of it. It is a tool many are far too quick to turn their back on because of a war hundreds of years ago none of us had a damn thing to do with.” It’s a whole lot of truth, but she doesn’t mind sharing it with him, suspecting he will understand where she is coming from. Not many do.
He pulls his hand back and she lets it go without issue. ”I wonder that same thing every day. My brother was the best of us. But I’m here and he is not. It would be a waste not to make the most of it.”
He seems interested in her own life, and she is happy to oblige. It doesn’t hurt to talk about it. She misses the way things used to be and she misses her family, but she is happy to share their story so that they can live in more memories than just her own. ”Swords, knives, hand to hand combat, magic. Though I never learned much of my magic, so I’ve got a ways to go on that. My mother believed in making sure her children were well equipped to survive.” She was an expert in nothing but proficient in many things because of it. Her scythe was her favorite though, the strange weapon her signature anda piece of her mother’s legacy.
She listens as he talks a bit of his own life, and she wonders where Zariah factored into that. She doesn’t understand the details of their family, brothers and sisters, husbands and wives. She only knows their last name and the rumors of Zariah she’s learned in the Grounds, but the pieces make a strange amount of sense together. It’s a puzzle with a border but not the middle. ”I’m sorry,” she says simply, having nothing else to offer. Not to his childhood story, and not to the fact he could not even dream. She could push and prod more, but it seems unlikely that would do anything. So instead she simply offers empathy where she can.
weaver
-- ask no questions, and you'll be told no lies --
Loren raised an eyebrow, clearly amused by Weaver's words. "I can certainly be flexible." However, he was putting less effort into the casual flirting and the banter, since the rest of the conversation was veering into less than happy topics for him.
As she spoke of magic, though, he reached out and placed his hand on hers again, gently. "I agree with you wholeheartedly. And I'm sorry you had to deal with that, growing up." Squeezing her hand, he pulled his back to take a sip from his mug. "My own magic manifested when I was five, which was late for my family. And it was always weak which they...looked down upon." He swallowed, a hard lump suddenly in his throat.
Giving her a curious look, he drummed his fingers on the bar. "If you don't mind me asking, what magic do you have?" There was a strange sort of boyish curiosity in his voice.
At her words, he swallowed again. "I'm sorry for your loss." It came out with a genuine sympathy, one colored by his own lifetime of losses. Turning away a little, he rolled his mug between his palms. "You're right. About the making the most of it. But while I know that objectively, it's hard to...feel that way sometimes." He shrugged, having trouble expressing it, though hoping she'd understand.
"She sounds like a good mother." There was a slight questioning tone in his voice, and he'd turned back to face her. "I was trained a little bit on weapons and unarmed combat, but not as much as I'd like. My training mostly focused on magic. Perhaps you'd like to trade tips some time?" It came out tentatively, as if he wasn't sure how she'd respond to such an overture.
Waving away her apology, he took a long drink from his mug, finishing what was left. When he lowered it, his eyes were sad. "I survived." His voice was quiet, barely above a whisper.
She notices how the flirting diminishes, and she lets it. In a way, that’s exactly what she has asked for. But the truth is she’s enjoying the conversation, getting to know him. Casual flirting will always be fun, but she likes this so much more. She wasn’t lying, or even deflecting, when she said she craved connection. There was something to be said for it, something that seemed to get lost far too often.
He reaches out to console her this time, and she lets him. There’s more simmering bitterness over the prejudice against mages than there is over the loss of her family. How is it she could come to terms with one and not the other? Or why did she come to terms with loss so much more easily than what she was? ”I’m sorry you dealt with it as well, in your own way.” They each understood what it was like to be hated for what they were.
”Fire manipulation, like my mother.” (because she doesn’t technically have healing magic at the time of this thread) ”I haven’t really learned how to use it though, but I want to. And learn some other magics. I might as well embrace it. The gods don’t care if I’m weak or powerful, so might as well learn to be powerful.” She says with a bit of a shrug. Besides, she wasn’t quite so busy just trying to feed her and Korbin anymore. With the portal open, life was a bit easier, and she actually felt like she had time to spend learning. ”How about you?” she asks, curious as he was. The only other mage she really knows is Deimos, and he doesn’t talk much about it. Well, really, he just doesn’t talk much.
She takes another sip of her drink, though her tongue is plenty loose and her cheeks warm and pink by now. She simply nods in response. ”Trust me, I get it. I just refuse to waste what I was given. I’m lucky to have escaped death.” Her voice is soft, though it’s clear she means that somewhat literally. She did escape death. She should have died. Maybe further proof that even Mort doesn’t want her, or more likely, she was just lucky in that moment.
Her grins widens at the mention of her mother though. ”She was.” Weaver loved her mother, was damn lucky to have a mom like that. Not everyone would agree, she would expect. Her mother was unorthodox and demanding, expecting her children to thrive on their own. But she loved fiercely, and it was a good life. She is thankful for all her mother had taught her. He talks of his own training, and then asks if she would like to trade tips. Her face brightens, clearly pleased at the idea. ”I would love to,” she says, sincere and excited at the possibility.
He is so sad at the next statement. Weaver gives him a bit of a playful grin though, the way her mother might have when they’d scraped a knee as a child. She never coddled, and though Weaver had learned some kindness her mother hadn’t had, she’d learn her mother’s approach too. Always pushing, one step at a time, for something more. ”It’s never too late to figure out how to thrive.”
weaver
-- ask no questions, and you'll be told no lies --
Loren shook his head slowly. "It's...well." Taking a deep breath, he gave Weaver a rueful smile. "Being ridiculed by my family is different from being hated by the gods and disliked by everyone else." However, his voice was far from certain.
When she expressed a desire to explore her magic more, he found himself actually smiling, and raising his mug. "That's the spirit." His expression grew bashful, though, as she asked about his own magic. Flushing slightly, he gulped, then took a sip from his mug. "Well, um, I have mastered healing, along with a mutation that lets me heal at a distance. I have mastered summoning and water magic as well, along with basic creation and telekinesis. And I'm a hybrid." The words came out in a half-mumbled rush, and his embarrassment was clear.
It shifted almost seamlessly into guilt. "I'm, I've never really been the one in harm's way." Of course, he'd been injured and put himself into dangerous situations, but it always seemed to work out fine for him, and the shame he felt about surviving where others more worthy than he didn't was eating away at him.
Forcing himself to smile, though it didn't reach his eyes, he looked back at her. "I'm glad." Thankfully, her excitement turned out to be infectious, and he found his smile turning genuine, even if it was faint. "Great. I'm looking forward to it."
Tapping a finger against his mug, he eventually took a long drink from it, and then set the empty cup down. "Again, I know you're right, but it's hard to learn when you don't even know how to start." He shrugged a bit helplessly.
”Yea,” she concedes, ”it is different. It sounds worse.” She can’t really imagine being ridiculed by her own family, at least not in a way that was anything but playful. They called each other names and poked fun plenty, but it was out of love and not actual malice. At the end of the day while she doesn’t enjoy being hated by the gods or stared at funny for her magic, she’d pick that over her family doing it to her.
She laughs as he tells her ‘that’s the spirit’. ”You sound like my dad. Stepfather, technically, but regardless.” Her grin is wide, amused, the conversation light for that particular moment. Though she’d never known her real father, her stepfather had been good to her and they’d loved each other as if they were blood. But then he turns bashful...ashamed, maybe? Of what? Of the magic he has? She listens, curious, and then he adds that he’s never been the one in harm’s way. Ah.
”I want healing magic,” she says,matter of factly. ”I want to do more than just hurt and kill. If we are all the hunters, who is there to save us?” The words are sincere, because not everyone can be made of fire and brimstone; not everyone can seek blood and vengeance. They need some that come to the rescue when the rest of them are about to rip each other to shreds. They need some to save them from the hole in their chest the size and shape of an ursur tusk. ”You should be damn proud of all that magic.”
She takes a sip of her drink, finding it nearly empty but not bothering with a refill at the moment. Probably they didn’t need more, though she would keep going if prompted. This was the sort of night for getting drunk and stupid. For now she was just buzzed though and enjoying the conversation, even the dark and deep and hard parts. This was not one of them, though ”I intend to kick your ass,” she says with her playful grin and a wink. Honestly, with all that magic he could absolutely crush her, but she wonders if he actually used it offensively instead of just defensively.
She puts the cup down and leans forward, kissing his forehead in a quick gesture, not shy but simply friendly. ”You just start living. You start doing things that make you happy and not just things that make you numb for half a minute. You run the fuck away from the things that steal your joy.” It’s easier said than done, but still, no one said living was easy.
weaver
-- ask no questions, and you'll be told no lies --
02-28-2020, 09:03 PM (This post was last modified: 02-28-2020, 09:03 PM by Loren.)
The white sheep of the family
Shaking his head, Loren shrugged. "It's all I've ever known, really. Hard to know what to compare it too." He gave Weaver an almost apologetic and certainly rueful smile.
Letting out a huff of laughter, he grinned faintly. "My relationship with my stepmother wasn't that pleasant. So I'm glad it sounds like you and your stepfather got along?" His voice ended on a questioning lilt.
At her words, his eyes hardened. The bashful and meek mask slipped away and underneath was the weapon that his family had honed him into. The person who would apply exactly as much force as was necessary to achieve his aims. It was a cold and almost evil look. ”I can hunt and kill too.” It came out without a hint of pride, just a statement of fact. Soon she'd experience that firsthand as he bested the Ursur.
Then he hesitated, and uncertainty bled back into his features and voice and posture. ”No I am proud. It’s not that.” Hesitating, his foot tapped an anxious beat against the ground. ”I...for most of my life, I was told I was weak and useless. Now that I have all this magic, I had hoped that maybe I could...do more to keep people safe. So it’s hard not to feel like...I’m still not enough.” He shrugged, knowing
Chuckling, he actually grinned, and nodded in agreement at their future sparring. ”I’ve heard that one before. It’s a good ass to kick, everyone says so.” Obviously his tone was self-deprecating. Though there was no alcohol left in his mug, he still lifted it in a toast.
As she leaned forward to kiss his forehead, he closed his eyes. ”Simple as that?” There was something almost pathetically hopeful about the question.
