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agentlelog2019-01-31 01:03 pm
agentlenpc) wrote in agentlelog2019-01-31 01:03 pm
walking in a field of fog
Who: You and Fayura
When: Today, a week after the Strangers' arrivals
Where: The Queen's Residence and the Old Town Bazaar
What: Q&A
Warnings: n/a
When: Today, a week after the Strangers' arrivals
Where: The Queen's Residence and the Old Town Bazaar
What: Q&A
Warnings: n/a
EARLY MORNING, THE QUEEN'S RESIDENCE
The morning is cold and dark. Inhaling the frigid air is so shocking that those who aren't expecting it cough and wheeze with their first breath. No one really wants to make their way to the training field. Even the Queen's court moves sluggishly, but move they do with muttered recriminations against Allairavar. Cold weather doesn't stop training.
A warming spell around the field keeps it warm enough to practice, and bobbling witchlights and steady e-line floodlights keep the darkness at bay. All along one side of the practice area are weapons with blades live and dulled. The court eases onto the field alongside the Strangers with sighs and grumbles aplenty. No one likes practice on chilly mornings, but they like Allairavar's retaliation against tardiness even less.
Everyone has paired off by the time Allairavar strides out of the manor home with his arm around a woman's shoulders. In the harsh e-line lights and softer witchlight, it's clear she hasn't been well and still isn't entirely healed. Sunken golden eyes scan the field, and her expression is vaguely nauseated. She trembles, either from weakness or discomfort, as Allairavar pulls away and calls in two bladed sticks—weapons caught somewhere between sword and ax.
"Let's go," he tells her, and she takes one stick from his hand as court and Strangers alike look on.
Another male follows them in, sleekly predatory in his slow prowl around the practice field. A dangerous look glazes his eyes, and he circles the whole field once before making a second, tighter pass around the marked off area where Allairavar and the woman square off.
Members of the court trade wary looks, sharing them with the Strangers. More than a few murmur things like, "Verim will go for his throat if he pushes her too hard," and, "Should she even be out of bed yet?"
It seems Allairavar's rule for training is absolute. Even the Queen takes part. Under his watchful eye and tutelage, they run through a warm up that clearly exhausts her, but when he asks if they should stop, she snarls at him and pushes on for another five minutes. Only then does she sit off to the side of the field and begin stretching.
As she lifts from a leg stretch, she catches your eye and offers a small, shy smile. "Would you like to stretch with me? Allairavar's workouts are always hardest the first day back," she says softly.
Allairavar's exercises may be hard, but she looks like she's seconds from collapsing from exhaustion. If she spent this last week resting and still looks so wan and thin and weak, her initial injuries must have been severe.
MID-AFTERNOON, THE BAZAAR PAVILION
Snow drifts lazily through frigid air. Though temperatures hover around freezing, the Old Town Bazaar bustles with activity. Slowly, people rebuild homes and shops burned by the Hunter Guild, and for perhaps the first time in the past fifty years, sentiment has turned against the Hunters.
Strangers out and about in the Bazaar hear:
There's some commotion toward the center of the Bazaar, where the Queen has settled at the pavilion with a group of landen and Blood children. Her only guard seems to be the elegant man seated across from her at the pavilion's wooden table, his eyes watchful as the people pass by.
The Queen herself looks unwell. Though she wears a bright smile and her golden eyes glitter with laughter, they are sunken and dark smudges circle them. Her arms are thin, little more than skin wrapped around bone. In spite of the freezing weather, she wears a tunic with wide sleeves that pool around her elbows as she holds up a small plank of wood and tugs at a ribbon embedded in it. Here, in the chilly winter morning, the woman who brought some twenty Strangers across the vast distances of many worlds looks very human, very mortal, and very fragile.
Her eyes meet yours as she looks up, and you feel a gentle brush against your mind. No matter how familiar or strange mental communication is, no matter how disconcerting or easy you find it, the touch strikes you as incredibly polite. *We can talk, if you'd like,* she tells you over a psychic thread.
Should you join her, you find respite from the cold. A warming spell makes the pavilion pleasantly toasty, explaining why no one wears a jacket and, maybe, the Queen's clothes. She's dressed plainly in a loose, knitted tunic and fitted breaches. She wears no coronet and no visible jewelry except for a golden chain that tucks beneath her tunic.
Fayura offers a quick smile in your direction as she guides the end of the ribbon in her hand through the thin strip of wood in a twisting loop. She offers a soft-spoken explanation to the children before inviting them to try—and inviting the Blood to explain the magic to the landens, too.
As the children turn to their task, Fayura turns to you. "I'm glad to see you made it through the Hunters' attack relatively unscathed." She sets her plank down and taps her mug. Steam beings to rise from it and she lifts it to her lips with a sigh. "And I apologize that I wasn't there to greet you." A wry smile tugs at her lips; her appearance is, in her mind, enough of an explanation for why. "How have you found Draega?"
The morning is cold and dark. Inhaling the frigid air is so shocking that those who aren't expecting it cough and wheeze with their first breath. No one really wants to make their way to the training field. Even the Queen's court moves sluggishly, but move they do with muttered recriminations against Allairavar. Cold weather doesn't stop training.
A warming spell around the field keeps it warm enough to practice, and bobbling witchlights and steady e-line floodlights keep the darkness at bay. All along one side of the practice area are weapons with blades live and dulled. The court eases onto the field alongside the Strangers with sighs and grumbles aplenty. No one likes practice on chilly mornings, but they like Allairavar's retaliation against tardiness even less.
Everyone has paired off by the time Allairavar strides out of the manor home with his arm around a woman's shoulders. In the harsh e-line lights and softer witchlight, it's clear she hasn't been well and still isn't entirely healed. Sunken golden eyes scan the field, and her expression is vaguely nauseated. She trembles, either from weakness or discomfort, as Allairavar pulls away and calls in two bladed sticks—weapons caught somewhere between sword and ax.
"Let's go," he tells her, and she takes one stick from his hand as court and Strangers alike look on.
Another male follows them in, sleekly predatory in his slow prowl around the practice field. A dangerous look glazes his eyes, and he circles the whole field once before making a second, tighter pass around the marked off area where Allairavar and the woman square off.
Members of the court trade wary looks, sharing them with the Strangers. More than a few murmur things like, "Verim will go for his throat if he pushes her too hard," and, "Should she even be out of bed yet?"
It seems Allairavar's rule for training is absolute. Even the Queen takes part. Under his watchful eye and tutelage, they run through a warm up that clearly exhausts her, but when he asks if they should stop, she snarls at him and pushes on for another five minutes. Only then does she sit off to the side of the field and begin stretching.
As she lifts from a leg stretch, she catches your eye and offers a small, shy smile. "Would you like to stretch with me? Allairavar's workouts are always hardest the first day back," she says softly.
Allairavar's exercises may be hard, but she looks like she's seconds from collapsing from exhaustion. If she spent this last week resting and still looks so wan and thin and weak, her initial injuries must have been severe.
MID-AFTERNOON, THE BAZAAR PAVILION
Snow drifts lazily through frigid air. Though temperatures hover around freezing, the Old Town Bazaar bustles with activity. Slowly, people rebuild homes and shops burned by the Hunter Guild, and for perhaps the first time in the past fifty years, sentiment has turned against the Hunters.
Strangers out and about in the Bazaar hear:
A landen woman, to her friend: It's not right what the Hunters did, burning down our homes, too.
A well-to-do Blood male, at a food stall: …believe what that pompous Grand Master has to say about a Queen of the Blood.
There's some commotion toward the center of the Bazaar, where the Queen has settled at the pavilion with a group of landen and Blood children. Her only guard seems to be the elegant man seated across from her at the pavilion's wooden table, his eyes watchful as the people pass by.
The Queen herself looks unwell. Though she wears a bright smile and her golden eyes glitter with laughter, they are sunken and dark smudges circle them. Her arms are thin, little more than skin wrapped around bone. In spite of the freezing weather, she wears a tunic with wide sleeves that pool around her elbows as she holds up a small plank of wood and tugs at a ribbon embedded in it. Here, in the chilly winter morning, the woman who brought some twenty Strangers across the vast distances of many worlds looks very human, very mortal, and very fragile.
Her eyes meet yours as she looks up, and you feel a gentle brush against your mind. No matter how familiar or strange mental communication is, no matter how disconcerting or easy you find it, the touch strikes you as incredibly polite. *We can talk, if you'd like,* she tells you over a psychic thread.
Should you join her, you find respite from the cold. A warming spell makes the pavilion pleasantly toasty, explaining why no one wears a jacket and, maybe, the Queen's clothes. She's dressed plainly in a loose, knitted tunic and fitted breaches. She wears no coronet and no visible jewelry except for a golden chain that tucks beneath her tunic.
Fayura offers a quick smile in your direction as she guides the end of the ribbon in her hand through the thin strip of wood in a twisting loop. She offers a soft-spoken explanation to the children before inviting them to try—and inviting the Blood to explain the magic to the landens, too.
As the children turn to their task, Fayura turns to you. "I'm glad to see you made it through the Hunters' attack relatively unscathed." She sets her plank down and taps her mug. Steam beings to rise from it and she lifts it to her lips with a sigh. "And I apologize that I wasn't there to greet you." A wry smile tugs at her lips; her appearance is, in her mind, enough of an explanation for why. "How have you found Draega?"
no subject
Long though her life will be and has been, it's too short to add cruelty to the world.
"Verim and Loren, as my Consort and Steward, also know because they have to." She pops another piece of omelette into her mouth, chews, and swallows. She's eating in small pieces, but she's eating, and this seems to please Verim. "But you can tell whomever else you'd like whenever you'd like, and if you'd rather tell people you're demon-dead to spare yourself the stigma, the court will support you. The Blood have rituals around the giving and receiving of blood because of the demon-dead." She gives him a stern look.
Something shifts in her eyes. They're still golden, but some of the warmth fades, replaced by steely will and something that can only be described as inhuman.
"If you ever have need for more blood than you can acquire for yourself, you will come to me. You and I will determine whose blood you'd like to have, and you'll go through those rituals with them." The expression fades, becoming kinder and friendlier once again. "But you should probably have a taste of all our blood first, just to see how the power of the Jewels impacts the taste and the, um, kick?"
no subject
But even so, he was a doctor and a scientist first and foremost, and questions and learning were his life.
"What are these demon-dead?" Jonathan asked, curiosity winning out over the insult. "Why would you have rituals of giving blood?"
no subject
"The demon-dead are..." Fay puzzled over how to answer as she took another bite of her omelette, thoughtfully chewing. "Well, they're the dead, but they're not dead-dead." She sounded very much like someone trying to explain something so commonplace that explanation eluded her. Water was wet; she could not explain why. Likewise, the demon-dead were dead, but not dead-dead. "They find sunlight difficult if not impossible to tolerate. And don't need to eat or drink. Giving them blood makes them stronger. Did Allairavar mention yarbarah to you? The blood wine?"
no subject
"I still don't understand why you would allow them anywhere near you or your people," Jonathan admitted. "It's in our nature to hunt and feed on others, and most vampires kill when feeding and take advantage of others, taking over their minds and forcing people to let them into their homes or to follow them to quiet places to feed."
He frowned, pale eyes cast down to the table. "It would seem that what we are can twist our nature; my... my sister, Mary, was so unlike herself when she turned. She took control of our mother and would have killed her if I hadn't intervened, and my poor mother never recovered from the damage done to her mind."
no subject
"The body dies but somehow keeps going. For some, that's probably unnerving. For others, it's not so strange." The way she spoke seemed to set her firmly in the camp of not-so-strange. "But mostly, the dead stay among the dead. It's more comfortable that way, for them and the living. But they don't have that drive to hunt people. Blood energizes and keeps them going, provides something extra, but they don't need it."
She paused, and her expression shifted. At last, Fayura gave Jon a wary look. "Taking over... minds?" Her voice turned brittle, dangerous. Temper flashed through the room along with a tiny curl of fear.
no subject
"Yes," Jonathan admitted, seeing no point in hiding it. "Something about us means we can force others to bend to our will. I've seen other vampires use it in terrible ways, to torture or kill others. I try to use it to help."
no subject
"Let me be very, very clear to you, Dr. Reid," Fayura said softly, her voice like thunder. "The Blood value the sanctity of the mind. Invading it without permission is tantamount to rape. If I ever find out you have used this power to coerce someone against their will, for good or for ill, I will execute you myself." As with all things, there were degrees of severity to this, but Fayura didn't seem keen on acknowledging any of that. She watched Jon with cold, unblinking eyes and the gaze of someone who knew.
She had been on the receiving end of that invasion. She knew what it felt like.
"Because it is possible you did not know this before, I will forgive any... mistakes you've made until now. But by the Jewels I wear, I will destroy everything you are if you ever do that again."
no subject
Instinct that, quite frankly, he felt would only end up with him getting killed.
Instead he sat with unnatural stillness, listening to the Queen's words and noting the level of raw power on display. It was unnerving, and something he would need to be cautious about. While he didn't intend on using his abilities to harm others, there was a line between that and not at all that clearly they disagreed on.
"You may wish to do so now," Jonathan said calmly, pale eyes fixed unblinkingly on her. "I have done so here to prevent someone whose definition of helping was to waste the time of myself and other doctors. And I cannot promise you I will never do so again if it would save a life. I took an oath to heal and save lives, if I can use my abilities to do that, I will."
no subject
"There are degrees," she said slowly. "And motivations are not always clear. If you use your power to convince someone not to hang themselves, that is an action to be lauded. If you use your power to convince a very sick, very ill person that they should take medicine that will only prolong their suffering, that is not. Violate someone's sense of self, Blood or landen or Stranger, and your life is forfeit. Act in their best interest, and we will be on opposite sides of a desk having a very long, very unenjoyable conversation about boundaries but I won't turn you into a corpse."
Fayura turned back to her omelette, cutting into another piece and popping that bite into her mouth. She forced herself to relax, visibly fighting against her own nature and her desire to protect those around her. The air grew warmer, and she tapped her mug of coffee to warm her drink.
"Or at least, I won't turn you into a dead-dead corpse." She gave him a fleeting smile.
no subject
"It is a difficult matter to draw a line through," he agreed. "As a doctor, even before what I am now, I would make decisions during the war of who to save and who to leave. Decisions I could never know for sure if it was right or not. Who could say if a man caught in the blast of mortar would live or die, or if I might save a life in the battlefield and leave a soldier to live with pain and suffering, wishing he might have died instead?"
He steepled his fingers and met her gaze with his own unnatural one. "Who could say that someone very sick and very ill might not recover given extra time and care? That their own wish to die might only be the result of the pain they endure? Is the refusal to accept care knowing you will die not similar to placing ones head in a noose in its own way? Both feel death is the only escape, how can we say one is wrong and the other is not?"
no subject
She waved a weary hand. "Do good, Medico. Do good, and while I may have to slap your wrist, I won't censure you." She grimaced at her plate of food, knowing she should finish it but lacking the appetite. Lifting her fork, she forced another bite. "Can I answer any other questions for you? When I finish my breakfast, I'm going to need a nap, and nothing short of an act of nature will stop Verim from bullying me into bed."
no subject
"No, I will not take up any more of your time, but I thank you for your understanding, Lady." Rising from the table, Jonathan nodded his head to her and then made eye contact with Verim.
"I believe rest is exactly what she needs, along with plenty of fluids and no strenuous activities for some time. Her body needs time to recover, more than she might think."
no subject
Traitor. Jon was a traitor. She scowled at him before turning deliberately back to her breakfast and taking a knife to a sausage. "Stupid, bossy males," she muttered as she stabbed the sausage with her fork.