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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
Of course. You may not be able to do too much more than Jesiree and I already have.
[She laughs quietly, hooking a strand of hair behind her ear.]
One of the ways to make Craft stronger is to weave a tangled web. I wove one to summon all of you here, and I wove one to help with healing—just in case—before utilizing the first. I'm no Healer, though. Had Jesiree helped with the web, she would have been able to stitch me back together faster. [Fay rubs her chest, grimacing.] As I said, most of my insides were paste.
no subject
Granted, I have only ever done this on myself, but I am rather adept at it.
( he doesn't touch her — he doesn't need to, really, but proximity makes it easier to focus. )
It sounds an elegant t way to do things, your Web. Do you shape the threads yourself or do you merely— ( he pauses, fingers twitching as he adjusts, searching out the source of her discomfort and then trying to syphon away some of the pain. out of her, into himself.
he coughs. once, twice, a third time. ) — re-order them according to your will?
no subject
[With a little smile, she nods to confirm he can begin. She, too, practices quite a lot of Craft on herself before using it.
As Kylo seeks out the pain, he'll find it concentrated in her chest and abdomen. Every organ in her body is fragile, as though made of tissue paper. Already, lines of power fortify and protect, as though she's put shields around her insides, but the work is delicate and a rough tumble could undo all of it. Deep aches and stabbing pains fill her, and he'll get the impression she's actually shielding him from the worst of it, that she's holding a fair amount of it back. Even so, what he can feel is intense. A solid 8 out of 10 on the pain scale.]
A Black Widow builds a frame for her web and then spins it herself. [Her voice is soft as she speaks, affecting a lilting cadence.] Anchor threads that hold no power but are the bones of the web so that it might hold its shape. The actual pattern that channels the power runs along those. I wove in ancillary threads to help diffuse the power before it hit the center of the web. That... did not go as well as I'd hoped, and more of my power struck the center, and thus me, than I'd intended.
[She sighs.]
If I'd known how bad it would be, I would have had Jesiree weave the healing web. A Healer knows her Craft better than I do.
no subject
But you do not regret it. ( a statement more than a question. ) For all that it placed you at great risk.
( for all that it continues to place her at risk. )
If she had helped; the web would have been more layered, yes? More complicated. Would that not have increased the risk?
no subject
[Another heavy sigh.]
Mmm, if Lady Jesiree had helped with the healing web, I'd be in better shape right now. I wouldn't be fragile, I would hurt less, and I would be... [She glances at Verim, who is watching her and Kylo Ren with a no small amount of tension. He holds himself stiff, ready to move at any moment.] There'd be less blood in general. Everywhere. [She winces.] But Jesiree isn't a Black Widow. She couldn't have helped with the web that brought you all here, and adding another person's power to that web would have put them at risk.
Where there are risks like that, it's a Queen's pleasure to take those risks on for her court and her people.
no subject
My mother would often say that it is the responsibility of those in power to do what they could for those that had none. That to be a leader meant to serve their people.
And I think that for all the ones that know you best, that love you, would have rather you had taken the easier path and spared yourself the risk and the pain, you would not be who you are if you had done so.
( another moment, then he draws back his hand and moves to rise. )
Thank you for answering my questions, and I am sorry that I could not do more for your pain.
no subject
[She smiles at him.]
And you understand. [He's right, of course. If she'd relied on someone else, her Craft wouldn't have been as strong. The damage to her body would have been less—or none—as a result, but she wouldn't have these results. These results, these Strangers, seem more than worth the risk.]
Don't worry too much. Often, once a healing web starts working, there isn't much you can do but let it run its course and let the body pick up where it leaves off. Jesiree will make another one, and I'll suffer her indignation as penance for not asking for her help. If you have any other questions, I'm happy to answer them.
no subject
( and he has certainly only added to that, all things considered. a complicated situation only made worse by years of estrangement and their mutual pride. )
One more, then: why did you bring us here, my lady? I assume it has something to do with your land? Something dire.
no subject
[A simple statement for a complex problem.]
The Blood have forgotten their purpose as the caretakers of the Realm and abandoned the land for their pleasures. The Cataclysm destroyed almost all of us, and the landens have cut through many of the rest. As long as that conflict remains, the land will continue to die, and within a generation or two, what little we can eke out here will fall to ruin. Terreille will become a wasteland. Since the Blood and landens can't see past their hatreds to work together. I hope that people who are neither will be the bridge over that hatred.
[Her expression turns sad and wistful.]
I hope very much.
no subject
( it's not a bad, plan; it's not a perfect plan, either, but desperation will lead to taking whatever chances one was given. )
I will give you what aid I can. ( again, pragmatism wins out over altruism; Fayura is in no condition to return him to his home, and is unlikely to do so after having gone to such pains to bring him and the others here, not until they have at least attempted to help. ) Though I would appreciate some guidance as to where to start, and how to use these new gifts I have been given. Is there someone I might speak to? I would not wish to trouble you further, particularly while you are recovering.
no subject
Ah, I appreciate that. [Using Craft while so injured isn't precisely wise; the body can take the power in the Jewels and redirect it toward healing. Casting large scale spells will only slow the healing down, much in the way that pushing oneself physically while still recovering might slow one's healing down.]
If you're simply looking for information on basic Craft, I would advise speaking with Loren. The library in the residence is available for your use, too. We have plenty of texts there, though many will probably assume you already have the basics down. The library in River East should have some of the more basic primers, too.