I'd been gripped by this sudden madness that I might make myself useful to Diplomacy by assisting in corralling the rifters so that we might be better aligned to have conversations about it all, and so we spoke a little of it.
My perspective was such that it's better than being called 'demons'. I got enough of that in Tassia.
[ there's some dangling thread there. derrica considers it, thinking of petrana and kostos, beginning a project that sounds so similar to what loxley is describing. ]
That would have been clever, [ she says first, and then, ] You deserve more than what the Chantry deigns to give you.
My fault. We really do need to find an excuse to do more adventuring together. [ The use of 'adventuring' doesn't even sound like verbal flourish, just the literal things he calls the work they do. ] But, [ a pause, then, ] it sometimes feels disingenuous to suggest that I'm comparable to mages, so it didn't feel right— as in, it hasn't been something that, when I think of what you all have been through, or go through, and not that I even really know much about it—
And so Derrica is on the very last ferry out to Kirkwall.
Washed clean of flour, hair still slightly damp, she is more or less presentable when she arrives on his doorstep. Two comically large tankards have made the trip up the narrow stairs with her, one of which she presents to him with a small laugh.
"A gift, from your landlord."
A minor divergence from the squabble on the crystals, the topic of magic, rifters and whatever might happen after the war: alcohol, specially brewed and of dubious quality.
Loxley keeps his quarters mainly neat, but there was possibly a little bit of kicking items or scraps of clothing under his bed, wiping down the table of any crumbs or smears, levering open a window to clear the air of the scent of damp that occasionally lingers, lighting a few candles—
But you'd hardly know it, when he opens the door to her, and laughs as he accepts the the tankard. "I've always found it very profitable to let barkeeps tell their stories, for once," he says. "And it makes for good listening over breakfast."
And as he steps aside to let her in, his ducks his head to kiss her cheek. (Oh, and the last minute application of a touch of cologne.)
To be removed from the Gallows is a help in and of itself. It would have alleviated some of the tight worry she'd been carrying around since Kostos' address and the ensuing argument just to be away.
But it must be said: Loxley's company makes it all the easier to shake off. Not easy, but easier.
He kisses her cheek, and Derrica snares the front of his tunic to stall his departure until she can brush a soft kiss to his mouth before releasing him. He smells nice. She likes hearing his laugh, and the picture he paints of his mornings.
"Better listening than the crystals," is surely no contest. "Maybe I'll have to join you for breakfast sometime, and hear some of it myself."
"Maybe I'll invite you to join me tomorrow," Loxley says, an easy smile that had lit up at the kiss to his mouth. He negligently pushes the heavy door closed but doesn't fuss with the locks.
He takes her free hand instead, and it's in the direction of the bed he goes. This sort of move is a little more differently connotative, now, when prior it was just a more comfortable place to sit in comparison to the chairs and table, if they weren't burdened with a meal. Still.
Loxley sits, a leg folded beneath him, the clasp to her hand shifting its angle to balance her to do the same.
True, even if Derrica has a beat of uncertainty after she says it. Is it wise? Maybe, maybe not. That's a different conversation, maybe for another night.
Instead, she draws his hand into her lap. Prompts, "Tell me about your magic."
There is such deliberate warmth in her voice. She is determined to be pleased by this, to talk about magic without some shadow hanging over their heads. It should be a thing to celebrate over. It would have been in Rivain, she thinks, and she an do him the favor of bringing some part of that to him here in his little apartment in Kirkwall.
It's an odd point of nerves, if his slightly stumbling handling of the conversation prior had been of any indication, but in part because it's a conversation he wants. Has tried to have, in the past, with really only Richard taking interest in his Richardy way, and it's a different sort of reception to Derrica taking his hand, offering that open invitation.
"It's new," he says, after a moment. "Mainly. But I should, perhaps— well, I don't know if you've spoken to Richard about it much, but magic is all over the place, where we're from. Gifted from gods or found in books or just a thing you can do. I've always been able to do a little bit, like..."
He glances towards the candles on the table, and the flames burning their lengthen by an inch, turning from yellow to a deep red, and then to a brighter purple. Wax hisses and spits, before the flames shorten, stabilise, though remain that shivering indigo.
"My parents could do that," he says, looking back to her. "Tricks, really."
The lacing of their fingers is a stop along the way to drawing him in to her fully. Loxley is telling her something important, and she doesn't care to interrupt him, even in pursuit of some further closeness that now feels essential to her.
All of that, the wanting, is still radiating at the edges of her mind. It's there even when her attention is taken up by the demonstration of flame, which is a wholly other kind of display.
"A good trick," she says, sincerely. Her eyes stay on the candles for a moment, observing the color and the after effect of Loxley's work before she tells him, "I've never been able to do very much with fire."
This feels important too: drawing similarities between them. He is not alone in this. She lets that hang for a moment before continuing, "Richard didn't tell me very much of it. I asked, after the dream, but he wasn't ready to talk to me about it yet."
And she hadn't pressed. Obviously.
"Where did your magic come from?" is asked so, so gently, even if the question feels very strange to consider.
There's a flash of guilt at Richard not wishing to share about his magics with Derrica, remembering that he'd sort of explained it quite wordily on the network not so long ago. Oh, well. Oh well.
Draws back to now, the tangle of their fingers, the scent of beer and whatever it is Derrica washes her hair and clothing in, a nice inclusion in all of it. This next part feels— well, it should feel tricky, and how it actually feels is easy.
"My being a tiefling," he says. "Some of it, anyway. It's called the infernal bloodline. I don't know too much of it, it's hard to sort out what's true and what people just write down, but a little bit is that. The rest,"
he pauses, and then says, "might be as well, but I don't know. My parents weren't full magic users, but the other sorts of magic I can do, the sorcery, that's innate as well. I can cast small barriers when I'm being attacked, or throw around raw magic. The way my sword catches fire, that's my doing, rather than its. It all sounds very foolish when I say it out loud," he adds, with a half-smile. "Not knowing anything, or not knowing how to do things, when all of you are just mages or not mages."
Spoken as he raises his tankard to drink from, last few words partially echoed into it.
There is an entire dimension of what he's telling her that Derrica knows she doesn't fully grasp. She remembers him telling her what he should look like, the body he had in the world he'd come from. She considers it alongside this, his separation of the kinds of magic he's capable of and where it all comes from, the way he looks when he tells her all of this.
"It's not foolish," she reassures. "I couldn't tell you where it comes from when I call lightening."
Is that in her blood? What makes a mage is a question more intelligent people than her have debated on and on for eons, surely.
"Do you like it? Your magic?"
Because there is some complicated aspect in it, something inherited and something that comes to him from unknown places. Maybe this is the question she should have asked first. Does he care to talk about this at all, or would he rather not have any kind of ability in the first place?
"I like how it keeps me alive," Loxley says. "I don't love that it makes me stranger than I already am. And I hope it isn't worse than it is."
He leans, and sets aside his tankard on a small table by the bed. Then, he hovers his hands in front of him, as if grasping some invisible, spherical thing, focusing. A mote of light appears in between his palms, and then seems to explode outwards enough to almost fill that space. It's a chaotic bit of magic, a roiling, warping near-spell; flickers of lightning turn into licks of fire turn into a swirl of ice turn into a queasy twist of ill-green smoke.
His hands tremble, just for a moment, before he collapses his hands together, dismissing it. "That was a little dangerous," is semi-apology, Loxley inspecting his palms—clean, unblemished—before looking back up at her.
As alien as the magic itself is to her, the aftereffect is the same: ozone and burning. Is it more or less dangerous than the lightening Derrica can bring down and bend to her will?
She observes it without any sign of fear, even with the understanding that this is not such an easily controlled sort of summoning. (The tremble in his hand does not go unnoticed.) There is a considering pause, and then Derrica folds her hands over his. Her expression is searching, even as her fingers brush over his palms, making the same inspection before lacing their fingers together.
"Are you afraid of it?" is asked so gently. It would be a fair thing, if he were. She remembers the mages who came to Dairsmuid from southern circles, how they had sometimes flinched at what they could conjure. Worse than it is puts her in mind of that, sparks up the urge to draw in closer to him.
Loxley's fingers curl into hers when she laces them together. Skin no warmer or colder or anything-er than it was before his little demonstration.
His expression flickers a little, but isn't some confession kept suppressed, but a hint of surprise. Like afraid hits strangely. Rather than an easy of course not, because clearly he is afraid of nothing, Loxley quiets and thinks, pulling apart the threads of his own conflicted feelings on this topic, inspecting them with care, before he says,
"At first," seems fair. "But even if I don't know where it comes from, it's never acted beyond my control. It feels like mine, either way."
His eyeline had vagued, somewhere in there, but sharpens now, studies Derrica across from him. He starts to say something, then seems to think again, and says, "You like your magic."
An answer offered up without hesitation or complication. She drops her gaze to admire their hands, the way they look together, as she sets her answer against his.
"It's always been part of me. I wouldn't be myself without it."
And that's not quite true for him. Derrica knows where her magic comes from. She's never known herself without it. There are parts of Loxley's magic that are new to him. They exist separately from him, weapon rather than something intrinsic, knitted into his body.
"What were you going to say?" she prompts, looking back up to his face.
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charmoffensive) wrote2019-10-19 02:48 pm
no subject
I'd been gripped by this sudden madness that I might make myself useful to Diplomacy by assisting in corralling the rifters so that we might be better aligned to have conversations about it all, and so we spoke a little of it.
My perspective was such that it's better than being called 'demons'. I got enough of that in Tassia.
no subject
That would have been clever, [ she says first, and then, ] You deserve more than what the Chantry deigns to give you.
no subject
[ hurriedly, ]
but so do you. If there's an argument to be made in favour about rifters who've not got any magic, I'm already out of luck.
no subject
You're out of luck? [ is a little prompting. ]
no subject
[ Was that insensitive? He pauses over her pause, indecisive, then—
Ah. ]
I have some ability in sorcery. Is what it's called, for me. I came into it not very long before I wound up in Thedas.
no subject
[ Information that sparks a whole slew of questions, none of which feel wholly appropriate right now. ]
Is it something you want to talk about? With me?
no subject
My fault. We really do need to find an excuse to do more adventuring together. [ The use of 'adventuring' doesn't even sound like verbal flourish, just the literal things he calls the work they do. ] But, [ a pause, then, ] it sometimes feels disingenuous to suggest that I'm comparable to mages, so it didn't feel right— as in, it hasn't been something that, when I think of what you all have been through, or go through, and not that I even really know much about it—
[ Hm. ]
I mean, yes, I'd love to talk about it with you.
no subject
A moment's hesitation, before— ]
Would you mind if I came to see you?
no subject
[ relieved. ]
Please do.
no subject
Washed clean of flour, hair still slightly damp, she is more or less presentable when she arrives on his doorstep. Two comically large tankards have made the trip up the narrow stairs with her, one of which she presents to him with a small laugh.
"A gift, from your landlord."
A minor divergence from the squabble on the crystals, the topic of magic, rifters and whatever might happen after the war: alcohol, specially brewed and of dubious quality.
no subject
But you'd hardly know it, when he opens the door to her, and laughs as he accepts the the tankard. "I've always found it very profitable to let barkeeps tell their stories, for once," he says. "And it makes for good listening over breakfast."
And as he steps aside to let her in, his ducks his head to kiss her cheek. (Oh, and the last minute application of a touch of cologne.)
no subject
But it must be said: Loxley's company makes it all the easier to shake off. Not easy, but easier.
He kisses her cheek, and Derrica snares the front of his tunic to stall his departure until she can brush a soft kiss to his mouth before releasing him. He smells nice. She likes hearing his laugh, and the picture he paints of his mornings.
"Better listening than the crystals," is surely no contest. "Maybe I'll have to join you for breakfast sometime, and hear some of it myself."
no subject
He takes her free hand instead, and it's in the direction of the bed he goes. This sort of move is a little more differently connotative, now, when prior it was just a more comfortable place to sit in comparison to the chairs and table, if they weren't burdened with a meal. Still.
Loxley sits, a leg folded beneath him, the clasp to her hand shifting its angle to balance her to do the same.
no subject
True, even if Derrica has a beat of uncertainty after she says it. Is it wise? Maybe, maybe not. That's a different conversation, maybe for another night.
Instead, she draws his hand into her lap. Prompts, "Tell me about your magic."
There is such deliberate warmth in her voice. She is determined to be pleased by this, to talk about magic without some shadow hanging over their heads. It should be a thing to celebrate over. It would have been in Rivain, she thinks, and she an do him the favor of bringing some part of that to him here in his little apartment in Kirkwall.
no subject
It's an odd point of nerves, if his slightly stumbling handling of the conversation prior had been of any indication, but in part because it's a conversation he wants. Has tried to have, in the past, with really only Richard taking interest in his Richardy way, and it's a different sort of reception to Derrica taking his hand, offering that open invitation.
"It's new," he says, after a moment. "Mainly. But I should, perhaps— well, I don't know if you've spoken to Richard about it much, but magic is all over the place, where we're from. Gifted from gods or found in books or just a thing you can do. I've always been able to do a little bit, like..."
He glances towards the candles on the table, and the flames burning their lengthen by an inch, turning from yellow to a deep red, and then to a brighter purple. Wax hisses and spits, before the flames shorten, stabilise, though remain that shivering indigo.
"My parents could do that," he says, looking back to her. "Tricks, really."
no subject
All of that, the wanting, is still radiating at the edges of her mind. It's there even when her attention is taken up by the demonstration of flame, which is a wholly other kind of display.
"A good trick," she says, sincerely. Her eyes stay on the candles for a moment, observing the color and the after effect of Loxley's work before she tells him, "I've never been able to do very much with fire."
This feels important too: drawing similarities between them. He is not alone in this. She lets that hang for a moment before continuing, "Richard didn't tell me very much of it. I asked, after the dream, but he wasn't ready to talk to me about it yet."
And she hadn't pressed. Obviously.
"Where did your magic come from?" is asked so, so gently, even if the question feels very strange to consider.
no subject
Draws back to now, the tangle of their fingers, the scent of beer and whatever it is Derrica washes her hair and clothing in, a nice inclusion in all of it. This next part feels— well, it should feel tricky, and how it actually feels is easy.
"My being a tiefling," he says. "Some of it, anyway. It's called the infernal bloodline. I don't know too much of it, it's hard to sort out what's true and what people just write down, but a little bit is that. The rest,"
he pauses, and then says, "might be as well, but I don't know. My parents weren't full magic users, but the other sorts of magic I can do, the sorcery, that's innate as well. I can cast small barriers when I'm being attacked, or throw around raw magic. The way my sword catches fire, that's my doing, rather than its. It all sounds very foolish when I say it out loud," he adds, with a half-smile. "Not knowing anything, or not knowing how to do things, when all of you are just mages or not mages."
Spoken as he raises his tankard to drink from, last few words partially echoed into it.
no subject
"It's not foolish," she reassures. "I couldn't tell you where it comes from when I call lightening."
Is that in her blood? What makes a mage is a question more intelligent people than her have debated on and on for eons, surely.
"Do you like it? Your magic?"
Because there is some complicated aspect in it, something inherited and something that comes to him from unknown places. Maybe this is the question she should have asked first. Does he care to talk about this at all, or would he rather not have any kind of ability in the first place?
no subject
He leans, and sets aside his tankard on a small table by the bed. Then, he hovers his hands in front of him, as if grasping some invisible, spherical thing, focusing. A mote of light appears in between his palms, and then seems to explode outwards enough to almost fill that space. It's a chaotic bit of magic, a roiling, warping near-spell; flickers of lightning turn into licks of fire turn into a swirl of ice turn into a queasy twist of ill-green smoke.
His hands tremble, just for a moment, before he collapses his hands together, dismissing it. "That was a little dangerous," is semi-apology, Loxley inspecting his palms—clean, unblemished—before looking back up at her.
no subject
She observes it without any sign of fear, even with the understanding that this is not such an easily controlled sort of summoning. (The tremble in his hand does not go unnoticed.) There is a considering pause, and then Derrica folds her hands over his. Her expression is searching, even as her fingers brush over his palms, making the same inspection before lacing their fingers together.
"Are you afraid of it?" is asked so gently. It would be a fair thing, if he were. She remembers the mages who came to Dairsmuid from southern circles, how they had sometimes flinched at what they could conjure. Worse than it is puts her in mind of that, sparks up the urge to draw in closer to him.
no subject
His expression flickers a little, but isn't some confession kept suppressed, but a hint of surprise. Like afraid hits strangely. Rather than an easy of course not, because clearly he is afraid of nothing, Loxley quiets and thinks, pulling apart the threads of his own conflicted feelings on this topic, inspecting them with care, before he says,
"At first," seems fair. "But even if I don't know where it comes from, it's never acted beyond my control. It feels like mine, either way."
His eyeline had vagued, somewhere in there, but sharpens now, studies Derrica across from him. He starts to say something, then seems to think again, and says, "You like your magic."
no subject
An answer offered up without hesitation or complication. She drops her gaze to admire their hands, the way they look together, as she sets her answer against his.
"It's always been part of me. I wouldn't be myself without it."
And that's not quite true for him. Derrica knows where her magic comes from. She's never known herself without it. There are parts of Loxley's magic that are new to him. They exist separately from him, weapon rather than something intrinsic, knitted into his body.
"What were you going to say?" she prompts, looking back up to his face.