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
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.