deernet | Text | un: big ben

Now you've got me running all over town. I'll see you soon.

[Haha — no, they're going to Willful Machine, it won't be hard to find a merchant selling some shoes too. Palamedes is as quick as he can be in taking a lamp from Gaze to the canals - he has to stop and decide which of his Notes are the best to bring along for show and tell, because it was mentioned, so - but sure enough: he's there soon, a great monochrome moth in his Trench-issue poncho-robe over his Sixth grays. In the swimmy green moonlight of this new darkness he blends in with the scenery more unfortunately than most, but he's got an eye out for not-so-tall guys in sweaters and glasses.

He raises a hand to wave when he thinks he's spotted the right one (how many new guys could be skulking around in ruined sweaters, really?). He is, indeed, Tall, but not so tall that it's intimidating in any way, helped by how the poncho likely doubles his overall mass to begin with.

Anyway: here they are.]

Mackenzie? You weren't kidding about the sweater. And if you aren't him, never mind, it's lovely.

[hey bud]

[For a wild yet brief moment, Waver found himself angry at being faced with such a height. Although not nearly as tall as a Certain Someone, Palamedes was indeed taller than Waver himself would be in proper form. As it stood, he was short by nearly thirty centimeters and felt appropriately dwarfed.

He had worked hard for that height-- and, now not only was he lacking, it was being thrown in his face!

Thank goodness the shadows loomed even with the aid of the lanterns surrounding them. The night did gleam with an eerie green-- and, with dark hair and a penchant for dark, cooler colors, Waver himself was little more than one of the multiple shadows.

~~Perhaps he should have brought his robe. He might be a tad warmer.~~]

Hi, Palamedes. You don't need to make stories up for my sake.

[He had said the other's name properly, even though he had only seen it written. Three syllables with an even tempo, perhaps erring on the side of Greek rather than English as he knew it.

Waver shrugged. His sweater was a thrifted item-- it wasn't worth much, but it was comfortable. Rather: it had been comfortable.]

Edited 2022-04-05 02:26 (UTC)

[Really, what they need between them is a reflective patch in case anybody with a horse and cart barrels by all of a sudden. Palamedes quirks an eyebrow just for a moment - there's certainly an accent there that's unexpected, but hey, it's not "huh that's a lot of sounds, how about Pal??" — he'll take it.

He takes a step towards the road proper, away from the lantern, gesturing for his new buddy (whatever his name is) to join him for this spooky midday stroll.]

What happened, exactly? When you first awoke? This is my second turn around here, actually, but I... woke up on a couch.

[Long Story. Tell him about the sweater damage as they head for the busier market streets.]

[After a recent debacle with a woman claiming the name 'Hephastion' in a false pretense, he was fairly fresh on his Greek even though he was as English as Lord Byron. Not helping was the multiple pronunciations-- he had heard multiple different ones with that combination of syllables, and he took the lack of correction as permission to keep going.]

Waking up on a couch would have been kinder, [He complained, already walking towards the nearest lantern for safety's sake.] I woke up at sea, clinging to some flotsam before a band of pirates picked me up.

They threw me into a holding cell for a while before they were boarded by the Dread Pirate Captain Amaranth, who saw fit to free me and bring me into town.

[But, by that time the salt water had soaked into his sweater and had ruined the finish on his leather shoes. There were some things that could be recovered from, but not an impromptu dip in a foreign ocean.]

[Alright, well.

That's way fucking cooler than waking up on a couch, no matter whose couch it happened to be, which was not so cool after all, anyway. Palamedes purses his lips and does not express this "way fucking cooler" thought, out of politeness, but he thinks it at least twice.]

It was sea ice the first time, for me. And a very specific kind of parasite, [for which he makes a gesture with his hands of what appears to be something wiggly bursting out of his chest, because that's precisely what it is.] Not in me, mind. But around.

Shame about your sweater, but you've got a story to tell and that's something. Do pirates accept thank you cards, you think? I'll help you pick one out. Have you seen stationery?

[This is half joking about buying a thank you card for a pirate and entirely serious about Have You Seen Stationery?, because his hometown is a tupperware full of oil paper and not a single Hallmark.]

A chestburster?

[It was an instinctive reaction. Although he didn't make film his vice, some were impossible to miss. Like Alien. He shuddered at the thought, momentarily feeling like he had been lied to about the genre they had found themselves in.

Truly, what was the difference between Gothic Victoriana and Suspenseful Sci-Fi?]

I'll need to warn the Captain. She, uh, might accept thank you cards?

[She was his neighbor, and had realized how useless he was in the domestic department.]

We can pick one out. Or make one. I haven't gotten a look at the stationary yet-- is it something fancy and hand-pressed?

[Waver had no idea what the full reasons were, but hand-made paper was always impressive.]

In some cases, yes. A variety of burstings, many chest-centric. Personally, I was investigating the long-deceased.

[Which is the polite way of saying he definitely stuck his fingers in a frozen corpse's ribcage, but he put it back when he was done.]

Your Captain might already know they're out there somewhere. Sorry— You want to make a card?

[Arts and crafts? Palamedes has never actually made something out of real paper, so this feels equal parts tantalizing and forbidden, like maybe he should sneak around so no one catches them illicitly making thank-you cards. For pirates. Out of real paper.

He's considering the handmade card idea very deeply for a moment, excuse him- until he snaps his fingers, a decision made.]

Let's make one. I'll treat it with the utmost care, regardless of how fancy the paper is.

It's... just paper, surely.

[Now the behavior is noticeable, and Waver cast Palamedes a puzzled loo. Arts and crafts weren't something he was necessarily above, but it also wasn't something to be treated with the utmost solemnity.

He had only planned to find a decent sheet of paper and use his best calligraphy for the task.]

It's not like it's a precious artifact or alchemic reagent. Paper is... paper.

Yes, for most of you, I've noticed. Not for me.

[Is he a little jealous, irrationally? Kind of! Oh, to grow up touching paper whenever he felt like it, although if paper were as abundant as flimsy, it wouldn't be nearly as precious.

He waves a hand; he isn't nearly as neurotic about real paper now as he was months ago, the first time he washed up on this beach. Somewhat, still, yes. But not as much. That doesn't mean he doesn't have a lengthy explanation for this, though:]

It is a precious artifact, where I'm from. Our real paper is ancient and irreplaceable and kept in airtight boxes full of helium and under light-blocking security measures so it doesn't fade or age to crumbling. Our House has other interests beyond the caretaking of old paper, don't get me wrong, but I told you: I'm the Warden. That means I have certain duties beyond the archival and personal research, et cetera.

[Like minding the helium boxes, or at least, making sure somebody is doing that. He shrugs. It all makes perfect sense.]

I'm into paper, if you like. [ha ha] So: let's make a thank you card, if you'll indulge me for a little longer than planned.

But-- what kind of world doesn't have paper?

[The notion of something he found so ordinary being held in such tight archival storage that the Vatican itself would weep with jealousy was mind-boggling. Waver looked askance as him, incredulous, grit relenting with a sigh.]

Very well. You can help me design and create an appropriate thank you card for Captain Amaranth-- although she might be embarrassed.

... Honestly, that might make it more necessary to give it to her.

Ask me about the Sixth as soon as we find a crafts table, [he says, with a smile for Waver's relenting. It's a purely childish want, this thank you card idea, but it's also fun and funky, so -

Well, so he smiles his luminous smile for something silly and childish like making a card with a near stranger is the best possible outcome, and that's how this afternoon is going to go now. Waver is welcome to sulk, but at least one of them is going to have a good time.]

Embarrassing one's friends is a time-honored tradition and I am happy to help, besides. Do you want to find something new to wear first?

[No offense, but there is a... sea odor.]

[The dank musk of low tide had permeated the threads so deeply that he couldn't fully launder it out by hand. Times like this had him wishing he owned even a small, portable washer for his studio apartment on the lower levels of Cellar Door-- but he was still new in town and gathering supplies.

A washer would come, hopefully sooner rather than later.]

Yes. That's a good idea, [he relented holding up his arms and frowning at his cardigan. Although he had long outgrown it until recent affairs, it was a nostalgic piece that he hated to be rid of.

After all, that was the cardigan he was wearing when he finally became Retainer to the King of Conquerors. ]

If we can't find a crafts table, we can just go back to my apartment. Or yours.

[He shrugged. The place didn't matter-- even though he still refused to call his residence a 'flat' even in another world... Lest he wanted to summon a headache. ]

This way, then, [Palamedes says, and makes a semi-sharp turn down a side street that will lead them to his shop of choice, or: the one with the least complicated clothing. His cavalier has always handled the intricacies of, like... self care for both of them. The sock organizing. Etc. Palamedes knows that comfort is king and that's the precise kind of clothing shop they're headed to, now.

That the side streets are just a touch more menacing in the green light and without so many crowds is an unfortunate consequence. It can't be helped.

As for this other thing...]

Your place has better lighting than mine, trust me. I don't need to see it to know. [he lives in a bunkerrrr] And speaking of lighting...

[A gesture at the green drabness; a crafts table would have been very kitsch, but mm, maybe not. It's not long to reach the shop selling mostly variations on a theme, the gray sweater extravaganza, and Palamedes points it out as they approach.]

Here, this one. You'd have to ask about shoes, I've never bothered.

[It was all gray, and somehow Waver found himself both surprised and oddly comforted by this. Unsurprised because Palamedes seemed as single minded as he was about study and didn't seem to need to worry about the levels of politicking that were common within the Mage's Association; comforted because the oddly drab color reminded him of the shy but eager girl he had whisked away from the English countryside and a terrible fate who preferred people to just call her...

Gray.

He chuckled despite himself, almost hearing her clear voice calling out from his memory. "Sir! You need to make sure to bring a coat along today. The radio says it's going to rain!"

... It was the little things that he missed about his London. ]

This is as good a place as any to start, [he commented, already looking for something soft with a nice knit pattern. Color would be figured out later. ] and we'll cross the lighting problem when we get there. The apartment is in a basement, but I've got my methods.

[They were simple methods, like all of his craft. A strategically placed trinket, embellished with alchemy or his own mana, would certainly help.

Picking out a sweater, he peered at Palamedes from between the racks.]

You should get yourself something a little heavier. The night wind in this season can be cooler than you would think.

Edited 2022-04-07 00:19 (UTC)

[Ah, a basement; probably still better lit artificially than the Sixth bunker with its couple of naked light bulbs on strings, anyway. Palamedes has found that most people are concerned with being able to see things all the time, while he's habitually covering windows on each visit to the Archives to protect the paper. And control the temperature.

So, normal things. He hums, fingering the sleeve of a solid gray sweater.]

I've got a torch somewhere in my bag, if you like. [And,] I — hmm.

[He hastily rethinks "I don't go outside," because it's patently untrue now. The weather now is milder than the ice upon his first arrival to Trench, and he'd handled that masterfully (that is to say, bleeding on it), so. More accurately, he's not used to weather.

Idly, his gaze slides away from the cozy sweaters to the nearby rack of outerwear. Hnn.]

How much heavier?

Heavy enough that the seabreeze and the fog doesn't make you want to stay inside forever, but not so heavy that you would need it for a ski trip.

[Basically: the gear for a cool spring. Waver hailed from an island nation that was notorious for it's dreary weather. Having options was always a good idea.

That said, he hardly went outside, either.]

A torch might be a good idea, or we're going to scare someone like we are.

[A couple of skinny nerds in dark clothes looming in the shadows at the start of an apparently endless night would certainly bring nightmares to a few people.]

I've never been on a ski trip.

[He's never experienced spring, either, but that's neither here nor there. He makes a face at the rack, wondering if it's lazy or economical to just... wait until his new friend is done picking out sweaters and then politely ask him to pick something "heavier" for him...

(It's both!)

He also slightly doubts they're going to scare anyone, but he hums and lifts the hem of the poncho-robe to get at his bag and fish for the flashlight, which he holds up and wiggles pointedly once he's got it out. Behold: pocket-sized.]

I don't know how long it will last, so let's move quickly. [Not that he doesn't enjoy shopping, but he also enjoys (the idea of) crafts. He glances at whichever sweater has been tentatively chosen;] Not that one. Two to your right, that's the one.

[They Are All Gray]

I haven't, either.

[A shrug. He wasn't inclined to that kind of exercise, thanks.]

It's just a popular recreation among some of the students I teach. Have you ever seen snow?

[Within the question was information that should spark an obvious one for Palamedes: This guy looked like a scrawny teen-- how could he have students? And yet-- Waver gamely flipped through the options on the rack, determining his choices more on texture than fit.

To the suggestion, he cast Palamedes a look and held fast to the sweater he had chosen. It was the only one with any red in it's design, and that alone helped Waver feel a little better.]

....I think I like this one.

[He said softly, holding it up. Even if it was a little big on him, it would more than do it's job for now.]

[Buy two sweaters. Palamedes shrugs; the objection and the softer tone there are hard to miss? He doesn't need to know the context to politely let it go.]

Suit yourself. And no: not before I woke up here. I was raised in a hermetically sealed Library and went on one very bad vacation without any snow, then — here.

[So that's just a big no all around.]

What do you teach?

[Like, Palamedes was Master Warden at 13, so it's not impossible that this tiny young man is a teacher...]

[He would buy the both of them-- the red was nostalgic, however.

It helped him feel closer to his king.]

You lived in an archive?

[It was boggling to think about while he checked out his items, gladdened for the small mercy of the tellers waiving fees upon realizing that he had only been on shore for less than a week.]

I suppose that must be expected. You are the Warden of untold volumes and folios of paper kept in lightless and airless containment.

[A shrug. It was all he was going to comment on the matter. To the question, he tilted his head to the side.]

I'm the Professor of Modern Magecraft Theory at the Clock Tower, and I am proficient enough with alchemic principles to put them to use in analytic and forensic practices.

[...Why yes, he's a glorified librarian who moonlights as a freelance (ish) detective-- like in those cozy mystery movies grandmotherly types liked to watch on the weekends.]

Edited 2022-04-08 03:58 (UTC)

You teach in a clocktower?

[See, he can do that thing too; not that it matters one way or the other if people don't understand the Sixth here. Even the other Houses consider them cagey recluses in their weird metal tupperware, shuffling around artifacts. But alright: magecraft theory, which means magic school.

That's fun. Genuinely, Palamedes occasionally misses taking exams and toiling away days into weeks perfecting practical skills for class.

As an afterthought, he grabs a cloak from the rack; it feels heavier? It will do.]

I'm a necromancer, so alchemy is outside my area of expertise. Can I take your class?

[hahaha, jokes! no but really though.]

[He shrugged. This kind of question was.... expected.]

The school makes use of liminal and abandoned spaces within London-- the city I've been living in-- and there is a clock tower on campus. However, to say that we're in a clock tower is misleading. The school, as well as this faction within the larger Mage's Association, merely calls itself the Clock Tower.

[Welcome to Mage Politics, Palamedes. Even the 101 is confusing af to outsiders.

Waver regarded him with his head tilted in curiosity. For the moment, not even the dreary weather could dull the spark of energy in his dark eyes.]

I'm not sure how far Modern Magecraft Theory will go for someone who doesn't know the basics... but I can certainly teach you alchemy.

As a trade-off, would you teach me some of your practice?

[Palamedes makes a gesture with the arm not holding up this new cloak, like, see? And he does not sleep among the bookshelves, therefore it all makes sense in how it specifically does not make sense.

Now then. The magics.]

You have to be born a necromancer, but if you want to know about anatomy, I can teach you that. Curative science is a hobby of mine.

[That is to say, not magic at all.]

The basics of your magecraft might be an unconquerable hurdle, but theory is interesting. You're a teacher; let's have a lecture.

....Of course it's more shit about bloodlines and and ancient lineages.

[He heaved a frustrated sigh. Such was the story of his life-- clearly. And, clearly, he was on the wrong side of that divide even in his own world.]

Regardless, we can stick with the scientific basics. Alchemy follows many similar principles as chemistry-- and some people even say that chemistry only exists because of ancient alchemists.

[Even if it wasn't magic, they could still learn from each other and hone their individual crafts. Waver held his bag with the sweaters tightly under his arm and looked up at Palamedes with clear interest.]

Besides that, I do need to learn more about healing arts. Even if it's not magecraft, I've been party to too many crises with injuries to continue being useless in those times.

[Well, Palamedes can say with certainty now that he's never met anyone more prone to moodswings than this. Frustration into interest in record time, good god, take a breath.

He hums, briefly moving aside to like, exchange a cool rock for this cloak or whatever. He's getting the first one he picked up and that's that, it'll be good enough.]

Sure, I'll show you the ropes. [No, he does not need a bag, he's going to put this new cloak on over everything else, right now--] That said, if you're going to wallow about how I was born lucky, or whatever your ancient lineage crap is, I'm going home. Being born a necromancer and being a good necromancer are two different things, and I really can't stand people who assume.

[So, like, those are his terms, delivered pretty blandly, all things considered. He arranges the hood of the cloak, flips it up, flips it back down, then holds his arms out at his sides. Look, behold the fashion.]

What do you think?

Text | un: big ben

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