[ Has Rafe been having this entire conversation from the rooftop of the church? Of course he has. He's out to learn every inch of what little he's claimed for himself, to know it like the back of his hand and damn the dark. It'll take time and patience but they have the former in abundance in this town, and he'd been forced to learn the latter early on looking for Avery.
But there are other things in Beacon he apparently won't have to wait too long for at all.
The bell is an easy landmark to jog to, the stairs down the tower easy as well— Especially lower down, where the candles flicker up from the main nave. All in all it's not even ten minutes after that last reply before Rafe is at Melisandre's door. Rapping his knuckles against the wood, he waits for her to open it. There's no locks and it's likely open but. You know. He can occasionally be a gentleman. ]
So. [ He lets the single syllable hang in the air a moment, eyebrow arching as he leans against the jamb with his arms crossed. ] I've been given to understand you're interested in empiric proof.
Edited (what the fuck, coding) 2019-07-06 23:49 (UTC)
⟪ Less than a quarter of an hour for her to consider her actions, but she has made a habit of thinking on her feet in Westeros – after the slow tune of Asshai, where nothing ever seemed to change, leaving Essos had had forced some readjustments on her in the area. So, then, what does she think of? The King, who would be grinding his teeth in anger at this, even though she is well dead by now, even though she has told him all he needs, in theory, to win his war, even though she has hinted that she won't live beyond it to begin with. Even though he is married himself.
R'hllor would approve, though, and this is the guidance she seeks. No better prayer than one of the body, no better place than a holy place such as this one. And she is human enough to think Rafe handsome, even as she half in jest and half in sincerity doubts his... ah... skillset. A knock on her door, and she recalls usually being the one to answer to summons. Can't say she dislikes the shift, and at any rate, she does not keep him waiting.
Her room, simply, is red. She'd taken a blanket and pillows and a futon for the corner as a makeshift bed, cushions by a footstool for an improvisation upon a table and seating, curtains to make the walls less... prison-like. Up at him she tilts her head where he stands, and her voice is as warm as she is as she speaks. ⟫
It seemed unjust to doubt you without a chance at redemption. ⟪ She draws him into the room, her lantern flickers by the bed, and the ruby at her throat pulses red as it's wont to do when she's wanting for something. ⟫ It is custom to assure another of no fatal intentions, among those practicing sorcery. You did not seem intimidated before, but... ⟪ she trails off. It's politeness she is going for, even as she already guides his hand to the silken belt that holds her robe in place around her waist. ⟫
[ Said with a smile more befitting a shark, sharp teeth and hungry. Rafe fully admits he was a bit bullheaded running into things, too caught up in the simple challenge to recognize one of the oldest plays in the book for what it was — not at first, anyway. Now that he's here and all cards are on the table, he can see the game behind it (mostly behind it) and appreciate it and Melisandre for what it is.
The stone still glows at her throat, almost with a heartbeat of its own, and once they're inside with the door shut firmly behind them, he leans down under pretense of a better glimpse. Total coincidence, his nose brushing her cheek on the way or his breath against her neck. The aesthete in him itches to take it off and examine it, comparing it to settings and shapes he knows, but... Well. There's more to do at the moment than play jeweler with not a loupe to his name.
Or he thinks so until there's that disclaimer. His hands still at her hips, thumbs catching on the fabric as Rafe straightens up with a smile that can't quite believe what it's heard. ]
Sorry. Rewind there for a minute. [ Don't ask him to explain rewind right now, Melisandre. There's other pressing matters. ] "No fatal intentions"?
[ Yeah, he's going to need some clarification there. ]
⟪ Knife-sharp is his smile, this is a dance, she thinks, he has danced time and time again, the steps familiar but the game still ripe for the catching, and his breath against her neck has her own catching in her throat. Soon enough, he'll know how the flashing of the ruby is the same as the beating of her heart, but sooner still his hands halt on her hips and he makes space enough for a question. ⟫
Sorcery can kill, and there will be power in what we are about to do. ⟪ Her hands at his cheeks, just enough to keep him looking at her. Some, she has found, don't hold her gaze when they can avoid it. One hand falls to his chest, where she can feel his heart beat, alive and burning. ⟫ It can be harnessed, that power. Some fear it.
⟪ The hand once on his chest falls lower, warm and insistent and practiced against his trousers, where his laces should be. It is, all in all, a good thing she has gathered clothing for some others here in Beacon, or confusion would come for her at the worst possible time. ⟫ Do you?
[ Some may not be able to, but Rafe's eyes are steady and unflinching as the rock of Gibraltar. First rule of any poker table, of any negotiation, of life itself is you never blink first and Melisandre may well be the only person he's met who can match his stare. Or match him in other things as her fingers slide south in a move straight out of his own playbook.
The magic side of it, that's something new and strange but she explains it frankly. Matter-of-fact. A callback to ancient pagan rituals he's read about as a matter of research, homage to carnal divinities and future fertility paid in the most fitting of ways. Christianity had certainly feared it but Rafe's never been particularly religious anyway. And besides, what's the worst that can happen if the magic does turn fatal? They're all of them dead anyway. May as well make the most of it. ]
Take a wild guess.
[ He says it with a chuckle, dark and low, right before catching her mouth in a kiss meant to banish any further doubts. ]
⟪ The King had first kept her around not for any of her skill, nor for her company, but for the simple fact that plenty of his men – and the men of his enemies – would not dare to speak her name out loud, for fear of her Asshai'i ways and her Shadowbinding. He holds her gaze, holds her by the hips, he laughs in the face of death and kisses her, and it's so different from her usual poisons, this.
Doubts she has none, so much is in the way she arches up against him ––
though she does need to push him away, if only to get her hands proper beneath his shirt, and drag for him to take it off. ⟫
Can't say I don't appreciate the fashions but –– ⟪ this is, in a way, more difficult than getting rid of some armour. ⟫
Don't worry, I got a feeling it's a little easier than what you're used to. Once you've had some practice.
[ If not with him, then someone else. Doesn't really matter, didn't even before they all died and ended up here — so why not enjoy what's left to them?
So Rafe peels his t-shirt off in a trice, up and over and tossed aside as much time as it takes to say it, showing off lean muscle and olive skin covered with a dark thatch of hair tapering down to his hips and beyond. He'll even do a favor and ease the way further, one hand undoing the button his jeans and leaving it open for Melisandre to do as she will. She can decide what that may be as his hands skate along the sash of her robes, loosening it to fall to the floor as he murmurs against her mouth in another kiss, ]
⟪ well, never mind that, onto his question, before we open the vial of worms that is the devil. ⟫
You will not, in fact, lose your soul, but it can taint it, affected it, and shape it into something you might not wish it to be. It can affect your body, too, if you do too much. Of course, it would be my task to prevent any, ah, permanent damage, should I be the one to teach you.
five runs. he jumps until he's into the forest, far enough that he feels ben wouldn't find him -- not soon, anyway -- and.
has to take it all in.
the world ended. vanya destroyed it. he probably doomed his brothers and sisters to death, again. everything he's ever done, everything he ever hoped for, was for nothing.
he doesn't even know where he's going, just that he has to get away away away and -- fuck, who knows. impossible to think, to plan, when he can't hear himself over his heart pounding, and he nearly slams into someone in his haste. ]
⦑ it is almost a custom greeting by now, but this time, she sounds concerned. truth be told, she has only been out here to find him, leave him some sandwiches, a bottle of something to drink, two slices of pie (made just today).
this is... not a state she has seen him in, not even when the cold was eating him alive. she rests her basket on the ground to hold onto him, to ensure he won't run from her. one hand runs through his hair, in what she hopes is a soothing gesture.⦒
[ he stumbles on his own feet, and melisandre isn't wrong to worry about him running off again. he starts to wheel away almost as soon as he recognizes her, snarls out a harsh, ]
Don't call me that!
[hero, or champion -- it never felt fitting, but after what he's heard, it feels like the worst kind of joke. ]
⦑ it suggests this is both the cause and the least of the worries in this moment: clearly, now, the name hurts. clearly, the hurt won't make her change it. and more so, nothing that could have happened would warrant, in her eyes, to reduce him to a number. ⦒
What happened?
⦑ last time she had felt like running – she bites her lip. ⦒
[ reality distorts around him, and he teleports -- but only to put himself out of reach. he could, should go elsewhere, but he doesn't even know where he'd go. the lighthouse maybe, at last, try to kill the woman holed up there or die trying. it's something actionable, at least; because there's nowhere he can go where he can escape the truths ben told him. ]
Did I meet someone. [ a laugh, humorless. ] My brother's here. And guess what? The world ended. They're probably all dead. None of it ever meant anything.
And you are, of course, the only one who has ever felt this way. Who has ever seen the apocalypse, day in, day out, and failed to stop it all the same.
⦑ if it is possible to verbally raise a brow, this is what she would do. she understands his pain, his rage, she really does –– this is precisely her point.
Get back to me, [ he says, ] when you've actually lived through one. You don't know destruction until you haven't heard another human speak for nearly half a century.
[ of course, melisandre's right; and five doesn't know enough of her experiences to judge. but he's a wild, wounded thing right now, and this is a cut that could bleed him dry. she'd spoken of her own inhumanity in the past, but he's still learning how to be a person again. he knows how to be a weapon, so he lashes out. ]
My brother is here, and I got them all killed. Again. Yeah, that's just great.
[ double meaning; they got killed the first time. and he wasn't there the first time, didn't help them. ]
What do you think the beings of Asshai do? Foster friendships?
⦑ she takes a breath, though, evening out –– it is once again his way of being a stray cat, of hissing and swatting because these things have served him better, kept him safer, than letting someone close.
more so when there was no one, no one at all, to be let close to begin with. ⦒
You cannot shoulder an apocalypse. As honest as the temptation is, as much as I understand –– your brother must have told you you are not on your own in this.
[ luther had said: but you're not on your own anymore.
luther, who is probably dead too. it doesn't matter that this is a different timeline; there's no comfort in that. this makes two versions of reality, now, where his siblings don't survive the apocalypse.
the destruction that vanya, somehow, causes.
it's not that he'd forgotten that fact, so much as it'd briefly slipped out of his mind amidst all the bad news. too much to hold onto all at once, water slipping through his fingers. he reaches into his blazer pocket until he pulls out a a round object -- a glass eye, point of fact -- and finds he can't even stand to look at it. 45 years of hope hanging on this thing, all for nothing.
he flings it, hears it crunch satisfyingly against a tree trunk. ]
Pointless. [ the eye; his entire life. ] Everything was pointless.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
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[ Has Rafe been having this entire conversation from the rooftop of the church? Of course he has. He's out to learn every inch of what little he's claimed for himself, to know it like the back of his hand and damn the dark. It'll take time and patience but they have the former in abundance in this town, and he'd been forced to learn the latter early on looking for Avery.
But there are other things in Beacon he apparently won't have to wait too long for at all.
The bell is an easy landmark to jog to, the stairs down the tower easy as well— Especially lower down, where the candles flicker up from the main nave. All in all it's not even ten minutes after that last reply before Rafe is at Melisandre's door. Rapping his knuckles against the wood, he waits for her to open it. There's no locks and it's likely open but. You know. He can occasionally be a gentleman. ]
So. [ He lets the single syllable hang in the air a moment, eyebrow arching as he leans against the jamb with his arms crossed. ] I've been given to understand you're interested in empiric proof.
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R'hllor would approve, though, and this is the guidance she seeks. No better prayer than one of the body, no better place than a holy place such as this one. And she is human enough to think Rafe handsome, even as she half in jest and half in sincerity doubts his... ah... skillset. A knock on her door, and she recalls usually being the one to answer to summons. Can't say she dislikes the shift, and at any rate, she does not keep him waiting.
Her room, simply, is red. She'd taken a blanket and pillows and a futon for the corner as a makeshift bed, cushions by a footstool for an improvisation upon a table and seating, curtains to make the walls less... prison-like. Up at him she tilts her head where he stands, and her voice is as warm as she is as she speaks. ⟫
It seemed unjust to doubt you without a chance at redemption. ⟪ She draws him into the room, her lantern flickers by the bed, and the ruby at her throat pulses red as it's wont to do when she's wanting for something. ⟫ It is custom to assure another of no fatal intentions, among those practicing sorcery. You did not seem intimidated before, but... ⟪ she trails off. It's politeness she is going for, even as she already guides his hand to the silken belt that holds her robe in place around her waist. ⟫
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[ Said with a smile more befitting a shark, sharp teeth and hungry. Rafe fully admits he was a bit bullheaded running into things, too caught up in the simple challenge to recognize one of the oldest plays in the book for what it was — not at first, anyway. Now that he's here and all cards are on the table, he can see the game behind it (mostly behind it) and appreciate it and Melisandre for what it is.
The stone still glows at her throat, almost with a heartbeat of its own, and once they're inside with the door shut firmly behind them, he leans down under pretense of a better glimpse. Total coincidence, his nose brushing her cheek on the way or his breath against her neck. The aesthete in him itches to take it off and examine it, comparing it to settings and shapes he knows, but... Well. There's more to do at the moment than play jeweler with not a loupe to his name.
Or he thinks so until there's that disclaimer. His hands still at her hips, thumbs catching on the fabric as Rafe straightens up with a smile that can't quite believe what it's heard. ]
Sorry. Rewind there for a minute. [ Don't ask him to explain rewind right now, Melisandre. There's other pressing matters. ] "No fatal intentions"?
[ Yeah, he's going to need some clarification there. ]
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Sorcery can kill, and there will be power in what we are about to do. ⟪ Her hands at his cheeks, just enough to keep him looking at her. Some, she has found, don't hold her gaze when they can avoid it. One hand falls to his chest, where she can feel his heart beat, alive and burning. ⟫ It can be harnessed, that power. Some fear it.
⟪ The hand once on his chest falls lower, warm and insistent and practiced against his trousers, where his laces should be. It is, all in all, a good thing she has gathered clothing for some others here in Beacon, or confusion would come for her at the worst possible time. ⟫ Do you?
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The magic side of it, that's something new and strange but she explains it frankly. Matter-of-fact. A callback to ancient pagan rituals he's read about as a matter of research, homage to carnal divinities and future fertility paid in the most fitting of ways. Christianity had certainly feared it but Rafe's never been particularly religious anyway. And besides, what's the worst that can happen if the magic does turn fatal? They're all of them dead anyway. May as well make the most of it. ]
Take a wild guess.
[ He says it with a chuckle, dark and low, right before catching her mouth in a kiss meant to banish any further doubts. ]
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Doubts she has none, so much is in the way she arches up against him ––
though she does need to push him away, if only to get her hands proper beneath his shirt, and drag for him to take it off. ⟫
Can't say I don't appreciate the fashions but –– ⟪ this is, in a way, more difficult than getting rid of some armour. ⟫
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[ If not with him, then someone else. Doesn't really matter, didn't even before they all died and ended up here — so why not enjoy what's left to them?
So Rafe peels his t-shirt off in a trice, up and over and tossed aside as much time as it takes to say it, showing off lean muscle and olive skin covered with a dark thatch of hair tapering down to his hips and beyond. He'll even do a favor and ease the way further, one hand undoing the button his jeans and leaving it open for Melisandre to do as she will. She can decide what that may be as his hands skate along the sash of her robes, loosening it to fall to the floor as he murmurs against her mouth in another kiss, ]
Granted yours is a little easier access...
@dysmas :// text;
talk to me about magic
specifically who can learn to do it
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@priestess is typing...
@priestess is typing...
@priestess has finally figured out how to use the space key. ⟫
It can be taught to anyone willing to give their soul and body to it.
Are you willing?
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⟪ well, never mind that, onto his question, before we open the vial of worms that is the devil. ⟫
You will not, in fact, lose your soul, but it can taint it, affected it, and shape it into something you might not wish it to be. It can affect your body, too, if you do too much. Of course, it would be my task to prevent any, ah, permanent damage, should I be the one to teach you.
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never mind
what kind of effects are we talking here
not as a lack of faith in your abilities here mind
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It has... made me less mortal, for one. But it can make you bleed, too, and many a novice dies of their folly.
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[ black goat certainly sounds devil adjacent. but a few moments later though: ]
well not like mortality carries that much weight anymore given how we all got here and blood washes
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But then, I found you quite excel at the easiest way to generate it.
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and there's plenty more on tap
so is this doable? you're up to teach?
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≫ forward dated to around the intro
five runs. he jumps until he's into the forest, far enough that he feels ben wouldn't find him -- not soon, anyway -- and.
has to take it all in.
the world ended. vanya destroyed it. he probably doomed his brothers and sisters to death, again. everything he's ever done, everything he ever hoped for, was for nothing.
he doesn't even know where he's going, just that he has to get away away away and -- fuck, who knows. impossible to think, to plan, when he can't hear himself over his heart pounding, and he nearly slams into someone in his haste. ]
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⦑ it is almost a custom greeting by now, but this time, she sounds concerned. truth be told, she has only been out here to find him, leave him some sandwiches, a bottle of something to drink, two slices of pie (made just today).
this is... not a state she has seen him in, not even when the cold was eating him alive. she rests her basket on the ground to hold onto him, to ensure he won't run from her. one hand runs through his hair, in what she hopes is a soothing gesture.⦒
Have you been attacked?
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Don't call me that!
[ hero, or champion -- it never felt fitting, but after what he's heard, it feels like the worst kind of joke. ]
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What happened?
⦑ last time she had felt like running – she bites her lip. ⦒
Did you meet someone?
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Did I meet someone. [ a laugh, humorless. ] My brother's here. And guess what? The world ended. They're probably all dead. None of it ever meant anything.
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⦑ if it is possible to verbally raise a brow, this is what she would do. she understands his pain, his rage, she really does –– this is precisely her point.
that said, she grants him his space for this. ⦒
Your brother is here. He still has meaning.
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[ of course, melisandre's right; and five doesn't know enough of her experiences to judge. but he's a wild, wounded thing right now, and this is a cut that could bleed him dry. she'd spoken of her own inhumanity in the past, but he's still learning how to be a person again. he knows how to be a weapon, so he lashes out. ]
My brother is here, and I got them all killed. Again. Yeah, that's just great.
[ double meaning; they got killed the first time. and he wasn't there the first time, didn't help them. ]
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⦑ she takes a breath, though, evening out –– it is once again his way of being a stray cat, of hissing and swatting because these things have served him better, kept him safer, than letting someone close.
more so when there was no one, no one at all, to be let close to begin with. ⦒
You cannot shoulder an apocalypse. As honest as the temptation is, as much as I understand –– your brother must have told you you are not on your own in this.
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luther, who is probably dead too. it doesn't matter that this is a different timeline; there's no comfort in that. this makes two versions of reality, now, where his siblings don't survive the apocalypse.
the destruction that vanya, somehow, causes.
it's not that he'd forgotten that fact, so much as it'd briefly slipped out of his mind amidst all the bad news. too much to hold onto all at once, water slipping through his fingers. he reaches into his blazer pocket until he pulls out a a round object -- a glass eye, point of fact -- and finds he can't even stand to look at it. 45 years of hope hanging on this thing, all for nothing.
he flings it, hears it crunch satisfyingly against a tree trunk. ]
Pointless. [ the eye; his entire life. ] Everything was pointless.
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