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Fantasy The Secret Garden
- Thread starter blueskies
- Start date
blueskies
rickety, but trying
Without sun, even the smallest sprouts of tarragon would struggle.
Nyssa looked at the patch of herbs before her and was unhappy with its growth, it barely broke the soil’s surface and what did would droop nearly flat. Despite the good fortunes the upcoming change of seasons would bring, the community ran dangerously low on supplies now, and the rat tailed plants before her were what she counted on to heal the most common ailments in the community.
A sigh rolled off of her tongue, quiet as a wisp of wind.
The plants were protected inside an iron skeleton glass house, balmy, and yet even here they didn’t look like they should. Just keeping them alive was a challenge, despite the talent Nyssa possessed with botanicals. It was near impossible to grow them to their entire usefulness. However, despite her frustration, she could understand the struggle of her plants, for even people failed to thrive in the sunless snow clouds that covered the entirety of Callu during the winter season.
Purr.
“Oh, Archie.”
Archie, who she complained to, was a mousey gray cat who had decided one day that she was his and had become her constant companion. He eternally looked like he was close to death despite Nyssa’s best efforts.
The witch knelt down and ran her hand along his easily felt spine before leaving the garden table. She took another deep breath, preparing herself for the biting wind that awaited them outside the doors of the greenhouse. It wasn’t a long walk back to her little house down the path, but in this weather it felt like hours.
“Are you ready?” She asked as she stood, looking down at the ball of fur at her feet. Except he wasn’t there, in fact the cat had broken his attention, strolling lazily toward the door.
Archie walked with this sauntering purpose, as if he had asked Nyssa first - and perhaps he had. Words didn’t always need to be spoken, especially between two who knew each other so well.
The cat waited at the clear paned glass door for Nyssa to join him, watching as the cottony snowflakes fell thick through the air. The flakes would drift towards the ground until they found a resting place on the already chest high hills only for a moment before blowing past, adding to the blizzard.
For a fleeting moment even Nyssa could enjoy its beauty. Endless snow. Fresh, pure. The most beautiful things could be the most devastating.
“The first one back has to make dinner.”
It was a meager attempt by Nyssa at humor as the cat knew he would always be fed first, and Nyssa knew she would hardly eat anyway. Still, Nyssa looked down at the cat hoping for some kind of response, but there was none — so she held her breath and opened the door just long enough that they could both snake through.
Both cat and girl were immediately chilled to the bone, a collective shiver shared between them before they took off in the direction of the cottage.
The conditions were white out, a sight line of mere feet in either direction. The two relied on each other to find their way. Truly, the only reason they ever made it back to the house in these conditions was because they had walked the path together so many times before.
“Archie, what are you doing!” Nyssa called as the cat’s pace picked up and he nearly disappeared out of view.
Her steps increased, as did her heart rate — even as the comforting outline of the cottage appeared. Something was different. The hair on the nape of her neck stood and she stopped, somehow no longer cold.
Archie made a noise that she could only be described as a growl, but Nyssa could not move — her feet planted solidly in the snow.
It was then that she saw a figure huddled under her stoop, stark black against the whiteout. Had the figure not jolted at the sound of the cat they’d have looked like nothing more than a shadow monster.
“Who are you?” She called, pulling the cat up into her grasp for her own comfort. “What are you doing here?”
As Nyssa looked closer she could tell that it was a man, frail - but not elderly. His gaze flickered upwards. Normally eye contact would have been comforting, but the eerily glow in the eyes peering back at her only added to his allusion.
“Are you in need of assistance?”
Nyssa looked at the patch of herbs before her and was unhappy with its growth, it barely broke the soil’s surface and what did would droop nearly flat. Despite the good fortunes the upcoming change of seasons would bring, the community ran dangerously low on supplies now, and the rat tailed plants before her were what she counted on to heal the most common ailments in the community.
A sigh rolled off of her tongue, quiet as a wisp of wind.
The plants were protected inside an iron skeleton glass house, balmy, and yet even here they didn’t look like they should. Just keeping them alive was a challenge, despite the talent Nyssa possessed with botanicals. It was near impossible to grow them to their entire usefulness. However, despite her frustration, she could understand the struggle of her plants, for even people failed to thrive in the sunless snow clouds that covered the entirety of Callu during the winter season.
Purr.
“Oh, Archie.”
Archie, who she complained to, was a mousey gray cat who had decided one day that she was his and had become her constant companion. He eternally looked like he was close to death despite Nyssa’s best efforts.
The witch knelt down and ran her hand along his easily felt spine before leaving the garden table. She took another deep breath, preparing herself for the biting wind that awaited them outside the doors of the greenhouse. It wasn’t a long walk back to her little house down the path, but in this weather it felt like hours.
“Are you ready?” She asked as she stood, looking down at the ball of fur at her feet. Except he wasn’t there, in fact the cat had broken his attention, strolling lazily toward the door.
Archie walked with this sauntering purpose, as if he had asked Nyssa first - and perhaps he had. Words didn’t always need to be spoken, especially between two who knew each other so well.
The cat waited at the clear paned glass door for Nyssa to join him, watching as the cottony snowflakes fell thick through the air. The flakes would drift towards the ground until they found a resting place on the already chest high hills only for a moment before blowing past, adding to the blizzard.
For a fleeting moment even Nyssa could enjoy its beauty. Endless snow. Fresh, pure. The most beautiful things could be the most devastating.
“The first one back has to make dinner.”
It was a meager attempt by Nyssa at humor as the cat knew he would always be fed first, and Nyssa knew she would hardly eat anyway. Still, Nyssa looked down at the cat hoping for some kind of response, but there was none — so she held her breath and opened the door just long enough that they could both snake through.
Both cat and girl were immediately chilled to the bone, a collective shiver shared between them before they took off in the direction of the cottage.
The conditions were white out, a sight line of mere feet in either direction. The two relied on each other to find their way. Truly, the only reason they ever made it back to the house in these conditions was because they had walked the path together so many times before.
“Archie, what are you doing!” Nyssa called as the cat’s pace picked up and he nearly disappeared out of view.
Her steps increased, as did her heart rate — even as the comforting outline of the cottage appeared. Something was different. The hair on the nape of her neck stood and she stopped, somehow no longer cold.
Archie made a noise that she could only be described as a growl, but Nyssa could not move — her feet planted solidly in the snow.
It was then that she saw a figure huddled under her stoop, stark black against the whiteout. Had the figure not jolted at the sound of the cat they’d have looked like nothing more than a shadow monster.
“Who are you?” She called, pulling the cat up into her grasp for her own comfort. “What are you doing here?”
As Nyssa looked closer she could tell that it was a man, frail - but not elderly. His gaze flickered upwards. Normally eye contact would have been comforting, but the eerily glow in the eyes peering back at her only added to his allusion.
“Are you in need of assistance?”
_GreyJazz_
Back from the dead, maybe
All he could feel was cold. It was as though even his heart had frozen, leaving a body that could only be moved through slow, sluggish movements. He craved warmth. The cold season had proven a far worse obstacle than even Alair could predict, leaving him battered if he returned to where he had guaranteed shelter, yet even worse off if he held his pride and refused it.
Truthfully, even if death may be my recourse, perhaps that may be for the best. Even so, if he was not dead yet, he could only keep moving, a near-delirious desperation driving him forward until he could find some semblance of shelter. His wounds made every step painful, and any human would have easily been felled, though his exception came through age and an inherently inhuman nature.
Alair couldn't remember how far he had walked when he saw a faint outline in the distance. Is that a building? His vision spotty from the pain, he could only direct his sluggish feet towards the structure, pain amplifying itself until he could barely see. He needed in, out of the cold, somewhere he could tend to the wounds all over his body. The blood had frozen to his skin. He'd lived worse injuries, but never been so uncomfortable in the state of his life.
Are you in need of Assistance?
He hadn't realized he'd reached his destination, blurred vision keeping him from even recognizing that there was a person before him. Willing the stranger into focus, he subconsciously held his black cloak tighter to himself as he tried to prepare an answer, to do something; anything.
"I--" His voice was cut off by a familiar sensation. Something was being drawn from him, sucked from him as his magic was invoked elsewhere. He staggered. jet-black hair dusted by snow falling into his face, mouth covered by an insulated mask. His cloak covered his shoulders and hid the top of his torso, though beneath was another black coat to shield from the cold as well as black pants. They were quite thick, hiding more layers underneath, including the top of his metallic boots. A symbol which should have been masked by his cloak became glowing and visible - a tattoo of abstract lines and symbols on his shoulder glowed over top of all the layers he was wearing, and the actions causing it turned a face that appeared both youthful and wise haggard. It was clear he couldn't respond to Nyssa; it was taking all of his strength simply to not pass out.
Internally, he cursed his glowing mark. The brand which activated and caused previously hospitable townsfolk to turn on him with a wrath he wondered if he truly deserved. He was the demon of stories, the monster whose power was abused by a tyrannical king even Alair himself wished dead. It was not him controlling the misdeeds, and even if he passed, he suspected the king would only find another to strip of their power and abuse for his own personal gain. Even so, he understood the sentiment, the hope that ending his life could provide even a brief respite.
He simply didn't want to die.
Truthfully, even if death may be my recourse, perhaps that may be for the best. Even so, if he was not dead yet, he could only keep moving, a near-delirious desperation driving him forward until he could find some semblance of shelter. His wounds made every step painful, and any human would have easily been felled, though his exception came through age and an inherently inhuman nature.
Alair couldn't remember how far he had walked when he saw a faint outline in the distance. Is that a building? His vision spotty from the pain, he could only direct his sluggish feet towards the structure, pain amplifying itself until he could barely see. He needed in, out of the cold, somewhere he could tend to the wounds all over his body. The blood had frozen to his skin. He'd lived worse injuries, but never been so uncomfortable in the state of his life.
Are you in need of Assistance?
He hadn't realized he'd reached his destination, blurred vision keeping him from even recognizing that there was a person before him. Willing the stranger into focus, he subconsciously held his black cloak tighter to himself as he tried to prepare an answer, to do something; anything.
"I--" His voice was cut off by a familiar sensation. Something was being drawn from him, sucked from him as his magic was invoked elsewhere. He staggered. jet-black hair dusted by snow falling into his face, mouth covered by an insulated mask. His cloak covered his shoulders and hid the top of his torso, though beneath was another black coat to shield from the cold as well as black pants. They were quite thick, hiding more layers underneath, including the top of his metallic boots. A symbol which should have been masked by his cloak became glowing and visible - a tattoo of abstract lines and symbols on his shoulder glowed over top of all the layers he was wearing, and the actions causing it turned a face that appeared both youthful and wise haggard. It was clear he couldn't respond to Nyssa; it was taking all of his strength simply to not pass out.
Internally, he cursed his glowing mark. The brand which activated and caused previously hospitable townsfolk to turn on him with a wrath he wondered if he truly deserved. He was the demon of stories, the monster whose power was abused by a tyrannical king even Alair himself wished dead. It was not him controlling the misdeeds, and even if he passed, he suspected the king would only find another to strip of their power and abuse for his own personal gain. Even so, he understood the sentiment, the hope that ending his life could provide even a brief respite.
He simply didn't want to die.
blueskies
rickety, but trying
Instinctively, Nyssa released the cat and reached to steady the teetering frame before her. She only just managed to help the stranger keep to his feet. “Oh dear.” Her breath escaped in a soft whisper and with it the tension and fear, which had bubbled in the back of her throat and threatened to escape with a scream.
What have I gotten myself into this time? She couldn’t help but think, knowing full well she wouldn’t deny him entrance — no matter how her instinct demanded she run inside, alone.
However, whoever this person was, it was easy to see the intent was not to harm anyone. He couldn’t even muster the strength to utter a word. Yet, somehow relief was not the word to describe what she felt.
“Inside quickly, or both of our heads will be had,” She pleaded, turning the brass doorknob and letting the warmth of the house hit her on her face.
Not far from the open door was the couch; large, soft, and surrounded by towers of books. “Can you make it to the couch? I promise it’s not far.” The question was for naught, as the witch did not give him any time to answer, simply curled her fingers around his forearms and directed him toward the cushiony oasis. Offering what little strength she trusted to him, just in order to ensure that he could make it all the way until he sunk down into the down feathered velvet.
It was dangerous to offer anyone a part of her being, but Nyssa feared his ability to make even just a few more feet and there was no chance of survival for anything left alone out in the cold — let alone someone so tightly bundled and still cold to the core.
This lack of restraint was a serious form of contention for Archie who paced at her feet growling. Chastising her for taking in yet another stray, surely. “Go get the vial of dolor.” Nyssa told the cat, watching as he slunk as close to the wall as he could, and proceeded to
disappear somewhere inside the house.
“You are safe now.” She offered the man, bent to his level, the backs of her fingers pressing running along his forehead. Nyssa didn’t have to touch his forehead to see that he was cold, but she had out of habit and shuddered with the chill that vibrated off of him. “Sleep, and when you wake up you will feel better.”
What have I gotten myself into this time? She couldn’t help but think, knowing full well she wouldn’t deny him entrance — no matter how her instinct demanded she run inside, alone.
However, whoever this person was, it was easy to see the intent was not to harm anyone. He couldn’t even muster the strength to utter a word. Yet, somehow relief was not the word to describe what she felt.
“Inside quickly, or both of our heads will be had,” She pleaded, turning the brass doorknob and letting the warmth of the house hit her on her face.
Not far from the open door was the couch; large, soft, and surrounded by towers of books. “Can you make it to the couch? I promise it’s not far.” The question was for naught, as the witch did not give him any time to answer, simply curled her fingers around his forearms and directed him toward the cushiony oasis. Offering what little strength she trusted to him, just in order to ensure that he could make it all the way until he sunk down into the down feathered velvet.
It was dangerous to offer anyone a part of her being, but Nyssa feared his ability to make even just a few more feet and there was no chance of survival for anything left alone out in the cold — let alone someone so tightly bundled and still cold to the core.
This lack of restraint was a serious form of contention for Archie who paced at her feet growling. Chastising her for taking in yet another stray, surely. “Go get the vial of dolor.” Nyssa told the cat, watching as he slunk as close to the wall as he could, and proceeded to
disappear somewhere inside the house.
“You are safe now.” She offered the man, bent to his level, the backs of her fingers pressing running along his forehead. Nyssa didn’t have to touch his forehead to see that he was cold, but she had out of habit and shuddered with the chill that vibrated off of him. “Sleep, and when you wake up you will feel better.”
_GreyJazz_
Back from the dead, maybe
The warmth inside Nyssa's house offered Alair great comfort. Though he was still quite frozen, the warmth already offered a quick relief that only turned painful as his body was still unable to heal itself. He shuddered at the change in temperature, barely able to assist her quest to lay him down. Vision still blurry, he could only feebly allow her to guide him to their destination.
Laying down, however, offered him a great relief. His powers were still being drained quickly, though, allowing no respite besides minor muscle relief. If he dropped the magic shielding his eyes, he should be able to see Nyssa clearly, an action he decided upon without much thought. Red eyes stared at her, taking her in as she waited for him to sleep. His irises, which had been an eerie black that allowed no color be reflected, now looked almost ordinary if not for their color. Even so, the small change also allowed him enough energy to explain: "I'm afraid I cannot, m'lady. Not while this accursed crest is activated." He was trying for a firm voice that would mask the extend of his fatigue to ease her mind, but failed miserably and only could mumble. Deciding he couldn't explain his situation yet, he simply closed his eyes and tried to assess his own physical state.
Being that healing was not his specialty, healing himself would take more energy than he could spare, even now that the cold was no longer worsening his injuries. There were lashings on his back that were the worst, deepest wounds. Bruises across his arms and legs also caused him a great pain. Luckily, he had not been wearing his armor, and he was able to find time to put it on. His pride would not allow him to hurt folk who only wished him dead because his powers had been used against them, so he could only defend himself and retreat; it was just bad luck that his retreat had left him cold and with no shelter.
After a feeble attempt at self-healing failed, he returned his attention to the woman in front of him, trying to will himself the strength to explain himself, to display his innocence or reassure that his pride would not allow him to injure someone who is helping him. Something, anything. He closed his mouth again, however, realizing that he could not force the words out of his mouth and continuous attempts would make it harder to hide the fangs he would normally try to hide.
The crest on his shoulder seemed to dim for a moment, a brief glimmer of hope showing in his eyes as he felt his magic start to return to him, only to quickly brighten beyond what it was before, causing his skin to tighten in some areas. Despite this action draining energy from him instead of lending it to him, he jolted to a sitting position with crazed eyes. "No--"
But it was already too late. A little bit of color returned to Alair's face as the tyrant decided to "feed" Alair through their shared crest, turning the crest from a white-red to a darker crimson, though still glowing. Alair was trembling, shaking, and didn't even heal himself. He simply sat there in shock and unmoving, saying and doing nothing to explain the situation. He didn't even notice when the crest returned to white-red and his energy started to drain again.
Laying down, however, offered him a great relief. His powers were still being drained quickly, though, allowing no respite besides minor muscle relief. If he dropped the magic shielding his eyes, he should be able to see Nyssa clearly, an action he decided upon without much thought. Red eyes stared at her, taking her in as she waited for him to sleep. His irises, which had been an eerie black that allowed no color be reflected, now looked almost ordinary if not for their color. Even so, the small change also allowed him enough energy to explain: "I'm afraid I cannot, m'lady. Not while this accursed crest is activated." He was trying for a firm voice that would mask the extend of his fatigue to ease her mind, but failed miserably and only could mumble. Deciding he couldn't explain his situation yet, he simply closed his eyes and tried to assess his own physical state.
Being that healing was not his specialty, healing himself would take more energy than he could spare, even now that the cold was no longer worsening his injuries. There were lashings on his back that were the worst, deepest wounds. Bruises across his arms and legs also caused him a great pain. Luckily, he had not been wearing his armor, and he was able to find time to put it on. His pride would not allow him to hurt folk who only wished him dead because his powers had been used against them, so he could only defend himself and retreat; it was just bad luck that his retreat had left him cold and with no shelter.
After a feeble attempt at self-healing failed, he returned his attention to the woman in front of him, trying to will himself the strength to explain himself, to display his innocence or reassure that his pride would not allow him to injure someone who is helping him. Something, anything. He closed his mouth again, however, realizing that he could not force the words out of his mouth and continuous attempts would make it harder to hide the fangs he would normally try to hide.
The crest on his shoulder seemed to dim for a moment, a brief glimmer of hope showing in his eyes as he felt his magic start to return to him, only to quickly brighten beyond what it was before, causing his skin to tighten in some areas. Despite this action draining energy from him instead of lending it to him, he jolted to a sitting position with crazed eyes. "No--"
But it was already too late. A little bit of color returned to Alair's face as the tyrant decided to "feed" Alair through their shared crest, turning the crest from a white-red to a darker crimson, though still glowing. Alair was trembling, shaking, and didn't even heal himself. He simply sat there in shock and unmoving, saying and doing nothing to explain the situation. He didn't even notice when the crest returned to white-red and his energy started to drain again.
blueskies
rickety, but trying
Nyssa could not help but stare, dissecting him visually from the crisp white hair to the way his clothes were still ice cold. The sigil especially drew her eyes, a threatening red flag of warning.
For a moment, she could do nothing but watch the stranger and his movements.
It had been many-a-moons since Nyssa’d seen another being that she did not know as well as her left hand. Callu was far from other civilizations, and even if it were not the people of their region did little travel or trade.
To have a stranger show up at her door, let alone one who was afflicted by magic? It was an impossibility. One which fascinated her, and caused an innate curiosity to spark.
Yet, fear did still linger in the very pit of her stomach as she looked at him, eye to eye. His presence alone was a complication to many years of hard work toward Nyssa attempting to blend herself into her community of humans. A group of people who, like many in the country, had a vile hatred for anyone who was not like them. Truly, It would have been wiser to leave the stranger on her doorstep, to call for help someway.
But Nyssa could not.
Instinct drove her desire to heal others, and that instinct only heightened as his skin began to tremble. Her eyebrows twisted and tightened.
About that time, the cat returned, depositing a sparkling bottle of dark liquid onto the floorboard, before scattering once more. As friendly as Nyssa was to people, her pet was anything but.
“This will help with your pain,” Like before, she did not ask permission to do what she wanted, she simply did as she wished — swatching the liquid across her fingers and running it along his forehead. The dark mark spread across his quivering skin and faded as quickly as it had been applied.
Not true pain relief, but a trick of the mind. One of the few items in her stores even Nyssa herself could use.
“Deep breaths, in and out.” This time her words were an instruction, accompanied by a demonstration and her palm pressed to the center of the chest tapping. “My name is Nyssa. You are safe here, but I cannot help you with your sigil.”
For a moment, she could do nothing but watch the stranger and his movements.
It had been many-a-moons since Nyssa’d seen another being that she did not know as well as her left hand. Callu was far from other civilizations, and even if it were not the people of their region did little travel or trade.
To have a stranger show up at her door, let alone one who was afflicted by magic? It was an impossibility. One which fascinated her, and caused an innate curiosity to spark.
Yet, fear did still linger in the very pit of her stomach as she looked at him, eye to eye. His presence alone was a complication to many years of hard work toward Nyssa attempting to blend herself into her community of humans. A group of people who, like many in the country, had a vile hatred for anyone who was not like them. Truly, It would have been wiser to leave the stranger on her doorstep, to call for help someway.
But Nyssa could not.
Instinct drove her desire to heal others, and that instinct only heightened as his skin began to tremble. Her eyebrows twisted and tightened.
About that time, the cat returned, depositing a sparkling bottle of dark liquid onto the floorboard, before scattering once more. As friendly as Nyssa was to people, her pet was anything but.
“This will help with your pain,” Like before, she did not ask permission to do what she wanted, she simply did as she wished — swatching the liquid across her fingers and running it along his forehead. The dark mark spread across his quivering skin and faded as quickly as it had been applied.
Not true pain relief, but a trick of the mind. One of the few items in her stores even Nyssa herself could use.
“Deep breaths, in and out.” This time her words were an instruction, accompanied by a demonstration and her palm pressed to the center of the chest tapping. “My name is Nyssa. You are safe here, but I cannot help you with your sigil.”
_GreyJazz_
Back from the dead, maybe
"Nor would I expect it. None can remove this blasted thing; that is the very nature of such a contract. It will bind all involved until the conditions for termination are met." Of course, it was commonly known that the termination conditions applied currently were only death. If she was not aware of the sigil, perhaps he had made it out of the country he had come from. He had escaped to a neighboring country previously, but seeing as they were in active conflict with the tyrant, they had known of him and his mark. If he had made it far enough away to not be recognized for that alone, then perhaps he truly was safe.
He had watched her movements carefully, but the strength he'd found itself with had not come from anything Nyssa could do, nor anything he would expect from her. The methods of restoring his life from the near-death he had just experience had included absorbing the life force of another being. However, the only method he had of accessing another's life force was through killing them, an act he refused, so he had hoped to encounter another method. Instead, his contract partner had forcibly absorbed life force that could only go to Alair, as no human could gain anything from this type of energy.
Cursing inwardly, he removed the clips holding his ears tightly to his head. She should already be aware of his more sinister disposition, so the interest of his own comfort would carry little risk. There. A form of headache he'd not realized amidst his other aches subsided, though it was only a minimal difference. Now that his ears were exposed, he looked almost elven with his pure skin and pointed ears. "I am called Alair currently, though I have taken many names over the ages. Those are identities I have divorced myself from, just as I will seek to be rid of this moniker once my contract is over, provided it does not end with my own demise. I suppose it is true that a demon's worst enemy is his own magic."
He had watched her movements carefully, but the strength he'd found itself with had not come from anything Nyssa could do, nor anything he would expect from her. The methods of restoring his life from the near-death he had just experience had included absorbing the life force of another being. However, the only method he had of accessing another's life force was through killing them, an act he refused, so he had hoped to encounter another method. Instead, his contract partner had forcibly absorbed life force that could only go to Alair, as no human could gain anything from this type of energy.
Cursing inwardly, he removed the clips holding his ears tightly to his head. She should already be aware of his more sinister disposition, so the interest of his own comfort would carry little risk. There. A form of headache he'd not realized amidst his other aches subsided, though it was only a minimal difference. Now that his ears were exposed, he looked almost elven with his pure skin and pointed ears. "I am called Alair currently, though I have taken many names over the ages. Those are identities I have divorced myself from, just as I will seek to be rid of this moniker once my contract is over, provided it does not end with my own demise. I suppose it is true that a demon's worst enemy is his own magic."
blueskies
rickety, but trying
“This land is unwelcoming to strangers, people and creatures alike. Even without magic, it is quite a miracle you have arrived this far.”
She rolled back on her heels, and then sat back, cross legged on the ground. Still, unable to look away. His expression was just so stark against the warm tones that surrounded him, clearly out of place.
“Alair. Hmm.” A demon? The word felt like it should invoke some kind of terrifying effect motion. A thousand questions rattled, but she chose not to ask them, knowing they would roll out faster than comprehensible.
From the corner of the room, Nyssa beckoned to a blue leather book, which could only be described as crawling it’s way to her - aided by vines which grew out of the wooden floor. As soon as the book reached it’s summoner, the little twists of sticks vanished back into the floor. Their disturbance left new etched in the wood, as if they had been there all along.
“Nature is balance, Alair. She does not bind herself to contracts of man, even if those men are powerful.” Nyssa picked the book up, running her fingers over the embossing which was that of a large tree. At one point it may have been flecked in gold or silver, but too many years had worn it down. Still, it was beautiful. “What you need is to find the chink in the armour of the contract. I do not deal in dark magic, it does not obey me.”
She held the book up, and tried to open it. The book refused, fluttering its pages in disgust at her touch and tightening down even harder than it has been before. Forbidden knowledge. “Perhaps this would be more useful to you, than I. It has never opened for me, despite my efforts.” The admission seemed to dull her words. It was not often that she could not break the barrier of someone she wanted to connect with, part of the reason her ruse in this town had lasted so long. “The one who gave it to me spoke of things like you sigil. If they could cause them with a book such as thing, maybe there is a way to unwind it.”
She rolled back on her heels, and then sat back, cross legged on the ground. Still, unable to look away. His expression was just so stark against the warm tones that surrounded him, clearly out of place.
“Alair. Hmm.” A demon? The word felt like it should invoke some kind of terrifying effect motion. A thousand questions rattled, but she chose not to ask them, knowing they would roll out faster than comprehensible.
From the corner of the room, Nyssa beckoned to a blue leather book, which could only be described as crawling it’s way to her - aided by vines which grew out of the wooden floor. As soon as the book reached it’s summoner, the little twists of sticks vanished back into the floor. Their disturbance left new etched in the wood, as if they had been there all along.
“Nature is balance, Alair. She does not bind herself to contracts of man, even if those men are powerful.” Nyssa picked the book up, running her fingers over the embossing which was that of a large tree. At one point it may have been flecked in gold or silver, but too many years had worn it down. Still, it was beautiful. “What you need is to find the chink in the armour of the contract. I do not deal in dark magic, it does not obey me.”
She held the book up, and tried to open it. The book refused, fluttering its pages in disgust at her touch and tightening down even harder than it has been before. Forbidden knowledge. “Perhaps this would be more useful to you, than I. It has never opened for me, despite my efforts.” The admission seemed to dull her words. It was not often that she could not break the barrier of someone she wanted to connect with, part of the reason her ruse in this town had lasted so long. “The one who gave it to me spoke of things like you sigil. If they could cause them with a book such as thing, maybe there is a way to unwind it.”
_GreyJazz_
Back from the dead, maybe
Alair bit his tongue. Now was neither the time nor place to debate his stance on the existence of miracles, nor to state that of course he had survived; it has always been quite difficult for a demon to be felled by conditions that lingered rather than being killed directly. Such an argument would prove pointless; surely this woman was familiar enough with those of his ilk to have heard rumors.
Her reaction to his nature yielded an immediate respect from him. He was bloodied and bruised yet, and a stranger besides, so it would not be especially polite to satisfy her curiosities immediately. Alair would hold no secrets from one in her position, who chose to help him despite learning of his true nature, but she had no way of knowing this and he didn't divulge the information for fear that he may be met with more questions than his mind would be prepared to handle.
Instead, he focused on the book she summoned forth, disregarding the magic as if he'd expected such a thing... Though surely he had anticipated that only someone with her own magic would invest herself in another. Like anything else, magic was most dangerous to those who did not understand it, and he couldn't fault those in the past who had feared him simply after seeing his magic.
"No magical art would make itself readily available to someone who is not genuine in their pursuit of it. The dark arts especially are known to only claim those who seek it in complete earnest, only marking the individual first in very specific instances." Of course he was such an instance, though of course there were demons versed in other magics. Demonic nature came not from the type of magic but through the methods in generating mana. Darker arts were known to pity those stuck in the cycle of sinister methodology, though in his case, he had often felt favored. "But alas, I am well-versed in the objects of my own plight. Indeed, in terms of contracts, the contract demons of stories trend towards favorable positions. Contracts are only binding because the parties involved will it so through a bond forged of magic. The nature of darkness is chaos, and if chaos elects to follow an order, she takes it quite seriously. The longer we are of her service, the more beholden to our word we are. That's to say, regardless of the circumstances in which I entered the contract, the 'chink' you have suggested is not unseen to me. It is simply that I could not exploit it because I would have required assistance from another, and to ask of another something my pride simply would not allow."
Pride held him from asking assistance of a stranger and he could think of no ally he'd ask of what he would need from them, leaving him instead to have focused entirely on exploiting that the tyrant needed to meet his demise. He held no intention of stating the alternative methods, something he was certain his companion would take great irritation at, but he felt his energy fade away entirely as the emblem on his shoulder faded quickly, taking his consciousness with it. He had forgotten the severity of his wounds and that he had neglected to even start the healing process, a fact he would surely lament upon waking up.
Her reaction to his nature yielded an immediate respect from him. He was bloodied and bruised yet, and a stranger besides, so it would not be especially polite to satisfy her curiosities immediately. Alair would hold no secrets from one in her position, who chose to help him despite learning of his true nature, but she had no way of knowing this and he didn't divulge the information for fear that he may be met with more questions than his mind would be prepared to handle.
Instead, he focused on the book she summoned forth, disregarding the magic as if he'd expected such a thing... Though surely he had anticipated that only someone with her own magic would invest herself in another. Like anything else, magic was most dangerous to those who did not understand it, and he couldn't fault those in the past who had feared him simply after seeing his magic.
"No magical art would make itself readily available to someone who is not genuine in their pursuit of it. The dark arts especially are known to only claim those who seek it in complete earnest, only marking the individual first in very specific instances." Of course he was such an instance, though of course there were demons versed in other magics. Demonic nature came not from the type of magic but through the methods in generating mana. Darker arts were known to pity those stuck in the cycle of sinister methodology, though in his case, he had often felt favored. "But alas, I am well-versed in the objects of my own plight. Indeed, in terms of contracts, the contract demons of stories trend towards favorable positions. Contracts are only binding because the parties involved will it so through a bond forged of magic. The nature of darkness is chaos, and if chaos elects to follow an order, she takes it quite seriously. The longer we are of her service, the more beholden to our word we are. That's to say, regardless of the circumstances in which I entered the contract, the 'chink' you have suggested is not unseen to me. It is simply that I could not exploit it because I would have required assistance from another, and to ask of another something my pride simply would not allow."
Pride held him from asking assistance of a stranger and he could think of no ally he'd ask of what he would need from them, leaving him instead to have focused entirely on exploiting that the tyrant needed to meet his demise. He held no intention of stating the alternative methods, something he was certain his companion would take great irritation at, but he felt his energy fade away entirely as the emblem on his shoulder faded quickly, taking his consciousness with it. He had forgotten the severity of his wounds and that he had neglected to even start the healing process, a fact he would surely lament upon waking up.
