voidgates | IC Inbox

[ Summer dictates her post to G'raha from the floor of the bathroom, which takes a bit longer partially because of the length of his nails; and partially because she insists on exacting specifications for how he formats the entry on her behalf.

He's concerned over her - he knows she's not transforming into a Lightwarden, familiar with the Peri aspect of amethyst at least, but that won't ease her mind or the fact that she's running just as hot as she had when she was containing the Light. He cannot even offer her his lap to rest in. Between the nine red, bushy fox tails he has tipped in white, and the rough almost- translucent fur that now seems to cover his entire being, he's not exactly cool to the touch.

So, he's sitting in the bath tub, tails curled up around him, while she lays on the floor, and he has both their tomestones sitting on the rim of the porcelain. He reaches down occasionally to brush her hair back, and after a moment he hesitantly calls out. ]

Ezar? Would you be able to fetch something from the kitchen?

[ Because of course Ezar had shown up. At this rate G'raha was expecting Aerith to show up next, herded in by demand. ]

[ Ezar is not in the bathroom, and he's grouchy about it. Blah blah, too big, blah blah. So he's been pacing around outside, feeling generally restless. ]

Aye. What you want?

[The clever thing about the bathroom lights is that they throw light without radiating heat — a fascinating marvel that Summer would care more about if she weren't currently laid out on the floor, eyes squeezed shut and teeth gritted as she makes herself keep her breathing steady and slow. With all the lights on bright, it dampens some of the radiance that halos around her; still, even that isn't enough to fully disguise the budding features that crackle across her skin — the lines of gold that crisscross her arms like the suggestion of jewelry, the feather pattern tattooed around her shoulders like the threat of wings not yet burst free. Even her hair suffers from it, the usual rich red a shade paler, the lighter tips shifting from sunset orange to a more definite gold.

What a disappointment you turned out to be. Look at you, halfway to becoming a monster.

Only it's not. It's not it's not it's not, and she knows it, but sometimes knowing is enough and sometimes it isn't. But when the stars come out, she'll know. She'll be sure. She only has to hold on that long.]

Nnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnngh.

[Look at her lying there, the veritable picture of despondency.]

[ Before he answers Summer lets out another noise that... well, it says plenty about her state, he thinks, and he calls out another answer. ]

Water, with ice, if you can manage it.

[ He saw... a lot of scales, and wings. He doesn't want to make Ezar uncomfortable in his quest to make sure Summer's okay.

Once he's relayed the request he reaches down again to brush her hair back a bit, his ears - much taller and wider now - tipped back in concern. He somewhat wishes he were sapphire just to have the ability to manipulate ice more firmly. Instead, he focuses on pulling the beginnings of an ice spell across his fingertips as he gingerly strokes her hair. ]

I am sorry, my love. I didn't realize the change would be so slow for you.

[ Grumbling something that may or may not be words, Ezar goes to the kitchen and does as he was bid. The good news is, he's already spent one transformation cycle like this; he's figured out how to deal with the more embarrassing small problems like not accidentally crushing glasses in his hands.

He opens one cabinet, searching for the glasses and finds... plates and a mammet that looks suspiciously like G'raha staring creepily back at him. Ezar yelps--it's definitely a yelp and not something more draconic like a roar--and slams the cabinet shut. Then holds it shut. Then looks around until he locates the knife block so he can extract a steak knife and use that to jam the cabinet more permanently closed.

He opens the next cabinet much more carefully. It is, mercifully, where the coffee cups and glasses live. He taps each with his talons until he finds one that seems not easily breakable, then extracts that. The water and ice are much easier to deal with.

He returns, glass in hand, and then without asking, inserts himself into the bathroom. Which, already filled with two people, leaves him perching on top of the vanity--no small feat considering his current height--after knocking almost all of the toiletries over between his wings and tail. He holds the glass out to G'raha, already happier that he can at least see both of his people now. ]

Yer kitchen's haunted.

Edited 2022-06-22 02:27 (UTC)

Ardbert's in the kitchen...?

[Mayhap one of these bells Ezar will get an actual explanation of why Summer keeps mentioning some yahoo named Ardbert, usually in conjunction with him, but it is not this bell. She's busy drawing circles on the tile with her fingertips, slow rotations that complete in time with the rise and fall of her breath.

G'raha's fingers are cool. His voice is sweet. Every so often her thoughts wander into stillness like an oasis in the desert, and the certainty that she's not turning into a lightwarden wraps around her like a blanket for a time. The stillness will fade again soon when next Emet-Selch's disdain rears its ugly head in her memories, but for now at least, she's grateful.]

No. No, he's not. Who, then?

[ G'raha murmurs thanks when Ezar hands him the mug of water. He won't complain about the vessel, but it does give him pause in his own head. He puts the water next to Summer, nudging her hand to it. It's a gentle reminder she should drink some.

He mentions the haunting and squints a little bit like he's looking at something neither can see. He's familiar with the color of Summer's soul; it's how he knew the other Warriors were not lying about their identities. But there is no souls in the kitchen.

He hears distant thudding, like tiny mammet arms on a cabinet door a moment later, and his multiple tails flick in amusement. ]

I assume he found one of your mammets.

[ If he had to put a name to it he'd absolutely assume it's the G'raha Tia one. ]

Also please drink some water, dear heart.

Who the fuck's this Ardbert? [ ...a ghost? Maybe? But why? ]

Some wee abomination in among your plates.

[ Accusatory: ] You'd not warned me you had more than one.

He's mine. My Ardbert.

[~~Next stop, Wind-Up Ardbert.~~ And that's not an explanation, but okay. It feels like powerful effort to draw her fingers away from the tile and shape them around the mug, but G'raha wants her to do it and he coaxes her so tenderly that she knows she's got to be good and try.

She's not fool enough to try drinking out of a mug while lying down, luckily; she props herself up enough that she's slightly upright, bringing the lip of the mug shakily to her mouth and tipping a bit in. It's not quite cold yet, with the ice not having had a proper chance to do its work, but that doesn't matter. The relief is more psychosomatic than tangible, anyway.]

Oh, that must be the little bard. Mystel doesn't like to climb. [She pauses, then offers for Ezar's benefit.] There are three. You've met two.

[FOR NOW.]

[ If Ezar looks to G'raha he offers a shrug and then a shake of his head. It's not a story for now - a story for later, a tale of two souls sundered long ago and then bound together again. Much like his story, if he's being honest.

Then he looks pained. ]

Yes, the Wind-Up G'raha Tia is modeled on stories from my... youth. About me.

[ Which is why it is a BRAT and a HELLION. Thank you, Tataru Taru. But he casts thoughts of the mammet aside in favor of looking at Summer as she sits up. She does look, hauntingly, like the last creature they had fought at the top of Mt. Gulg. If she does sprout wings it will be terrible and beautific all at once.

He ignores the cast over bottles and towels as he looks at Ezar. ]

Thank you again for helping.

[ Ezar's eyes narrow at the my and a soft, low growl sounds momentarily in his throat. Not the kind of reaction he'd normally have. ]

Called me that name, too.

[ And why does that make him so out of sorts? Dragon things, probably. He shakes his wings, knocking a toothbrush into the sink, but quiets down at G'raha's head shake. ]

Don't care who it's modeled after, it best stay clear of me.

[ He stares unblinkingly at G'raha, as if not comprehending why he's being thanked. Of course he's helping. Of course he's here. These are his people. ]

Nowhere else I'd be and nothin' else I could be doin'.

...You mean it, don't you. That you'd really not be anywhere else.

[The glow beneath her skin seems to pulse like a heartbeat. It's a small mercy that no wings have sprouted yet, but the suggestions of where they might ultimately be placed are dappled all over her body — her shoulders, her upper arms, her hips. For someone who so often runs around in red and black, it must be startling to see her awash in hues of gold and white.]

You would've liked Ardbert. He was handsome. And...and so sad, for so long.

[Her thoughts are wandering again; she's not being careful enough. And someone else's words slip unthinkingly back to her lips.]

It's a compliment. Take it.

[ When she mentions Ardbert and how he was sad, G'raha shifts his hand to brush over her shoulder, over the patterns that might become wings over the course of the next few hours. His nails are much longer, so it's more like dragging the tips of his nails over the spot, careful in how he touches her. ]

Ardbert was a hero. Vilified for being tricked years ago, but the truth of his story was finally revealed after his... passing.

[ He doesn't know how else to put it without explaining it to Ezar. He knows Ardbert isn't really dead, as much as he isn't really alive either.

He looks up to Ezar again, his red eyes seeming even redder with the dark hues of his tails. He smiles. ]

I still appreciate your being here, and helping. As Summer says it is indeed a compliment.

[ He looks down at Summer. It seems cruel, this transformation. That fate gave her pale skin with gold, lightened her hair, when the worst she ever exhibited on the First was the lightening and tightening of her skin. At the end she struggled to contain it but was still herself.

He half expects her to ask him to tell her a story once more. ]

I don't lie 'less I got a good reason to. [ He's not smart enough to lie that much or that extravagantly; most of the time his lies are of omission, a refusal to speak. Things to protect himself. Or, in his estimation, things to protect other people from their fool selves, like when he lied to Summer about waiting a full quarter bell before showing up.

The explanation about Ardbert does not have its intended soothing effect. He mantles his wings--arms, whatever, they're the same thing at this point--knocking the other toothbrush into the sink. His tail, wrapped around his feet, flicks sharply.

It's already a very strange feeling to be so compared to people he doesn't know and never will. It would bother him less, probably, if the comparisons were negative, or the people involved less apparently heroic. Compliments already make him uncomfortable; this sort of thing makes him feel like he's being looked at (he hates it) and being utterly misinterpreted to be some good thing he's manifestly not (worse).

If that's what you think I am, you're just gonna be disappointed.

He growls quietly, a much lower rumble than he can manage with his normal throat. ]

Wish you'd stop with the compliments.

You asked who he was. So why are you upset that we told you who he was? Why don't you say, "ho, Summer, he sounds like he meant the world to you, you keep mentioning him every time you think you're turning into a monster and every time I say I'll protect you so you won't be scared anymore, what could possibly have you thinking of him at a time like this?"

[There's an odd lilting quality seeping into her voice — not quite musical, but a little more airy and distant than her typical grounded, clever drawl. Her fingers tighten around the mug of water, now half-empty, and she shifts to sit up more deliberately rather than sprawling, pulling her knees up toward her chest like she's tempted to put her forehead down on them.]

Fine, then. You decide what we'll talk about instead of mentioning my friends. I don't care what it is. Pick whatever it is you want to hear.

Ezar...

[ What's meant to be a sympathetic statement turns into something a little sharper when Summer finishes her statement. ]

Summer.

[ It's not the Exarch's voice, but it is a firmer repeating of her name. His tails flick in worry. ]

Please, both of you -

[ G'raha saying his name like that is a reminder that he's letting his temper, normally not quite so volatile as this, get the better of him. He well knows how upset Summer is; he's already done his inadequate best to provide comfort, but it's not the sort of thing that can be simply fixed.

Maybe this is another reason it's best for him to not have friends, he thinks with grim humor. ]

I think you should talk of your friends and have the comfort of it. I like what stories you allow me.

[ But there was a point to this, and he does need to be firm in that regard. It's been making him deeply uncomfortable. Though how to explain it, he's less certain of. ]

It's only... I wish the both of you'd stop comparin' me to these people I've never met. Even if it's supposed to be a compliment. 'specially if it's supposed to be a compliment. I ain't that good nor brave nor charmin' nor none of those things. [ He rests his chin on his knees, tail tip flicking, now more anxiety than anger. ] And if I go lettin' you think I somehow am, you're just gonna be all the more disappointed later.

Edited 2022-06-24 22:42 (UTC)

[The sound of her name in G'raha's voice is like balm over a wound; it doesn't matter that there's more warning in it than indulgence, because what matters is that he's alive at all to say it. Her G'raha Tia, here and alive, hale and whole, and not spirited away to the depths of the Tempest while the skies turn blinding overhead.

But would that Ezar had chosen any other word. Any other word than the one she remembers hearing through the blinding haze of her soul fracturing apart, corrupting her aether until Y'shtola couldn't recognize it as her own. Anything other than —]

None of us is a disappointment.

[She just barely manages to set her water down before curling in on herself, digging her fingers into her hair as she hides her face in her knees, and the glow all around her turns brighter and more brilliant still. But instead of shimmering as it has before, now it starts to pulse like a heartbeat, like a flicker of lightning.]

Not you, not me — gods, it's like I can still hear him. Calling me a broken husk of a —

[She breaks the thought off, snarling a rasp of frustration and discontent low in her throat, and holds still for a long interval until finally the glow about her starts to wane again. Finally, at last, she releases her fingers from her hair bit by bit, then folds her arms over her knees and pillows her forehead on them instead.]

A story, then. Someone tell a story. Anyone, about anything, please.

[ He might not agree with Ezar's assessment of himself - but he can understand, at least, feeling like you'll never measure up to people from stories. After all, that was how G'raha himself had felt for the longest time - including about Summer.

The word 'disappointment' doesn't ping as familiar until Summer begins insisting she can still hear him. And it doesn't take long to remember what 'him' she's referring to as she grows brighter. Emet-Selch, telling her what a disappointment she turned out tob be, while he struggles to breath through his injuries on the ground.

There are so many things to address and he wants to help all of them, but he is only one person and cannot. Ezar's issues are deep rooted so he reaches out for Summer, for the moment, to address the light she's trying to contain

He knows she won't burst with it, become waxy and implacable, but there's an anxiety in the set of his ears all the same. He rests his hand on her back, offering silent comfort until she gathers herself again.

She asks for a story. It's nostalgically familiar, of her asking for little tales or for him to read to her back in the Ocular. It makes something fond and familiar surge up in him. ]

I never told you how my first attempt to secure Beq-Lugg's help went, did I?

[ His tails flick a bit and he looks to Ezar. ]

Beq-Lugg is a powerful mage, well versed in a manner of magics - but especially those of the soul. I sought their help in attempting to find a way to help transport Summer to me.

[ He is revealing a bit with that statement, but he looks back to Summer. ]

They are also fond of creating familiars - magical creatures that one can use to perform tasks, or to fight for you. The first time I attempted to entreat them for help, they did not answer. And so, in my youthful folly, I tried to enter their home to speak with them directly.

[ His smile goes lopsided. ]

No sooner had I opened the door then all manner of familiars were upon me. Suits of armor, but things like floating paintings and brooms and all manner of creature from their garden.

Most ceased when I backed away but the brooms - the brooms chased me all the way back to the docks of Sullen.

Edited 2022-06-25 20:33 (UTC)

[ Summer saying that he is not a disappointment sends a strange shock through Ezar, that feeling like his heart has squeezed in his chest, half hope and half horror. He wishes such a thing could be true, and knows leadenly that it is not, it's merely that he's too good at keeping his secrets. Yet it still feels traitorously good to hear, like he wishes he could roll in it until it sinks into his skin and somehow becomes true. Instead, he holds himself still but for his eyes widening... and it matters little, since what she says next banishes those thoughts anyway.

Ezar has no idea who this "him" was who said those things to Summer, but his opinion is clear: a low, teeth-bared growl, eyes narrowed, tail lashing before he calms himself at her request for stories. He will find out later who this person is, so if he ever meets them, he can remove some delicate portion of their anatomy for saying such a thing to someone that's his.

There isn't enough room in the bathroom for him to simply wrap his people in his wings as he'd like to, and it frustrates him. All he can do is lean down and stretch out one too-long arm so he can rest his hand on Summer's hair, ready to pull away if she finds it troubling.

Though G'raha's story, at least, is quite interesting. His eyebrows go up at the mention of magics of the soul, though he says nothing; any comment would be too revealing. And he does laugh at the thought of G'raha being chased around by a mage's strange familiars. ]

Where did you find such a person?

[ The only place name in it, "Sullen," isn't one he recognizes, but he has little doubt G'raha's more well-traveled than he, for all that he's sailed with the Crimson Fleet. They didn't do magics like that, not in his home village, and he's the only one who's survived it anyway. But he wonders, if there are other people who have gifts similar to the ones they so jealously guarded. Perhaps it doesn't make a difference here, but... he can't help but be curious. ]

Can offer my own silly story. Right after I joined the Crimson Fleet and was out on my first ship, chief told me I was to fetch her three fulms of gig line. Didn't know what gig line was, but you don't ask the chief questions, aye? I got run over the entire fuckin' ship asking where the gig line was and gettin' sent to this person or that person and then up to the crow's nest thrice before the chief found me again and told me it's the line your buttons make down the front of your uniform.

[ He grins. ]

And then she put me on watch for the rest of the run because she said I was so handy climbin' the mast and didn't whine about it, so I got the better end anyway.

[The stories are so absurd, one after another, that it's like the laughter shakes itself free from Summer's chest rather than her having any say over the way it escapes her.]

Oh, I miss Beq Lugg. I think —

[And she almost says you would like, for Ezar's benefit, but then she catches herself. It's such a natural, habitual thing for her to do, drawing connections between one person she knows and another, linking them together like strands in a web. But no. No, she needs to be better about that, and so she catches herself long enough to switch tacks.]

I think they'd find all this business of Manna and Synchrony fascinating, don't you?

[She sniffles, then laughs again. Fumbles blindly for G'raha's hand and weaves their fingers together. Tips her head a little into Ezar's touch. Links them together like this, instead.]

In any case, I don't have any silly stories because I'm always serious about everything. Nothing ridiculous ever happens to me, not even a little bit.

[From her tone of voice, it sounds as though she's gently inviting them to tease and harass her about not participating in kind. Possibly soliciting it, even.]

[ G'raha should, rightly, answer Ezar's question about who Beq-Lugg is, and where they are from. But, perhaps allowing himself the wiggle room, he instead lets him tell the story, and takes the opportunity that Summer invites to dunk in her instead of elaborating on them.

It means he doesn't quite answer her about them finding it fascinating, but he's still moving in step with her - about how much they should explain, on the nature of souls and their sundering, to Ezar.

So his amusement is pushed through the synchrony bond the three of them now share again, instead. ]

Didn't you tell me you once "counseled a yeti couple" to try to figure out their 'marriage'? And it ended in both of them trying to run you off a cliff in Coerthas?

[ Ezar marks again on what is not said, what is avoided. Now doesn't seem to be the time to press the issue, however. But it does make him wonder, yet again, at what is so important, so star-shattering that they feel the need to conceal it from an insignificant dead man while they're all already on a different world--and it's not as if there's anyone he could tell even if he were so inclined. Whatever it is, it doesn't quite carry the same deeply personal air as his own closely-guarded secrets, or he'd be more willing to drop it.

But that's something for later.

He snorts at what G'raha has to offer up, which does indeed sound a lot like Summer. He has few of his own stories to offer in that regard, since he hasn't known her that long, though he drawls: ]

Aye, nothing ridiculous could ever happen to a silly numpty who goes tossing herself off buildings.

Hold, now, I followed you off the building — and the yeti were never going to make amends if someone didn't give them a first push!

[But G'raha's mirth is infectious, and leaches easily into her own, and though the feather-and-gold patterns etched into her skin don't fade, enough of the halo starts to seep away that she almost grows to look like a normal, albeit radiant, person again.]

No, fine, I've one. I once was accidentally crowned warleader of the Xaela tribes of the Azim Steppe. The word they use is khagan. Mostly it was just that I happened to be standing closest to the thing that declared the new khagan, and everyone else around me was too busy to claim it themselves.

[She huffs a soft laugh, under her breath.]

The former khagan was a ridiculous oaf by the name of Magnai who cared only for two things: supremacy over the Azim Steppe, and finding his 'Nhaama'. His tribe believes that they're the children of the sun, and that each of them have a...a soulmate, I suppose. The moon to their sun. Magnai calls the one destined for him "his Nhaama". He thinks that when he meets her, they'll lock eyes and something in their souls will resonate and they'll know instantly that they were made for each other.

[And now, her previous humor turns to outright giggling.]

Poor Magnai. He doesn't stand a chance, with the sorts of women he seems to cross paths with. But regardless — I recall the declaration, but I don't think anyone ever had me hand it over, so...for all I know, I might still be the khagan of the Azim Steppe.

[ G'raha laughs at both of their stories. He enjoys the thought of Ezar running around looking for this 'gig line' that doesn't exist; He has actually heard the story that Summer shares, because the fact that she was Khagan made it into the record books. ]

Magnai - is that the 'little sun' that was occasionally mentioned in your stories?

[ As for Ezar, he looks at him, ears flicking. ]

And somehow I find it hard to believe you were ever anything other than a seasoned sailor. Then again, one might be hard pressed to believe Summer was anything other than a powerful mage, or I a researcher...

[ But he looks back to Summer, tilting his head. ]

... You never told me you jumped off a building here though, dear heart.

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