Lord Ophion Barnard’s place of residence was not one that Genevieve frequented. It was a conscious choice on her behalf, of course; Ophion was not the most pleasant of company on his best days, and while she cared for him as a friend, his attitude greatly grated on her nerves and she found it difficult to maintain her composure around him. For a close friend, it would not be much of a problem, but the depth of her friendship with Ophion had always been rather unusual. And though he never showed emotion one way or another at her baiting or cattiness, she often wondered if, perhaps, he enjoyed annoying her.
It would not be unexpected.
Still, he had been the only person she could think of to ask for help in this regard, and while she had expected a bit more resistance, she had not anticipated him denying her request. While Ophion was not aware of the multitude of things she had gotten herself into over the years - it would not do to have those kinds of rumors flying around about a lady of her standing - she suspected that he could easily guess from the little that he did know. After all, her gathering of scrolls and farming out less-than-legal jobs was known to a variety of people.
Not that she would dare believe Azalea would give away her secrets, but Ophion, despite his unpleasant demeanor, was not stupid. How much he knew of Azalea’s occupation was not something she knew, nor felt comfortable asking about, despite her not-quite-subtle questions regarding his association with her. She was far more concerned with Azalea’s emotional well-being than whether or not Ophion knew about Azalea’s ties to the underworld. Genevieve was quite certain Ophion would not care, considering his own suspected ties.
She broke herself from her musings as she approached the apartment. Her knuckles rapped against the door and waited.
The door opened a few seconds later.
“Genevieve.” His greeting was gruff, stunted. To any other’s ears, unkind. But Ophion was not a man who used first names casually. His apartment had been cleaned and organized in preparation for her arrival. Pristine it was now, as it always was, systematic and neatly kept. In this case, he gave her no exception. But her name was another case. He knew her first from a time before fires, before broken walls. Since he had evolved into the man before her now, cold and caustic.
(And the topic of families lost to fire opened again his old wounds with the return of the Coulombe daughter…)
He jerked his head to indicate that she enter and returned to his “lair” without checking to see his she was in his shadow. Some of his living room furniture had been pushed to one side to allow them room to practice.
Skipping over their cursory “how do you do’s” (skipping over manners, one might say) of their class, Ophion went straight for the intentions of their meeting. “How familiar are you with magic to begin with?”
The cleanliness of his apartment had never surprised her; his fastidious nature would have dictated that his surroundings match his personality, and they did. Clean, sparse, and lacking in anything outside of necessity. She was sure there were personal effects strewn about the domicile, but they were not easily distinguishable.
She was sure that Azalea would be able to spot them with little trouble, and if she concentrated, she would be able to distinguish decoration from meaning.
The lack of manners were par for the course, and while she often chided him on it, it was a refreshing change from the verbal games expected of the nobility. “I have a grasp of the lower level elemental spells,” she informed him. “My Cure is faulty and not reliable, though I’ve little reason to use it. The lack of mastery can be attributed to lack of use or my inability to cast healing magicks.” She rather thought it was the former, but she was no mage.
“Hm. We’ll see.” Brushing aside her speculation on why her Cure was inadequate, Ophion continued gruffly. “Could work on that another day, but for now.” His sentence was punctuated with the rolling of his sleeves, the beginning of this lesson, a rough start again without the elegance of a noble. He had discarded the fake smiles and placid temperaments of their kind along with the ashes of his home. Clawing back into high society had not changed the circumstances of his adolescence.
“Poison’s a basic enough start,” he began, breaking down the spell to the simplest level even if this was information she already knew. “Causes an ailment in the target, the victim,” he corrected with a shrug, “to deplete health. A slow killer, useful as a distraction.”
The offhanded comment regarding another day provoked a raised eyebrow, but she wisely refrained from comment. Should this lesson yield an adequate result, she would not object to a continuation. Her paltry arsenal had become a minor cause for concern for her, especially when one took into account the frequency of attacks. If there was anything Genevieve refused to be, it would be a burden.
She nodded as he explained the purpose of the spell. A smile quirked the corners of her mouth at his slip, but she was in no position to correct - after all, it was a target that she had in mind - and he quickly supplied the more politically correct word not a second later. She appreciated Ophion’s frankness.
“I need it not for purposes of causing death,” she agreed. It was more a deterrent, if anything. “Shall we begin?”
“Hm,” he grunted, in contemplation of her first statement and in agreement to her question. Ophion had refrained from pursuing answers regarding her purpose behind seeking this lesson. Poison was not a spell for self-defense, not as he had been taught, but he shoved aside idle curiosity.
The nobleman held his hands out in front of him, gathering magic at his palms, then fingertips until they glowed with a faint aura of energy at a slower pace than usual so she could pace her own attempt. Then he aimed at a coffee table vase, filled with a cheap autumnal selection he had quickly purchased for that day's lesson. The flowers wilted, curling up into their stems and leaves for comfort they could not find. After the wordless demonstration, he casted a counter to revive today's target (but even this could not fully straighten limp spines) and resumed his first stance. Magick fled to his hands again, and this time he indicated that she copy.
She watched, noting both the positioning of his hands and the slight charge in the air. The theory of magick was not something she had ever studied, despite her parents’ push for her to join the Mages Guild, but she had heard mention of a gathering of Mist. An explanation, perhaps, to the change in atmosphere around the caster.
It was one of the things she concentrated on as she set about recreating the spell. She had never given thought to stance before - a horrid tell - but if she could at least gather the magicks to correctly cast, she could go about decreasing her reliance on it in the future. It was awkward and a bit uncomfortable, but she did not make any mention of it, instead channeling her focus into the spell.
Her first attempt dissipated before anything could come from it. Rather than look to Ophion for support - something she knew she was unlikely to find - she took a deep breath and narrowed her concentration. It was slow, but eventually she felt the click that signified a successful cast. The bouquet, already withered and lacking in life, wilted further. She watched dispassionately as what remaining leaves and petals drifted to the table.
Silence fell over them during their practice, leaving only the aura of magic as they each took their turn with the spell. He observed her attempts with measured emotion, regarding her with a steady gaze, surveying her spell for improvement.
“Again.”
And they would resume the training like so, through trial and error, observation and practice, until soon enough the flowers in his vase could take no more.