angry groucho. (ophion) wrote in emillion, @ 2014-02-25 17:42:00 |
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Entry tags: | !complete, !log, genevieve albrecht, ophion barnard |
we've tried so hard to understand, but we can't.
Who: Genevieve & Ophion.
What: Post-lessons drinks.
Where: Ophion’s apartment, Commoners District.
When: Backdated to Saturday morning.
Rating: Tame.
Status: Complete.
“Dead?” Ophion broke the silence in the aftermath of the lesson with his non-sequitur question, turning from a chat of magic to the reason behind it all. A kidnapping? He felt a shadow stir inside him at the thought, had reined in the questions when she first told him but now curiosity burst forth. Sinking into the cushion of his armchair--black, Dark, his signature color--the mage looked up from his hands, wringing as though to shake off an ache or an excess of magic, and at the noblewoman across from him. “They’re dead?” he repeated for good measure. It had been obvious as to what he was asking after, and she could not help the slight surge of annoyance; she was dreadfully sick of discussing the kidnapping, but she knew that he would continue to prod if not given satisfactory answers. And so she took a seat and nodded. “Yes,” she informed him. “The whole lot of them, from what I was able to gather. Two by my hand, the rest by my rescuers.” She imparted upon him a look that clearly meant she would not discuss who had come to her aid - it was no business of anyone but herself and the people involved. A cover story had been constructed of travelers on their way to a circus, and though it was a most queer tale, there indeed was a traveling event that erected tents near the Kerwonian border. Queer, but not improbable. “There were not many of them, but one was a skilled mage, and my knife had been confiscated.” A sore spot, to be sure. She had little respect for any who would disarm a person and expect them to sit about silently and obediently, but there was little choice in the matter for the detainee. She had not desired her own death, and they had desired a hefty consolation prize. “Good.” It was the same answer he had given her over the network. His tone was icier than typed letters could have indicated. Clearing his throat, he fell back into silence and unbuttoned the cuffs, rolled up his sleeves. “Had I not known any better, I would say that you were concerned, Ophion,” she mused. It was likely that he was - although it would be minimal concern; they were not so close as to openly worry about the other. Rather, any concern was more often than not kept to themselves, at least in her case. The concern, however, was touching. She doubted that it would extend so far as to hunt them down had they lived - that would be the SpyMaster’s response - but it was a rare confirmation that he at least preferred her alive. “Good that you know better, then,” he responded stiffly, backpedaling his admittance to an emotional tie, a wound that exposed a vulnerability of his Ophion would rather hide. (A thought of comparison crossed his mind before he corrected himself: she killed the kidnappers in self-defense, he had plans to murder. They were different.) Ophion cleared his throat again. Calling back their previous lesson he asked: “Poison come in handy?” I know better than to recognize your concern, yes, she thought. What would it be like if they could just admit concern for one another, she wondered. Still, a rather pointless thing to ponder, and she had more important things to do with her wayward thoughts. “It gave one of them a stomachache,” she replied cheerfully, “but rather than that, none of the spells I know came in handy. At least, in this particular instance.” She paused, considering. Ophion knew that she was not entirely above-board, but it had become habit to never reveal more than necessary. It was a habit she would need to break. “It worked much better on a supplier who had tried to shortchange me, however.” “Hm. Use it often?” He kept his voice neutral. “As often as I am capable, however it wouldn’t do for people to constantly become sick when in my company.” Her mother, for one, would certainly have something to say about it. “I am considering some brief weekend trips outside the city, however. There is little I can practice within the city’s walls.” Not without drawing considerable suspicion, at any rate. “Prepare yourself with an arsenal of spells and any future kidnappers outside the city won’t live to tell the tale.” Firm, without a trace of a joke. Ophion stirred and moved out of his seat. “Coffee. Tea? Scotch?” The threat of murder coupled with a drink. He needed to move, to rethink words (but lately his mind had been thinking about his brother, his family, and death) he spoke to Genevieve. He did not bother to hide his angry, vengeful streak from anyone but now found himself hesitant to reveal so much to her. As always, there was a wall between them, one he built and broke and built up again, indecisively. Genevieve laughed. “I sincerely doubt that I can learn so many spells as to make myself a formidable threat,” she informed him in all seriousness. She knew her limitations; first tier spells were struggle enough, though she had more success with Fire than with any other spell. “Scotch sounds lovely,” she added. As he poured, she considered his words. More than likely, they were said in jest; she had never been the type to inspire fear. Rather, she often found herself involved with those who did, and that had more than sufficed for decades. It had been unconscious - she had loved Reinholdt since they were much younger, and she was completely unaware of Aspel’s affiliations prior to recently - but it had served her well, all in all. To stand as a threat on her own…. It was enticing. “Don’t,” he scowled cooly despite his intention of advice. His hand tapped in table as he finished pouring, thoughts percolating as the liquid sloshed. (What did one word mean without context? There were few he trusted, fewer who understood him.) Handing the scotch-filled glass over to his guest, the mage clarifying his agitated words: “Doubt gets in the way.” I’d teach you if you ask. Do not doubt. The don’t could pertain to many a thing, she knew, but she liked to think she at least understood him in some regards, and when he clarified (had he ever clarified with her before? had she just never thought to notice? or had he let her draw her own conclusions? she could no longer remember), it was confirmation that she was correct. “I shall endeavor to keep that in mind,” she replied lightly, taking a sip of the alcohol. She had forgotten how it burned on the way down; wine was far gentler. Easier to drink, but she did not wince. The only indication of the discomfort was a slight tightening around her eyes. “Though it is difficult to do so when faced with individuals far stronger than you.” As had been the case. She had not sought her own death, and so she had gone along willingly once it became apparent that she had little choice. A whirlwind of doubt had accompanied her then - she would not be able to get the spell off in time, she would not be able to make it stick, she did not know whom to target. Too many uncertainties; she was certain that a guild might have taught her to deal with them, but she was not a member of any. Any instruction had to be in lessons such as the one Ophion had just imparted on her. A pity, really. “Hence the lessons,” he continued in a way that was as close to a question as ever. A scoff. His guest’s guildless situation would not be a problem if she was anyone else (Nobles could afford their own bodyguard service) but as Genevieve Albrecht she attracted more danger than he liked. Those cold eyes kept watch on those tied to him. Not a tight leash but what was a bit of protectiveness, anyhow? “Better you learn than be dependant.” A piece of advice he took all too often. Perhaps he ought to learn to rely on someone. “In some things, dependence is a far more valuable skill than independence.” It was something that had kept her alive and untouched for far longer than she cared to think. Her assignation with Reinholdt allowed her to be both, though she was never so foolish as to think that it was not her dependence upon him and his reputation that was more useful than not. It is something you could stand to learn, she did not say. I could teach you. “But yes,” she continued, using her hand to motion about the room, “Hence the lessons. It does me no good to be caught unawares with no way to defend myself.” “Right,” he mumbled, pretending not to hear her suggestion. Ophion leaned deeper into the back of his chair, bringing one foot up to rest crossed on his knee. “Offense, too. If you ever need to take care of nuisances such as,” the man cleared his throat, “whatever business you get wrapped up in.” Ah, she thought, taking another sip of her drink. “Those situations have a tendency to resolve themselves quickly,” she replied lightly. Orsinio’s death was something she thought on often; it was becoming more difficult to reconcile her choices with her faith, a dilemma she was not sure if Ophion would understand. She did not regret what she had done, as she had simply found a solution that was pleasing to her when her ill-sought suitor refused her request, but there was still that nagging feeling. Confession, they said, was good for the soul. “What are your thoughts on murder, Ophion?” “Hm. My thoughts?” Ophion repeated the odd question back to her, almost mocking were he not intrigued. He paused before answering, mouth thinning to a straight line, brow creasing with thought. Sense told him to tread carefully in the topic. Ophion uncrossed his legs and rested his elbows onto his knees. He had planned vengence against the man who killed his family for years and years. Self-defence was one thing for him to teach, premeditated murder was another. But he was not ashamed of his intentions or his plans. Motivated by family, he could venture to the Dark... “It’s necessary.” He scratched his chin. “At times. For good reason.” “And what of the reconciliation of all life under Faram?” She gazed down into the amber liquid, as though seeking some sort of answers within. “When does a reason become good enough?” Why do I feel so little remorse? “And what of guilt?” she continued. “Should I not feel something?” It was not as though Orsinio was the first to die by her hand, nor was the he the first to cause her to question her faith. Such questioning never lasted long, for she oft felt entirely justified in her actions. Orsinio was a vile man, a known abuser; had she married him, she’d have been privileged to suffer the same fate as his late wife. The difference was that she refused to be the victim. But did not Faram call for women to be submissive to their lords? She scowled at the thought; such a feat was utterly foreign to her. “It is not that I am troubled by his death,” she explained. “He was a rotten hume deserving of a far more painful demise than he suffered.” The last was said forcefully, as though spit out. It was always a risky endeavor, speaking of ones sins, but she trusted Ophion, in as much as she truly trusted anyone. She looked over at him, awaiting his response. “You know I don’t care about Pharism or Orsinio.” Here he voiced the name that earlier neither mentioned. “I’m the last person you should be asking about guilt. I’m not afraid”--to admit to you, to confess--“to say that killing can be the answer.” Not forcefully, perhaps too easily. Ice cold and dark (or Dark). He took a swig of his drink, downing the rest to let her speak. “But surely, even to those who do not believe, there is some value in life.” It was a statement; not a question. “I do not have those same lines. I admit I do not know if I ever did.” It was strange to be speaking of such things; it was usually kept to herself or, in rare instances, shared with Reinholdt. (Perhaps this was her way of trying to reconnect with someone she once - still - held dear.) “It is naive to believe the world to be a good place, or that it can be one. It is not.” All things he knew, but the need for it to be voiced did not waiver. “Are there lines that you will not cross, Ophion? I fear that I cannot find them for myself.” “You’ll find the boundaries if you need to.” A pause. He cleared his throat. “If I need to cross every line, I will.” Ophion swore this to himself years ago; to and over the edge of the world, into the abyss--anything, he would do anything. But he had never said so much aloud (it was an unspoken understanding between him and the one for whom he could burn down cities). I do not desire limitations she did not say. Her life was one of rules and structure and tradition, chafing and nipping at her heels as she navigated through it all. Something she did not desire, privilege thrust upon her and expected. She wondered how it felt for others. Did they feel anything? “Regardless, he is no longer a problem. Should another arise, it shall be handled in much a similar way,” she informed him, voice cold. (Was her soul so cold? Yes, necessity dictated it so. She did not achieve all that she had by conforming and allowing herself to feel that which would distract her.) “Right,” he agreed, shoulders stiffening. “Good.” Ophion cleared his throat with a Hm punctuating their conversation on murder, death. Toxins. Poisoning them both. Without further discussion of the matter, the mage stood up. “More scotch, then,” he stated, more a statement than offer, and retreated to the kitchen to come back with more alcohol. Drinking away their concerns and, perhaps, finding more commonalities between them than they have had in a while. |