. (siri) wrote in emillion, @ 2014-03-12 12:26:00 |
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Entry tags: | !complete, !log, siri d'albis, wilham wolfe |
WHO: Wolfe & Siri
WHEN: Backdated to February 26th
WHERE: Noble’s district by the lovely hole.
WHAT: Broken things are drawn by gravity.
RATING: PG, some creepy allusions idk
STATUS: Complete
Cracked pavement stones, dust clinging to the air — no intention of settling down (no intention of stepping closer). She could taste the vastness from this distance without peering in (not sure she wanted to even look closer). Wary and weary she hovers like a specter; people peer, are puzzled, want to throw things. For a moment she wants to push all those who look too closely inside. The natural state of things is to fall; she doesn’t want to take a chance and have someone push her in. Siri has no desire to jump, to touch or to drown in that black hole. Gravity propels her to the vaguely familiar form of Wolfe (they cast spells in a cave once, while rocks threatened to prematurely end their test). The man stands at the edge of the crater, staring down into the black depths; the shadows seem more tangible and visible here, a yawning abyss that tempts the innate human desire towards risk and self-destruction. More than a few of the bystanders are leaning their bodies and feet out over the edge, testing the gaping empty space beneath them. Give any man a gun, and he can’t resist pulling the trigger. A few children do toss stones and pebbles down into the hole, kicking them in, then tilting their head and listening to hear when the stones hit the bottom (they don’t). Wolfe, on the other hand, is surveying the hole with crinkles at the corners of his eyes, lulled into thoughtful contemplation. He’s shaken out of it when he feels more than sees a small slip of a thing pulling up alongside him. “Good morning,” Wolfe says, glancing to the side. “Siri, isn’t it?” He’s always been good with names, committing them to memory with the studiousness of an academic. Contrasted by her inability to recall most names; crafting feelings, images and metaphors to all the people constantly circling about. Within this city, contained (or perhaps hiding) all sorts of things dwelled. Reinberg seemed to fall short by far, but Siri drew herself back to the moment through his look (a paperthin line, but enough, just enough). “Yes, good morning, Earth Shaker from the cave — with the book.” Pointedly refusing to look tangible shadows within the hole, she centred her attention on the Geomancer rising on tip toes to stare with open curiosity. He was a far safer study that anything that could (metaphorically) pull her in from within the void. “Earth Shaker from the cave!” Wolfe repeated the greeting with obvious enjoyment, relishing in the sound of the words and theatrical title. He briefly imagined applying it to himself, his own name warping on his lips. ‘Wolfe’ would drift away; he would become one with the earth, a living golem. But the man shook himself out of the reverie, looking down and meeting the girl’s dark eyes. “Wilham Wolfe. Or Earth Shaker, as the case may be, though I’m a fairly amateur one—I’m still rather green and new when it comes to geomancy.” He thrust out one scarred hand for a shake, his fingers and wrist and forearm mottled with visible burn scars. The title suited him, in Siri’s humble opinion because she could see the extensions of his life coiling downwards like roots, tangling deep beneath the paved streets to the very core of the earth. From there he could extend to each corner of Ivalice, a World Tree from which knowledge could be gathered. “The art becomes you.” Does it? he wondered. I hope it does. The scars went unnoticed until she shook his hand and felt them, rough and painful — as if newly scarred, flesh still bright pink. Siri didn’t release his hand but turned her eyes downwards to look; politeness dictated that she looked away and not mentioned them, but mad prophets do not always abide by social niceties. “It hurt, didn’t it?” Wolfe glanced down as if surprised to find the old marks scrawled over his skin, a map of past pains. He tilted his wrist within Siri’s hand, turning it enough to examine the tributaries tracing their path towards his sleeve. “It did. It happened when I was a child, though. My family were glassmakers, so all that intense heat and molten glass… It teaches you not to be clumsy, eventually.” He shrugged, granting her a crooked smile. He didn’t seem to mind the extended contact, the other mage examining him as if he were a museum curiosity. “Occupational hazard,” he said. Years of fieldwork with the Black Lions and then Disciples alike had layered other scars atop the old ones, remainders of swords and monsters’ claws—but the skin still remembered fire. All the marks from the glass made her think of the roughened bark of trees; time left their mark on their trunks, but still they stood and weathered each storm. Happy to keep her grip on his hand, she shifted the weight so it was his hand clasped in both of hers, a lifeline; perhaps hoping that knowledge would slip from him to her. Or would he require her eye? “I’ve never seen how they work with glass.” Siri admitted, approaching the conversation with unsteady footing, “You don’t seem to fear the Below.” He’d grown up in Ordalia, where hugs and physical contact and affection came easier, and were accepted as a matter of course. So he passively let her hang onto his hand, but shifted enough to look back at the hole. It squatted in the landscape, marring the pristine sight of the nobles’ park, an ugly gash in the scene. “I can feel it,” he finally said, after a pause. “Beneath us. The emptiness. And if I did fall in, I might be able to rip some rocks out from the sides to catch my fall in time. So it doesn’t hold much fear for me, no.” The older man tilted his head, curiosity flickering in his dark eyes. “But you? Do you fear it?” His answer awed her, unexpected as it was and her reply was equally open and honest: “Yes. Very much so, nothing good has ever come from the abyss.” Nightmares, monsters, blood, fire and ashes. “It looks like it will spit something out — darkness and — I don’t know.” After all, she was not all-seeing. “It might. Or it might not. We won’t know until it happens.” Wole took a thoughtful pause, ruminating over the situation and the lines of curious citizens arrayed around the crater. “Perhaps we could get the guild to send a search party down there. Investigate how deep it goes, and see what might be down there, for the sake of knowledge and preparedness. I don’t think I’ve ever heard of something like this happening before in Emillion. So you’re right, it might be cause for concern.” A dry laugh, and then: “As the new task force, perhaps this duty would fall to us, hm?” Giving the Geomancer a scandalized look, Siri shook her head forcefully. “No.” There was no way in the whole Faram-forsaken world that would make this Black Mage go down the hole willingly. Only a very definitive push would accomplish it. “I don’t think that is a good idea. Some things are best left undisturbed, broken toys are not for playing, but for putting away in the trunk. Even you, Earth Shaker, with your roots deep in the ground should not go down there. Nothing good ever is found in those dark places.” Cause for concern yes, however it was already there so why venture down there? Siri dropped Wolfe’s hand so she could step further away from the pit that seemed to whisper so sweetly and drag all broken things within. He tucked it back into his coat pocket, folding them away, both scars and weapons alike (he fought with his hands as Siri did, casting magic out of the air). Her words were jarring. They dislodged a memory, a reminiscence of Peony warning him off from his endless quest to know more—cry off, Wilham, cry off from this. Nothing good is ever found in those dark places. “But what if the trunk opens by itself,” he murmured quietly, his face moulding into a frown as he examined the depths beyond them. “But no, I shan’t go spelunking on my own. Don’t worry.” Siri d’Albis was a curious one. Wolfe couldn’t properly gauge her measure, even after years of trekking Valendia and learning to assess an enemy’s nature within a few glances. “It’ll be fine,” he said (wondering, as well, if he was lying). If so it was a good lie, one that she was willing to believe wholeheartedly for this instance. His words had the desired effect, tension seeping off her and her posture relaxing slightly, Trunks don’t open by themselves, there is always always something remained unvoiced. Things that crept upwards and unlocked doors, broke past all defences and — No, this was not a dream, this was real. (Had to be real, had she not felt his scarred hand a few moments ago? She had.) Tiny fingers reached out again for Wolfe, setting on his arm lightly: solid, not a shade. If she remained beneath his branches, would he protect her? Or were the cracks of his trunk too deep? “If one is to learn wisdom from you, Earth Shaker, what is your price? An eye?” Wolfe blinked as the peculiar question rolled off him. “Kerwonian mythology, isn’t it?” he asked, puzzled. He was well-read and could recognise the allusion from the old religions. The old and grizzled god of wisdom and the sacrifice he made— “There’s no price, miss d’Albis. I’ve paid my own price for knowledge, learnt the cost, and now here I am. If you desire any of the feeble wisdom I happen to have, well. It’s all yours.” The corner of his mouth tugged, almost a smile. Her touch was feather-light but she was bracing herself against him nonetheless: solid, unmoving, unyielding, the geomancer a force as sturdy as nature itself. Gravity. Centre of gravity, he pulled her towards him and she slipped within reach, always eager to learn and yearning (wishing, searching) the stability that only others could provide. “A prize without price?” Alien as the concept was, she would take it — Siri had not learnt her lesson yet, everything comes at a price. “I accept your offer.” Broken pieces that could only attempt a temporary mend with the company of the other. There was something about this odd little mage that resonated with the older Ordalian: something indescribably off, yet earnest. Wolfe had become more perceptive over the years, cracking open his eyesight (no longer blinded by pride) to try and see things for what they truly were. Broken toys gravitated to one another; saw hairline fractures that matched each other; recognised kindred spirits; nodded to one another. “It’s a deal. I’ll presumably be seeing quite a bit more of you, then, since we’re on the same team.” He nodded towards the yawning pit. “Have a good day, miss d’Albis, and mind the gap.” How those words drew a smile from her, Siri would never know but they did and she lifted one hand in an awkward wave. “And to you, Earth Shaker, watch your eye.” |