Re: Quicklog, Patrick's cabin: Patrick G/Newt P
Ah, I understand. [Newt wanted to ask about the huntsman, because he knew there were several details he didn't have, but, like the handle protruding like a promise from Patrick's bag, it was something he tried to extrapolate from, to form a bigger picture.] Friends, do you miss them? [Unaware of any thoughts of Patrick's mother, Newt was rather blasé, a fact he would've felt horrid about, had he known. He smiled when Patrick laughed.] Is it insulting? I thought perhaps the size wasn't what mattered. [Uttered with a feigned innocence and an obvious joy in the face of that truly terrible wink that Newt pretended, quite well, meant absolutely nothing to him. A joke between friends.]
Oh, no. Erm. You call them... linden trees? [He licked his lips as he thought and shook his head.] Wands have loyalty. They can be handed down and so on, but as they choose the wizard, so to speak, they tend to pair. They learn from you, over time. They teach you, as well. It's a symbiotic sort of relationship. Most trees don't produce wand-quality wood. But, if bowtruckles are nested in a tree—[Pickett trilled.]—then you know it's magical, as they don't inhabit trees of mundane wood. I wouldn't say that the wands or the woods know about people, but... they've affinities for certain types. Does that make sense? [A shake of shaggy red hair.] Wands can be moved to dark magic, for example, though some will resist it, depending on the core, often, and the wood. But, it's nothing so static—if anything, what the wands... prefer is rather too deep to be changed, I think. Good or bad, owners of ash wands tend to have their principles. If those principles change, it doesn't matter, so much as the fact that, whatever they change to, will be held just as seriously. Does that make sense?
[Newt looked through his fringe at Patrick and his plaintive cry about Florence Nightingale. He smiled and recited:] Lo! in that house of misery / A lady with a lamp I see / Pass through the glimmering gloom, /And flit from room to room. They're fairly clear about her being woman, I think. [Ever wry, but warm, the teasing was a gentle needle. But, Newt did wince when Patrick gritted his teeth.] All right, darling. [He'd been going to apply the potion, but he changed his plans. First, they'd heal some of the more minor damage. Newt picked up his wand.] Episkey. [The spell would cause a surge of warmth in Patrick's hand as muscle and tissue repaired itself and blood began to flow. So it wouldn't hurt, Newt gave his wand a flick over prone palm—a minor spell, to help with the pain.—With that out of the way, the ginger man glanced up, to find himself being looked at. His own gaze fissured and fizzled, and he looked back to Patrick's poor hand—though, at least some color was coming into the skin.] Why's it wrong? You're as maddening as every other member of your family at times. [Gently, gently, Newt turned Patrick's hand and massaged around knuckles that were losing some of their swelling.] You might've noticed I'm terribly curious a fellow. You can't start a thought and not carry it through. It's cruel, really. [This teasing was a soft as Newt's touch and he looked up to catch the hook and snare of that crooked grin.] You're not petty. [He left off of the man's hand, extricated himself from between table and chair, and rounded over to Patrick's side.] Turn towards me. [He reached by the younger man and all that blond hair covering the would-be tattle of ear-tips. He fetched up the potion and waited for Patrick to swivel toward him.] I'm thinking—[A glance, a flit to Patrick's eyes, to his mouth, back down.] I'll say no.