ᴡɪᴛᴄʜ ᴅᴏᴄᴛᴏʀ (arcane) wrote in valloic, @ 2022-01-13 10:41:00 |
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Entry tags: | !: action/thread/log, wicked saints: ostyia rabalska, ₴ inactive: james barlow |
Out of all the places to get coffee in Vallo, James had his favorites - he was from here, so he’d certainly done his fair share of comparison shopping. And while the actual shops were all well and good, there was a secret gem of a place that he knew of that was actually smaller - a coffee stand, if you will, but it was tiny and pink with blue trim, something of a Barbie doll shack that was snug and cozy even in the cold thanks to the whir of the heater within. The smells of the espresso they prepared floated out invitingly, and inside the floors were elevated which gave you a way to watch the goings-on inside as your cup of joe was prepared. There was also usually a line, and James understood why. The shack was by the wharf, so close to the sea - the ocean breeze whispered like a lover, salty kisses on his cheek and salt on the eyelashes to boot. Just a hint of power - if Mother Nature was offended, the gentle breeze would become angrier, tossing boats like toys. It was something to contemplate while standing in line, if nothing else. He wore a coat over his sweater, hands tucked into his pockets - and he wondered if he’d run into anyone he knew. Anyone else who knew the glory of the shack known as The Hideout. And so it would seem, he did recognize someone. He knew little tidbits about all of the Outlanders, for the most part - they chatted openly on the network and integrated themselves with the locals. James knew who did what and whose magic was where - and since emerging from a Vorerra-induced haze, he wanted to sink into his new coven and build more bridges. Maybe coffee was a good way to start. “I didn’t think many non-locals knew about this place,” he said to the woman in front of him. “Or have the bigger coffee places in the city become boring?” Ostyia Rabalska was a blade of a woman, her chin length bob of hair looked as if she’d cut it herself with a knife, her jawline and cheekbones were sharp angles that could slice glass, and her one eye was a narrowed slit in her face when she turned around and evaluated James. She tended to give off the impression of a flirty rakess (...well…that wasn’t totally untrue) but Ostyia had been the general of an army for a reason–and not just because Serefin was drunk that one time. She saw everything, missed nothing, even with one eye. Likely she had known just how far away James was at any given second, likely she knew everything about everyone in the place and just outside of it. Likely she knew 68 different ways to kill someone with those wooden coffee stirrers. 127 if you included the various coffee accouterments. Fortunately! James wasn’t at risk of witnessing that. Or was he? Ha ha! “James Barlow,” Ostyia said with an incline of her head. She made it her business to pay attention to the network, even if Ostyia had little use of things like the moving pictures that repeated over and over again. “Nothing I do is boring! But here there is an especially good cafe de olla, you’ve had it?” She knew his name, color him impressed. James didn’t post on the network often - but it was an occasional instance, here or there; his status as ex-Vorerra didn’t really tend to endear him to people and he was aware of that. They didn’t trust him but that was fine - he’d managed to make some connections, at least, and that had to count for something. Hopefully he would make one more. “Ostyia,” he greeted, with a grin that was cut from gold. Killing someone with stirring sticks? Now that would certainly make waiting in line more interesting. “I haven’t had that here yet - but if you recommend it, I should probably try it? What’s in it?” Mostly he stuck with the classic cup of drip coffee here - because he liked it fresh, he liked the way all the flavors were accentuated, and if coffee was left on the heater too long that was just sad; a lot of places didn’t get it right. But when he really needed a boost for the rest of the day he went with Bulletproof - it was supposed to replace breakfast, because it had coffee and butter and oil and thus plenty of protein and calories but that was only in times of desperation. Like when Vallo’s magical forces at play went absolutely bonkershits. Ostyia lifted a shoulder casually in response. “Does it matter? My tastes are always fantastic. If I say it’s good, it’s good.” A bit of an exaggeration, but Ostyia had a way of skating over things and saying them with such confidence that left little room for questioning. Her decisions, after she weighed the options and analyzed all of the facts, tended to be final. But she’d give James a little bit of a break, explaining, “It is from a country called Mexico, and usually made in a clay pot. You have the coffee, cinnamon, and then a dark sugar. Sometimes there is orange peel and cloves too. It’s nice, you’ll like it. It is like the mulled wine, I suppose.” Served piping hot and with warm flavored spices so the heat hit you twice. There had been a similar drink in Tranavia, where the only thing colder than the weather was a room of nobles. She drummed her fingers against each other sizing James up once again. “And you, what is it you typically get? Do you like the fancy lattes?” Oh, that did sound good. “I’ll give it a try,” he decided, since he seemed as if he’d enjoy that flavor combination - anything with cinnamon was usually right up his alley. Maybe it was the citrusy note to it - so orange would probably compliment a drink like that pretty well. “And no, no fancy lattes for me. I usually just come for the drip coffee and the views. Being by the water is nice - plus it’s more serene out here than right in the heart of the city. I spend enough time there for work.” He lived on the outskirts as well, right on the border of forest-and-city - his fairytale-esque house suited him, he thought, and Marina had warded it extra well so he wasn’t particularly worried about any of his family showing up to cause trouble again. Or mind-controlling anyone to cause trouble. Not unless that person wanted to bleed from every orifice - and that wasn’t usually what one would choose to do with their time. He slipped his hands into his pockets, observing as another satisfied customer wandered away with their steaming cup of joe - it was a pleasant temperature, a pleasant breeze coming off the water. James likened it to the breath of a snowperson, for some reason. “I’ve been wanting to find a way to say to you that I’m curious about your magic,” he went on. “Especially since joining up with Asetenarra. Suppose this is as good of a time as any?” “Of course you are. Well! I would say I’ll show you mine if you show me yours, but,” Ostyia trailed off, arching an eyebrow, that was just barely visible above her eyepatch. Today it was patterned with tiny bows! “You’re not my type.” She patted James’s cheek in condolence for this surely terrible blow to him. And then, what luck, they were the next up to greet the cheerful barista. Ostyia slid up and flashed a wink, which had the barista dropping the small notebook and pen she used to take orders.“Two cafe de ollas, James Barlow is paying, isn’t that kind of him!” She flounced out and waited for James to join her, with coffee! By a dock. Cold or not, Ostyia sat perched on a railing, her legs kicking back and forth while she waited for James to make an appearance, armed with coffee–and perhaps a pastry or two if he was especially clever like she thought. “Alright, I will accept your bribe, you may ask your questions.” A terrible blow indeed but somehow James would find the will to carry on. “Is this where I dramatically faint?” he quipped, but alright - two cafe de ollas, piping hot, and he was generally a clever person (the MD suggested as much, though he had more than book smarts as well he liked to think) so to that order he also tacked on pastries. Bear claws, actually - Ostyia seemed like she’d be into a bear claw. He had coffee in a cardboard cup holder and pastries in a bag, which he presented by balancing everything carefully on the railing when he approached. Because of the coffee shack in the vicinity it smelled like those strong brews in addition to salt, and zero like fish - which was a good thing. Pleasant ambiance, at least, as the breeze scraped bristly cheeks. “Here you are,” he handed Ostyia the first part of her bribe - which was the coffee. “If you don’t like marzipan, I can exchange it for something else.” James was nothing if not accommodating, anyway. “Right, so - have you chatted much with Asetenarra? We deal mainly in sigils, when it comes to casting our spells.” It was almost odd to say we but this was his life now - and while odd, it also felt good. Really good. Ostyia took the coffee with an ever so gracious nod. She cupped her hands around the coffee and brought it to her nose, inhaling in the spice. Finding it good, she took a sip, forever grateful for the heat. “Not so much,” she responded. “They are–what is it? Gothic babies? No, not that, baby goths!” No matter how long she would be in Vallo, language nuances would forever trip her up. And technology? Forget it. She knew enough to keep abreast of things, but beyond that, eh. “Mostly, I remember them from delivering runes on mirrors that I told people not to touch. That is your first lesson, you know,” she pointed at James to underline the point. “You see a blood mage rune, you don’t know what it is, you don’t touch it. Or else your brain will leak out of your head.” Or you would be trapped in your own head because a god tampered with your codex. That was neither here nor there, Ostyia chose not to dwell. “But yes, I am familiar. Sigil and then blood to complete the ritual?” “Good lesson,” James chuckled, taking that initial sip of coffee and finding he made the right choice. He thought he remembered some in Asetenarra mentioning the mirror thing though. Marina too, who had initially been recruited that way - the ‘baby goths,’ as it were, merely wanted more friends but hadn’t quite known the best ways to reach out and make connections. Blood sigils on a mirror, yes - that didn’t scream touch me, and he wouldn’t blame anyone who chose not to. At least Asetenarra, after coming back into the land of social media and realizing there were less creepy ways to build bridges, knew better now. “And that’s how it goes - sigil, then blood. Over time the members have devised their own sigils that do different things, as part of the initiation. Everything’s added to a book.” It was alright to speak of, he’d already checked - they weren’t very secretive, even if the black robe he wore during the initiation gave off a different impression. Mostly they just liked the look of black robes, and beneath the shadowy exterior they had to suppress their glee about welcoming a new member; that made him feel good too. “I never did blood magic before studying the practice, in order to be able to join. Is it something anyone can learn, where you’re from?” Ostyia shook her head. “Just Tranavians,” she replied. “Different countries have different types of magic. Kalyazin, the country Tranavia is at war with, believe that magic comes from the gods and we are all heretics.” She rolled her eye, her head lolling to the side as if to indicate what, exactly, Ostyia thought about that. Although she had always taken a special interest in other magic (being able to sense magic in people contributed to that, plus Ostyia was just so naturally inquisitive always wanting to know more and be the best) Ostyia had never accepted the Kalyazi reliance on the saints. “I was the one-eyed Tranavian she-demon. I love that title.” Granted, the weird shit she’d seen in Vallo had Ostyia shrugging off the Kalyazi. If they wanted to pray to their saints, what did it matter to her? “But it works in a similar way, mostly. A codex has spells, you need to charge the spell with your blood if you can read it, and then poof,” she blew a stream of breath into the air, a white puff. “It’s gone. Used up. Only Tranavian blood though, you cannot use a substitute. Not every blood mage can cast every blood mage spell, as well, there are…” Ostyia’s face twisted in thought. “Levels? I suppose. You, however,” her finger flitted in the air like a zooming bumblebee before pressing into James’s chest. “Are not traditionally a blood mage. I can tell this. What am I feeling? You see things as they are.” That part wasn’t a question. Ostyia could detect magic in others–here in Vallo it was like a radar constantly going off so most of the time she ignored it. Tranavian she-demon. James liked that title too. “You should get the she-demon part put on a t-shirt or something,” he toasted with his coffee cup. “That sounds like a level we should all aspire to.” Religious conflicts weren’t really much of a thing here - some of the covens were less pagan than others, but for the most part it all tended to fall under that umbrella with their tenants and how they operated; what came from Vallo must return to Vallo, and so forth. Vallo was everything, everywhere. While it was possible war would erupt, he imagined it being more over territorial disputes than anything else - or, for example, his family being straight up dicks. They toed the line, let’s just say. But at any rate, that was an astute observation about his magic. James nodded, laughing a little as he was poked and reaching into the crinkly bag for one of the bear claws - he ripped off a piece to try it out. Getting pastries here wasn’t something he did often but it was nice to ‘treat yo’self’ in the morning sometimes. “Not traditionally, no,” he agreed. “I was born into Vorerra and we’re all taught the same thing even if we all perhaps eventually branch off into different specialties. It’s magic of the mind - my focus has always been seeing things, or people, for who or what they are. I’ve sort of found a way to intertwine the different types of magic, though - the sigil I created for Asetenarra links us together. I just built off a spell I already knew and incorporated the blood magic elements into it.” Sort of like potion-crafting, but with words. Intent. Building a spell from scratch was a challenge, but it was one he’d risen to eagerly. “Also depending on where you are in Vorerra, you learn - more dangerous spells than others,” he added, thinking of Julia. And everything that had been forced upon her, everything that she had to take on even though she hadn’t wanted any of it - neither of them had. “There are countless other covens and yet you never get a choice though, unfortunately, but - anyway, sorry. Not to go on about that or anything.” “You can go on,” Ostyia shrugged. “I don’t know any of those people.” And even if she did, it wasn’t as if she had any reason to rush out and tell anyone. Playing games against fellow Tranavian nobles meant that Ostyia knew what gossip to keep close to the chest and when to divulge that gossip for maximum benefit, like a snake in the grass waiting to strike. But now, of course, that wasn’t the reason. She was simply curious. Ostyia hoarded information like a dragon hoarded gold. She glanced out at the sea. Tranavia had been a wet country, but it was wet in the form of marshes and swamps. The war kept them busy, too busy to be concerned with the open air. The quiet was something Ostyia was still getting used to, even after all of this time. She wasn’t a still person. But she was learning to appreciate the quieter moments. “Change is usually a good thing, James Barlow. It forces us to adapt and learn new things. You can dig your feet in and pretend it is not happening, but,” she clicked her tongue. “You stand an even better chance of being run over. So your change may be hard, but it is probably for the best, hm?” “I think it is,” James agreed. He sipped his coffee, letting the hot liquid roll down his throat - just getting a chance to stop and smell the roses (or the salty sea air, in this case) was nice too. “It’s a good chance. And I like learning a new sect of magic - you ought to come by sometime, if you want?” he offered. “To Asetenarra, I mean. I think they’d like you.” They liked everyone, to be fair. But a fellow blood mage, and someone with personality in spades? Of course it’d be a fun time. Ostyia could even maybe help some of them come out of their shells - they were quiet and oh-so-soft. Not weak, mind you, but there was a sweetness about them that one may not expect given their living arrangements and their magical proclivities. Marina’s harsh edges sort of balanced them out too but James thought that Ostyia was kinder, in a way. Boisterously so - maybe with that ‘vodka aunt’ kind of distinction. “No pressure to join up officially or anything, it’s not like that. But they do make fantastic cheese.” It was as good of a selling point as any. Ostyia tilted her head from side to side. She liked the idea of a coven enough, a group of people who studied and learned magic together did seem right up her alley. And if she was honest with herself, she missed discussing and debating magical theories. Actually committing to something, well, that was an entirely different beast. For someone who had been so dedicated to the country and to protecting Serefin, Ostyia wasn’t certain she wanted to join anything. But still, she was curious, and when curiosity sank its teeth into her, Ostyia found she could rarely shake it. “I’ll think about it,” she allowed. Her next move was to strike, lightning quick, and seize the spare bear claw. The almond paste was sweet and lightly spiced, a good complement to her coffee and she smiled, pleased with her prize. “In the meanwhile, you may tell me all of your secrets. Start with a very good one.” |