wнen тнe мoυnтaιn тoυcнeѕ тнe valley. (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
midvalley) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
pullmeoutalive2014-06-27 11:45 pm
midvalley) wrote in pullmeoutalive2014-06-27 11:45 pmEntry tags:
midvalley) wrote in pullmeoutalive2014-06-27 11:45 pm
penny.....
Sometimes you needed a predator, and that was what LQ-84i, codename "Blade Wolf", was designed to be - but not mindlessly so. He'd been granted a similar level of intelligence to Penny, though with a drastically different personality and a modified processor to allow him to think and assess situations differently than his humanoid counterpart. But there was only so much an AI could be tested by programs and controlled experiments, which is why today is the first day Penny and Wolf have been granted permission to roam the city not far from the facility in which they were assembled in order to see how adaptive their AI's really are. They've just reached the city limits now, having traveled on foot - Penny's appearance is suited for being seen in public, but they had to throw together a holographic disguise for Wolf's sake, his exoskeleton sure to cause some degree of panic if he was seen walking about.
Though his new appearance wasn't THAT much better. The fact that he now looked like an organic talking wolf didn't feel like much of an improvement, but at least he's trotting at Penny's side to appear domesticated. ]
I AM HESITANT TO ASSUME THIS WILL END WITHOUT INCIDENT.
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I'm sure it will be fine. I mean, you'll prooobably scare anyone who wants to mess with us away anyway.
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hiii Maya
Tucked under the ribbon is a note that merely says:
It's good to start with a classic before you get into the trashy stuff. Enjoy. - K
P.S. This novel was the first written by a woman to win a Pulitzer Prize waaaaaay back when, on Earth.
P.P.S. Let me know if you ever leave Pandora for some where less desert-y.
The parcel is a paperback copy of The Age of Innocence by Edith Wharton. Kasumi has always had a weakness for scandalous society romances, and she figures it's probably better to start Maya off the romance genre with something like this over something like the mysteriously infamous 50 Shades of Grey (seriously, how did that even make this far out in history).
Kasumi doesn't know if she'll ever find herself back on Pandora, but if Maya ever finds herself around Kasumi's side of the galaxy, she can bet that she will know and find her. ]
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She reads the book, in fact she reads it several times. The others give her no end of shit about it.
But it travels with her when she finally leaves Pandora, tucked away in the recesses of her digistruct device as she searches for leads on the other Vaults. For clues about her Siren heritage.
It was only a matter of time before she found herself in another seedy dive bar- no matter where in the galaxy you went, those were a constant. She's seated in a corner by herself, flipping through the now well-worn pages of the paperback. ]
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Dorian would rather do without all of them, if it were all the same.
And isn't it just the way, to be out wandering out by their twosies, only to be taken nearly by surprise by a gang of ne'er-do-wells? It's just as well that they manage to beat the idiots into submission. ]
Join the Inquisition, they said. It'll be fun, they said. They'll respect you, they said.
[ He's still shaking off the bits of human goop that had splattered on him; a cultist had gotten a bit too close for comfort, and Dorian had been forced to show the poor fool why, exactly, that had been a mistake. ]
Do you have any idea how difficult it is to get blood and viscera out of Royale Sea Silk, Inquisitor?
Because I certainly don't. Honestly, I haven't a clue. I so rarely do my own laundry. Is it difficult? I imagine it must be.
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I'm going to pretend that's a rhetorical question, because I really don't have an answer for you.
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He can't quite recall what, exactly, had caused the explosion -- magic gone awry? Divine intervention? A peevish Venatori dabbling in dark and forgotten arts? Something terribly arcane being nudged in just the wrong fashion? Difficult to tell, really, because Dorian only recalls a blinding flash of green light, then a roaring wind filling his ears, a wave of heat rolling over his skin, and--
And now there are books. Shelves of them, actually, and it's a wonder that none of them have fallen after his entrance, he thinks, because he feels rather as though he's dropped down from the battlements of Skyhold to the garden below. His head is swimming and there's a ringing in his ears and he has a strong inclination, at the moment, to simply flop over like a bag of sand and let things develop as they must. But he hasn't flopped over, which is a point in his favor, probably; instead he's kneeling on the ground, leaning heavily against his staff as he tries to figure out where he is.
He's drawing a decidedly large blank. ]
... Ah. [ He murmurs it to himself, of course, the corners of his mouth drawing down in a concerned frown. ] This could be bad.
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Once everything settles, he hears a voice from around a set of shelves. From her case, Wyn's head tilts up to look at him, but Charlie motions for her to stay still ]
Hello?
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Which is why she currently found herself in a London bar- she was staying with said distant cousin at a large hotel they managed in the city. Her grandma thought some time abroad and away from home would be good for her, and she wasn't going to argue with her grandmother paying entirely for the trip.
And she sure wasn't arguing in the face of so many attractive people with accents.
She's nursing her drink, casting a look around, and trying to decide if her cousin would care terribly if one of these people made it back to the hotel with her. ]
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He's still working on being more Henry Higgins than Eliza Doolittle, but there's just an aura of charm about him that might make up for his lack of gentlemanly training thus far. He pauses at the entrance of the pub, the bell chiming behind him, and takes a quick inventory of the place before he strolls up to the bar, leaning forward on the counter as he tries to get the bartender's attention. His accent as he orders a drink, is definitely more Eliza Doolittle than Henry Higgins, which is to say it sounds a little less sophisticated than the other blokes around. He wasn't born with a silver spoon in his mouth, after all, and he wouldn't have had it any other way.
When the bartender leaves, Eggsy glances around and finds a rather pretty lady right next to him. Very nice. He's at a bit of a loss about how to start the conversation, though. ]
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because screw bakerstreet we do what we want (also I just wanted to use this icon)
But since she had started traveling the galaxy, she'd been learning all sorts of things. Nothing about the origins of Sirens, no, but she's seen new species, new planets, new abilities. (She could pretty convincingly pass for a biotic, and not many people on this end of things had heard of Sirens, so it was a small blessing that she was able to blend in somewhat.) But wherever she found herself, Kasumi was sure to appear, be it with a job or a new book or an offer for lunch, and the Siren found herself missing the thief when she didn't show up.
It's been a long time since they last saw each other- in fact, their last meeting had been brief. Kasumi had just enough time to give Maya a small pile of wall-worn paperbacks and be on her way. They were mostly love stories, some a little more sappy than others, some a little more racy than others as well. Maya was finding whether she wanted to or not, she was learning a great deal about romance.
She's on some backwater little planet, ins some equally backwater little dive bar, pouring through one of those romance novels for probably the third time. She rather liked this one, though she couldn't say why. The main couple had been separated by circumstance, and had just reunited, when Maya glances up spots a familiar hooded figure moving through the crowd like smoke.
When she realizes it is indeed Kasumi, something in her chest flutters, and she can only think to herself, Oh. ]
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What Kasumi likes best about her, however, is her thirst for knowledge. Wanting to know more, going out into the galaxy (dangerous as it may be around these times) and learning about yourself and about others--the whole thing just sounded romantic. It reminds Kasumi of what it had been like for her when she first struck out into the depth of space after when she was barely old enough to do so, and it's part of why she enthusiastically gives Maya all of the things. Books, mostly, but things like introducing Maya to new types of cuisine and bringing her along on jobs to kick ass and the like were kind of presents, too, and--well, Kasumi is a giver.
It hadn't quite occurred to Kasumi that her admiration for Maya might actually, legitimately be a real crush on her, because, honestly, it'd been a while since she went about romance in that fashion, in spite of all the romantic novels she reads. With Keiji, it was pretty much love at first heist, and the rest was history. Here, there had most certainly been a friendship, first, with some flirtation here and there (mostly from Kasumi's end, and really, who doesn't Kasumi flirt with?)...
It's when she finds herself wondering how Maya's doing during her idle moments, the ones she used to spend diving into a certain graybox, and it's when she can't help but think of her whenever she so much as even sees a book, and it's when she finds Maya sitting with a book that she had picked out for her, and it's when she has an inexplicably elated feeling at the sight that Kasumi herself thinks, Oh.
She slips silently into the seat next to Maya's and leans forward, elbow on the table and chin on her hand, tilting her head to catch the Siren's gaze. ]
What do you think of it so far? Because I'm going to get upset if you say the reunion chapter wasn't well-written.
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I did not hit post comment before I went on lunch ;o;
we're a mess today
at least these two are being adorable
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And now with the death of her grandmother, Lys' downward spiral seems to have gotten worse. It's not helped by the fact that Lys was the one to find the body. And it's further not helped by the fact that they know who did it, that it couldn't be more obvious to those on the outside of the situation looking in, but there was no proof. The eldest Lysander was ordered to stay away from the case- it was too personal- and with nowhere left to turn, Sandon had dragged his baby sister to meet Jacob Randall, to plead for the wizard's help in resolving this. Jacob had agreed, of course, which left Charlie with a shape-shifting couch surfer with an alcohol problem.
It's been a couple of months now, with no resolution in sight. Alyssa's presence around Charlie's apartment was often scarce. Sometimes she would stumble in the door at four in the morning, disheveled and reeking of alcohol, crashing on the couch to sleep the day away, other times she wouldn't come back at all, only to resurface in a day or two to start the cycle again. It was always a toss up of which it would be when Sandon would drop by to check up on his little sister.
Often times, when she was nowhere to be found, Charlie would have to talk the other man down, tell him that he's tried to talk to her about it, tried to help her and keep tabs on her as best he could, but in the end, Alyssa always found a way. She didn't want to live and the here and the now, and she'd do whatever it took to ensure that she didn't. Sandon would then take up residence on Charlie's couch and wait for her until eventually work dragged him away. It was awkward at first, with the wizard tiptoeing around the shifter, but once Charlie finally struck up conversation, it was clear that they got along well.
Other times, when Lys was passed out on the couch, Sandon would just sit silently, stroking her hair as she slept, worry written across his face. Eventually Charlie started inviting him to partake of a cup of coffee, and the two would sit in quiet conversation at the kitchen table while Alyssa dozed away on the couch.
This is one of the latter times. Charlie slides a mug across the kitchen table to the other man, offering him a small, sympathetic smile ]
She's been around the apartment a little more often lately. I think she misses you.
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It's difficult, watching his life spiral out of his control. Harder still to watch his sister slipping further and further away from him. His family is falling apart before his very eyes, and there's nothing he can do but watch.
He's watching his sister sleep when Charlie passes him the mug of coffee, and he tears his gaze away long enough to offer a nod of thanks. In answer to Charlie's words of reassurance, Sandon has little to say. (I miss her too, chief among them, but there's no need to voice that.) ]
Thank you, for keeping an eye on her. [ His smile is small and rueful when he adds, ] I'm going to guess this isn't exactly what you signed on for.
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... Not that Wolfwood was overly concerned with his opinion. The Player, after all, had merely been a tool in the grand scheme of things, and he had been a surprisingly effective ally during their escape. The priest had fully expected the man to abandon him and Vash to their own fates, abscond and escape on his own the second Wolfwood let him leave. And the Punisher had, in fact, given him ample opportunity to just that.
But he... didn't. He stayed. He helped. And when Wolfwood was skewered by one of the Crimsonnail's fucking actual nails, the Player didn't take advantage of the situation. Midvalley didn't just shoot him in the head and kill Vash while they were vulnerable -- he helped. And suddenly Wolfwood is finding that he might actually just-- respect the Hornfreak. Maybe. A little.
Fucking stupid to trust a Gung-Ho Gun, though, former or not. Wolfwood doesn't know the nature of Midvalley's intentions, or even his recruitment; and he also doesn't know what possessed him to tell the other man why he joined up. Blood loss, probably. He blames the blood loss.
It's some time past midnight, a couple of days since their narrow escape, and they've taken all three of them back to the Ship Vash once called home. The man is just starting to recover from weeks and weeks of malnourishment and battling Legato. And Wolfwood suspects Midvalley could use the reprieve, as well; being locked in a small, dark cell for who the fuck knows how long, tortured to his very limits--
... Yeah. The preacher feels bad for the guy. (And feels a twinge of respect, considering Midvalley had helped him face down Legato, when he could've ran hard and far in the other direction.)
He can't sleep. He's having his Nightmares again, and Wolfwood knows he'll need to leave soon -- probably tomorrow, even. He knows Master C has his eyes set on the orphanage, and even if it's an obvious trap, Wolfwood can't let the man do any more damage than he already has. He owes it to his former brothers and sisters to keep them safe, even if it's his fault they're in danger.
Wandering the silent halls, a cigarette perched between his lips, he pauses when he hears-- music? A piano? It's damn good whatever it is, though Wolfwood is by no means an expert. He follows the sound, and when he arrives at its source, he's hardly surprised. And even if the Player probably heard him approaching from ten halls over, he still stands in the entranceway to avoid interrupting, leaning against the frame with his arms crossed. ]
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It's been a damn long time since Midvalley has seen a piano. He couldn't help himself- he sat down and started tinkering away, improvising around snippets of an old, old song from Earth he could barely remember the name of anymore.
Even when Wolfwood wanders in, he keeps playing for a bit, before finally letting the song taper off. ]
Enjoy the show, preacher?
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It was only by chance that news of the Conclave and the rifts reached Fiore at all. Most dismissed them as wild stories, but one wizarding guild in particular had experienced holes in reality first hand, and thought it best to investigate. That’s where Gajeel Redfox came in, a wizard of the Fairy Tail guild, and a dragon slayer as well. The portals that Fairy Tail had encountered before- powerful spells called Anima- did not work on dragon slayers, and since the other two dragon slayers in the guild couldn’t go for various reasons (Wendy was far too young to make a trip like that on her own, and Natsu got motion sick just standing on a ship at the docks), he was assigned to make the trip.
That suited the Iron Dragon Slayer fine. It was a chance to do some traveling, and, if the rumors were true, he’d get a few good fights out of this journey.
The Guild Master had tried to send word ahead, to get in touch with the Inquisition’s diplomat and let her know a wizard from Fiore was coming to aid their cause, if they needed him. (He may be rough around the edges, Master Makarov had written. But he’s one of the best Fairy Tail has to offer. I hope he can be of help to you.) Whether or not the message got through, Gajeel didn’t know, but either way he was making the trek to Skyhold.
He was smart enough to know that his appearance would probably garner some unwanted attention- considering the iron studs embedded on his limbs and his face- so he kept himself cloaked until he arrived at Skyhold’s main gate.
And that’s where he currently is, engaged in an argument with one of the guards who was refusing to let him pass, on account of being “suspicious”. ]
You wanna go, tin can? I’ll eat your armor for breakfast.
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The mage had apologized, noting he would scrounge up what little information they have, for which the Inquisitor thanked him. She had also smiled wryly and said, Try not to get too jealous, either. I just want you to know, you'll always be my favorite, mysterious mage from a faraway land.
Please, my dear Inquisitor, Dorian had responded haughtily. I am everyone's favorite.
Dorian is climbing down the steps from Cullen's tower when he hears the commotion at the front gates. For a few moments, he merely watches from the battlements, amused by the growing agitation of all parties involved. He idly expects the confrontation might come to blows, and he glances back at the closed door of Cullen's office. The poor man had been suffering greatly from his withdrawal symptoms, as of late, and no doubt they would call on the Commander, should things get out of hand.
The mage sighs to himself, then climbs the steps down to the main gate. ]
Trouble, gentlemen?
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It had all began a few hours ago. Ian had been chasing a couple of lost souls- literal lost souls, all part of the job of working for Gatekeeper- running full-tilt through the jungle when he felt a subtle shift in reality. It was as though everything just sort of slid slightly off-kilter, and though the jungle had not physically changed, the smells and the sounds were all suddenly different. Ian had to wonder if he’d shifted locations or realities altogether. (Gatekeeper had hinted more than once about being the guardian of more than just the Gate between this life and the next. Perhaps he walked in different worlds as well?) But whatever had happened, he was no longer where he started, and his senses had lost all trace of the souls he was chasing.
It was dark, but the moon was full and bright, more than enough to light his way as he tread cautiously through the brush. It was then he came face to face with her- an Old One, as his people called them. Her scales were dark, though he caught the slightest hint of blue in the moonlight, and her eyes bright. The Raptori and the raptor eyed each other for some time. Ian had never seen an Old One before. They were the stuff of books and stories, clever and vicious, but long gone. She was surely intelligent- he could see it in the way she looked at him, the way she scented the air, and recognized him as Kin- but she didn’t possess the ability to speak.
But then something else was moving through the forest, and the Old One bolted for cover. Ian thought it wise to do much of the same, and took to the treetops. Men in strange outfits with strange weapons and devices appeared. He could understand their speech well enough, and he guessed they were looking for the Old One. Hunters of some kind?
One of the machines beeped, and the man holding it said something about a thermal reading, whatever that was, and the others gathered around his device. What is that? one breathed, and Ian knew he had been found somehow. He didn’t get far before something sharp pricked into his shoulder, and he felt suddenly sluggish. He tore the offending dart out of his shoulder as he bounded through the trees, but more followed, and it was quickly becoming a losing battle. He had enough time and enough foresight to wedge his clothes, glasses, and weapons in the fork some tree branches before they finally brought him down. Let them think him some wild animal, like the Old One.
It was a charade he kept up with when he woke. He wouldn’t let anyone near him, charging the bars of his cage, snarling and growling and swiping his claws. He didn’t speak to the men who came to look at him. They wondered whose “project” he was. They wondered about “military applications”. They wondered if he could understand them. Oh, if only they knew. These men- InGen was the word emblazoned on their clothes, though he didn’t know what that meant- weren’t about to let him go. Not even if he stood and spoke to them. (He got the feeling especially not then.) Better to play dumb.
Better to wait for the right human. ]
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Until the second time. And then the third.
The fourth time, the representative managed to get out the word "raptor," and while that gave Owen pause, he still hung up, all the same.
After that, Owen did something very, very stupid. It involved chartering a boat. It involved slinging a gun over his shoulder, holstering a pistol to his hip. It involved dark clothes and sneaking onto a private island in the dead of night. His good judgment always did lapse when it came to his raptors.
He's not entirely sure what he plans to do here, honestly. Owen is usually a practical man, usually knows the right course of action to take given the odds. But this time, all he has is a vague sense that he has to do something. Military applications, they had kept saying. As if Blue were a weapon they could simply aim and shoot. As if the raptor would listen to any blowhard high on his own machismo. A lot of men would get hurt in her capture, which a sadistic part of him thinks they deserve; but Blue could get hurt in her recapture, as well, and that he can't really abide.
When he finds their main camp, he stays well out of sight, using the foliage to conceal himself. The place is abuzz with activity, with puzzled, excited chattering about breakthroughs and hybrids and scientific miracles. There's a patrol circling around one tent in particular, though it's routine and lazy, more for appearances than actual guarding. It's easy enough for Owen to time the blind spot in their trek, to wrench out one of the stakes and roll beneath the loosened flap, and all of it in near silence.
The area inside of the tent is spacious and lit brightly; there are only a few cages here, though most of them empty. No Blue, and that comes as a relief.
Definitely something else, though, and Owen stops in his tracks when he finds it. ]
... What the hell?
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Victims still seeking answers in wake of tragedy.
Eyewitness: 'It was chaos. Everyone was screaming.'
Who's to blame for 'Jurassic' disaster?
Owen's lucky enough to be a low man on the totem pole. Aside from brief fact-finding interviews conducted by Masrani Global and InGen for his involvement in the hunt for the Indominus Rex, he was mostly left alone. He was only a handler, after all, who happened to step up when things went to shit; that his Velociraptors turned on him and the InGen soldiers didn't seem to faze his interviewers. "You're a hero," one of the corporate shills told Owen as the interview drew to a close. It was obvious that they were looking for heroes. For acts of daring and selflessness performed by park employees to spin the tragedy into something positive. An unfortunate disaster, but look at these normal people, doing extraordinary things for their fellow man.
He felt dirty. Disgusting. The shower he took after that was a long one, and he nearly used all of the hot water scrubbing the feeling of slime away. But luckily, they didn't use his story in the newsreels. Too violent, probably. Too easy to see the gaping holes where they would leave out the moment he lost control of his raptors. They would never want to mention how in trying to save the park, Owen guided a platoon of men into the waiting jaws of his own dinosaurs, and how they died screaming.
Yeah. Probably not the sound bites they want going out over the waves.
Claire, though, had no such luck, and she became their posterchild and spokeswoman all at once. The grainy security camera footage of her standing before the infamous Tyrannosaurus Rex, flare in hand, had been leaked -- probably by Masrani Global's doing, if Owen had to guess. Not only was Claire busy fielding questions and rehashing the mistakes leading up to the disaster, but she also had to contend with being put up on a pedastal. Look at this brave woman, who saved her guests, who did everything she could to protect her nephews. Wasn't she courageous? Isn't she beautiful?
If nothing else, Owen is at least glad they aren't using her as a scapegoat. He's been in that position before, and he knows exactly how unpleasant it can be.
The two of them haven't seen each other much since their bosses ramped up their response to the media circus, which means the topic of them has yet to be fully discussed; they happen to cross paths as they're both leaving separate interviews at Masrani's HQ in San Diego -- more info-gathering, for Owen; a debriefing, for Claire -- and decide to grab lunch together to catch up. Easier said than done, however, when they're greeted by a crowd of reporters at the front doorstep. Claire seems to ignore them well enough, and Owen follows her lead, carefully shouldering past men and women to clear a path. They're nearly in the clear when one persistent man stands in front of them, a digital recorder jammed in Claire's face.
"Ms. Dearing," he said. "Footage of you guiding the T-Rex out of its paddock has surfaced recently. Do you have any comment on your irresponsibility for unleashing not one, but two dangerous creatures on Isla Nublar? Or do you have anything you'd like to say in response to accusations that this video was manufactured by Masrani Global?"
Owen's not sure how Claire feels about the bullshit the guy just vomited out of his mouth -- she always did have one hell of a poker face -- but Owen, at least, steps between the two of them, annoyance seeping from every pore. "You want to get out of our way, sir."
The reporter continues to hound the two of them as Owen guides Claire away. "Ms. Dearing. Do you have any comment on naysayers stating your position as the park's lead asset manager was earned by sleeping with Simon Masrani? Any comment on rumors stating that the creature known as the Indominus Rex never existed, owing to the fact that the creature has never been seen, and that stories regarding its accidental release were invented to conceal your incompetence in maintaining the park's security? Any comment on--"
At around that point, Owen surprises the reporter by punching him, and he felt the satisfying crunch of cartilage beneath his knuckles. He shakes out his hand, moving to guide Claire away again, when the reporter surprises him by jumping back to his feet and driving his fist into Owen's gut.
Things got a little out of hand, after that.
One broken nose (the reporter's), one bleeding nose (Owen's), two black eyes (one for each, though the reporter's was worse), a split lip (Owen's), a torn shirt (the reporter's), twenty bruised knuckles, and two citations for causing a public disturbance later, Owen finds himself at the wrong end of icy silence from Claire. She's brought them back to her apartment (which, by the way, is really nice, though Owen finds it difficult to compliment her digs in the face of her quiet rage) with hardly a word, and he's directed to sit at the kitchen counter.
Dirty, disheveled, and with a wadded-up napkin up his nose is not how he imagined himself in Claire Dearing's home. At length, he swallows his apprehension and finally breaks the silence. ]
Alright, go ahead. Tell me how pissed you are at me.
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So for a while, it's good to be with Owen again. Her life has been lacking in any sort of normalcy or anchor for so long. Owen is straightforward, he's consistent, and... damn it, she's missed him. There's something reassuring about his presence at her back as she's facing down yet another mob of reporters.
But that all goes right out the fucking window the second he steps in front of her.
So now, here they are in her kitchen (and this is not how she envisioned inviting Owen over to her apartment at all). He's well-aware he's fucked up- hard not to be, given the fact that Claire has been silently fuming at him from the moment he and the reporter were finally separated.
She fishes in her drawers for a rag and is in the process of wetting it in the kitchen sink when Owen finally speaks, and her gaze snaps in his direction, cold and furious. ]
I have to tell you? Here I thought you would have figured it out by now.
[ It comes out clipped and angry. She wads the rag in the hand and squeezes it, presumably to get the extra water out, but after a moment her grip becomes white-knuckled, and she rounds on him at last ]
What the hell were you thinking? Were you trying to add to the feeding frenzy? That little stunt you pulled is going to be on the front of every gossip magazine for weeks!
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AUception
It's not a name he chose for himself. Some of his peers are a tad more poetic than others, more dramatic than others, and while he would have preferred to remain unnamed, his exploits had earned him some level of infamy. He was so very, very careful to leave no witnesses alive, but he did miss the occasional camera here and there -- security footage, or some last ditch effort on the part of his victims to earn themselves justice through candid filming. Not that it would do them any good, since he wore a different face, sometimes even a different body, on each assignment.
This meant that the footage of his work reached certain hands, were viewed by certain eyes, and the name Myriad floated among the circles that mattered. Over the decades, he earned himself some freedom in choosing his clientele. The jobs came to him, rather than the other way around. He was given "first dibs," as it were, and had earned himself a reputation for his trustworthiness, his professionalism. Refuse or accept, he always had his reasons for doing what he did -- though he rarely divulged them, at the time; those who attempted to cross him received no mercy, and so his reputation for brutality grew, as well. It meant that clients contacted him with a healthy dose of caution.
When he's called in to eliminate one Charles Oliver Maxwell III, he does not bat an eye.
Myriad had left his home system quite some time ago. He was a younger man, then, more inclined to think with his heart than his head, and disagreements with his parents -- regarding his habits, his lifestyle, his dalliances with other men -- had driven him away. They had tracked him down, of course, had confronted him in the evening in some modest apartment with a cadre of thugs and demanded he return home to fulfill his duty as their sole heir. He refused and drove home his refusal via a long, metal blade that burst its way through their chests.
There's a twinge of familiarity as he looks over the Maxwell file. A young man after his own heart, he assumes. Someone who abandoned his home in hopes of finding himself, escaping the pressures of his family and kin. A shame someone wanted the young man dead. Myriad turns down the contract, in the end, and while the client's representative had frowned in disappointment, he had the good sense to not ask why, or to attempt to convince him otherwise. They say their goodbyes, and Myriad takes his leave.
This does not, however, stop him from tracking down the Maxwell boy. This does not stop him from finding him on a planet on the outskirts of their home system. This does not stop him from following the young man, and keeping a watchful eye on him.
Myriad, for reasons that are solely his own, takes a liking to the younger man.
He watches from a rooftop nearby when a hitman finally arrives at Charlie's apartment, the man slipping in through the windowsill. Moderately skilled, Myriad thinks, as the assassin slinks toward Charlie's sleeping form, and he manages to surprise the young man with a slash across his chest. After that, the fight devolves into a mess, with the Mover throwing what few things decorated his apartment at his assailant. Myriad tuts disapprovingly when it's over, and the would-be assassin is reduced to a bleeding heap on the floor. Sloppy work, he thinks. But then again, Myriad had expected very little when he had hired the man to attack Charlie. The Changer had been so very curious to see how the Mover would react -- and he had performed beautifully, for an amateur.
It's his turn, then, to slip into Charlie's apartment, and the young man is losing a battle against unconsciousness. He doesn't resist when Myriad rips apart his sheets to stem his bleeding, when he flicks a hand to send copies of himself to collect Charlie's sparse belongings, and by the time the makeshift bandages are in place, Charlie succumbs to pain and blood loss. Which makes it all the easier to transport the young man to Myriad's ship.
They leave the planet behind, and Myriad sits beside Charlie's bedside, observing him. Whenever the younger man begins to rouse, he gentles his voice, placing a hand lightly on Charlie's shoulder. ]
Try not to move. You've been badly injured.
Myriad you son of a bitch
Despite what Myriad says, the unfamiliar voice makes Charlie snap into wakefulness, makes him sit bolt upright, or at least try to, but there's a hand on his shoulder and a sharp pain in his side that makes him flop back down with a gasp. ]
Where am I? Who are you?
ilu2
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HOVER MENUS
TURN THAT SHIT OFF
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She is also the one to call Jacob when Andrew turns up missing.
Jacob had been introduced to the Parkers some time ago by Charlie, back when he was trying to get a feel for his powers and deal with the fact that he could see ghosts. They were a great help, and their son seemed fond of the detective, so of course Jacob promised to make Andrew his top priority. What disturbed Jacob the most was that Andrew had gone missing in the very same cemetery where the detective and Dorian had tracked down and captured a rogue Venatori mage who had been murdering people to power his own home-brewed portals to Thedas.
It could be nothing, but the coincidence was too great. Jacob had Charlie send word to Dorian via their magic mirror to keep an ear to the ground, because if the boy was in Thedas, he was likely in enemy hands, and therefore in great danger.
And true enough, that's where he was. One such home-brewed portal in the cemetery had slipped through the cracks, and when Venatori agents slipped through, they chanced upon Andrew honing his skills, sending a restless spirit on to the next world, and they recognized the runes as similar to the ones the strange mage in the Inquisition had used. They spirited the boy away. Perhaps he could still be of some use to them.
It was only Andrew's natural aptitude for his magic that drew... something to him. A wisp. A spirit. Something. But it heard his cries for help, and drifted to look for people to answer those cries.
Help me, it said. I want to go home. Detective Randall, someone, anyone, please. Help me. ]
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Solas is the one who informs Dorian of the boy's capture, assuming correctly that his paramour, as it were, would find the information of interest. He could hardly ignore a plea for help any more than the Spirit of Compassion could, and once the information had been passed, he assumed his part in the matter would be over, and that Dorian would do as he must.
Or this would have been the case, except the Inquisitor had rather abruptly called for an outing to Emprise du Lion, and with Vivienne occupied with business in Orlais, evidently the Inquisitor had flipped a coin to determine who would accompany her traveling party. Dorian, it seems, was the lucky man.
The two of them have little time before Dorian must depart, and he waits in his quarters for the detective's arrival, pacing and casting anxious glances in Solas' direction every so often. Solas, of course, is placid, serene, standing beside the door with his hands clasped behind him. Whenever Jacob finally arrives, Dorian steps forward, harried. ]
Change of plans, Detective. I'm afraid I'll be traveling abroad -- leaving soon, in fact. Can't stay to chat. I'll have to leave you in Solas' capable hands.
[ And it's then that Solas steps forward, regarding the man before bowing slightly from the waist. ]
A pleasure to meet you.
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One could blame it on his upbringing, if one were so inclined. In Tevinter, a would-be magister must set himself apart from the rabble, must show that he is more talented, more intelligent, more everything than his peers. In a country where magic is revered and the powerful survive, it is exceedingly common to use one's talents for mundane tasks -- lighting a fire, sweeping aside curtains, keeping one's hands free by levitating some ancient tome or other.
Which means that when one Dorian Pavus, once of Minrathous, most recently of the Inquisition's keep, Skyhold, arrived in Colorado, he had the occasional slip-up. In his more primal moments, sparks would fly across the tips of his fingers; when researching the nature of Charlie's magic, he would send a file floating before him while he occupied his hands with another book. He would wave out candles, summon flame in his palm, drop ice in a drink here and again. On the occasions that Detective Randall had work for Charlie, and if the mage happened to be present, Dorian would accompany him, let his magic fly with the same graceful abandon he would demonstrate at home. He was not nearly as careful with his displays as he promised Charlie he would be, but the two of them had assumed he had kept his shows of magic relatively quiet.
They were wrong, naturally. Or at the very least, the small displays were enough to garner interest, and the rumors took on lives of their own. At some point, whispers began to circulate among the wizarding community. There's a strange man, you know. Suddenly arrived from nowhere. No family to speak of, no heritage, and yet he exhibits a strange sort of Elemental magic. Casts spells near instantaneously, or so they say, and yet he doesn't have any Enhancement tattoos. Almost as though he creates his runes so quickly as to not be seen, or he has no need of them. Have you ever heard of such a thing?
No, they certainly had not. But most were glad to leave it as an idle curiosity, to leave it as a silly story warped by the retellings.
Some, however, were not.
There is a cafe a few blocks away from the bookshop -- small, unassuming. "Hipstery," Charlie had dubbed it once, though he declined to elaborate further. Dorian stops by, sometimes, when he arrives too early in the day for Charlie to properly close the shop, but too late to tempt the wizard with lunch. The staff recognizes him by now, considering he's nothing but charming with them -- and considering at least half of them would gladly give up their right hands to have dinner with him at least once.
He's sitting at a table in the corner, near the shop's front, a worn book in his hands and a cup of coffee on the table -- a cup which, evidently, he has forgotten, as when Dorian absently takes a sip, he immediately grimaces and sets it back down. Cold, it seems. After a furtive glance around, he flexes his fingers, and a glowing red rune appears just above the coffee's surface. Not a moment later, steam curls and drifts from the cup as Dorian lifts it to his lips again. ]
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The Destroyer kept tabs on all of the Randall wizard’s friends- it wasn’t hard to do, really- but ever since the fire elemental had burned his house to the ground, he did so at a distance. (He had other homes, of course. Properties all over the globe purchased under a dozen different aliases and warded by the best Defenders and Illusionists money could buy. His issue was knowing that he’d underestimated Jacob and the company he kept once, and he would not do so again.)
Picking out the stranger’s routine had not been too difficult, and several weeks beforehand, he began frequenting the same café. He’d offer Dorian a polite nod and a smile. Brush past him once or twice and apologize for bumping into him. He kept his own schedule, coming or going partway into Dorian’s stay as he waited for the Maxwell wizard to finish at the bookstore. Sometimes he stayed longer and left after Dorian had departed, sometimes they left together. He was just another face in the crowd; nothing remarkable, though he made sure the greetings became friendlier the more they saw each other. Warren wasn’t friendly by any stretch of the imagination, but at over a hundred years old, he could fake it with the best of them.
He’s sitting at a table on the adjacent wall from Dorian, ostensibly for the outlet, since he’s typing away on his laptop. (He’s been watching, though, out of the corner of his eye, and he saw the slight glow illuminate the stranger’s coffee cup before steam began to rise. He’d be damned if he wasn’t curious.)
After a while, he gets up to stretch, meanders over to the counter for a refill on his coffee, and on the way back pauses by Dorian’s table. ]
Good book?
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gg didn't hit post comment
I thought you didn't love me anymore ):
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