Well, this ended up being about six times longer than it needed to be. >_< AS USUAL, AUGH. I need to start seriously doing 50sentences prompts, because my inability to say things succinctly is getting irritating. And shit, but I do suck at endings something awful.
Orrin is a spaz, but he also tends to be very logical and methodical in his thought processes, if not in his actions. (He lacks organizational skills something fierce.) And he suffers from the affliction of incurable curiosity, which will undoubtedly get him into terrible trouble at some point in the future.
He knows Silverlock as Rien, and has a hard time thinking of him by any other name.
--------------------------------------------
"What are you doing?" Orrin squinted blearily at Rien, and tried to figure out where the clock had landed the night before.
"Nothing, go back to sleep." The other man sat beside the bed with a cup of coffee balanced on one knee and a sketchpad on the other.
"That doesn't look like nothing." He rubbed his eyes until his vision cleared and leaned over the edge of the bed to get a better look at the sketchpad. "What're you drawing?"
Rien looked vaguely embarrassed, and tilted the sketchpad out of Orrin's view. "It's just a sketch," he said, taking a sip of his coffee. "I picked up the habit a few centuries ago, but art has never been my strong suit."
"Come on, let me see." Orrin put on his best pleading expression; the only person he'd met who was consistently immune to it was Eleth, but Eleth didn't count as a whole person, anyway.
Rien thwacked him upside the head with the sketchpad and tossed it on the bed. "Fine, brat. But I'm no artist, so don't complain if you look like a cow. I'm making more coffee."
"Bitch," Orrin said affectionately. He picked up the sketchpad and began flipping through it. "Put the kettle on for tea? And make some pancakes?"
"Does this look like a bed and breakfast to you? Make your own godsdamned pancakes," Rien shouted from the kitchen.
Orrin snorted. Rien was an excellent artist- not professional quality, perhaps, but Orrin recognized his own face easily among the dozens of sketches in the book. There were several other pictures of him, in various states of unconsciousness, including one of him asleep in the lab, drooling on his notes. "Charming," he muttered. There were sketches of other people, most of whom he didn't recognize.
Rien sauntered back into the bedroom with his coffee in one hand and Orrin's tea in the other. Orrin took the tea with a grateful smile.
"These are all pretty good, you know. Maybe you should try drawing people who are awake to appreciate it."
"People's faces are more honest in sleep." Rien settled back into his chair and propped his feet on the bed. "And the majority of the people I draw wouldn't appreciate it."
"Huh. Really?"
"Security risk. And some of my older sketches are of people who were very self conscious."
"Mm. So, who's this?" She was young- younger than him, definitely- but her face was twisted in weariness.
"Anna DeLavrey."
"You had sex with Anna DeLavrey?" He couldn't decide if he was surprised or horrified.
"No. I spent several years as her body guard, however." Rien looked thoughtful. "That was done the night her mother died."
"Oh." He looked at the picture again. Anna DeLavrey was responsible for his soul, in a way, and though she'd been dead for years, he still felt grateful to her. "And this?"
"Zizi Menelek. He's an old friend, and the artist who did the linework on my face."
"You sleep with him?"
"On occasion." Rien shrugged. "I don't keep a log of my bedroom conquests in my sketchbooks, Orrin. It's more a record of the people I care about than anything else."
"Isn't that dangerous?"
"When they're not in my hands, they're in a locked box in my workroom."
Orrin still had yet to see the inside of Rien's workroom; there were enough magical wards on the door to give him a headache if he thought about it for too long. "Fair enough." He tilted his head to the side. "You have other pictures, then?"
Rien smiled mysteriously. "You're going to be late for class, you know."
"What?" He caught sight of the clock, lying on its side by one of the windows. "Fuck! Why didn't you warn me?" He scrambled out of bed, gulping the rest of his tea in the process and only spilling some of it on his chest. "This is the third time this month- my students are going to riot. Crap, crap, crap- where are my pants?"
"Your clothes are in the bathroom, on the counter, as usual." Rien leaned back in his chair, a serene expression on his face. "There's toast on the kitchen table, and your briefcase is by the door."
Orrin hurried to get dressed, any further thoughts of sketchbooks banished from his mind.
---
A week later; he'd managed to be late to class only one day, which was possibly a new record. His students had taken to showing up even later than he did, and as a result, the entire class was about a chapter behind schedule. If they all failed the final, he would probably have a lynch mob on his hands, and his department might take away his fellowship grant.
Well, that was fairly unlikely. But if he pissed off his advisors too much, they might downgrade his housing options. And he liked his apartment, for all that he didn't see the inside of it very often these days. It was optimally located for him to steal food out of Faraz's fridge.
Of course, Rien had plenty of space if it came to that, but Orrin wasn't sure he wanted to move in with the other man. It would mean putting a formal name to their arrangement, and he wasn't quite willing to do that yet. (He could hear Jay in the back of his head, using his most condescending therapist voice. "How does it really make you feel, Orrin?")
He kicked open the door to Rien's apartment, feeling slightly irritable, and ignored the sound of Jay's voice in the back of his head.
"Bad day?"
"Not really. Class is behind, as usual; they all blame me and not their own unwillingness to read the fucking textbook, as usual. What the hells are you doing?" He dropped his briefcase by the door, kicked off his shoes, and stepped across the mess Rien had made across the carpet, heading towards the kitchen.
"Indulging in nostalgia. I hadn't realized I'd collected so many sketchbooks over the years."
"Seriously?" Orrin found some cheese in the fridge and wandered back into the living room, gnawing absently. "I thought a filing cabinet attacked you or something."
Rien was leaning against the couch, surrounded by notebooks and photo albums and hundreds of sheets of heavy drawing paper, napkins, bits of newsprint, parchment, and what might have been vellum. Each page glittered with aether: preservation and protection castings.
"I thought you might like to see some of them." Rien's smile was distant. "Since you were so fascinated last week."
"Sure." Orrin sat on the edge of the couch and picked up a piece of parchment. "How much energy does it take to maintain these castings?" He turned it over and rubbed at it with a greasy finger; the spell shimmered, and the stain crumbled away.
Rien snorted. "Engineer."
Orrin blinked owlishly. "What? Some of these are hundreds of years old, right? And they're all in really good condition, and I bet you could set them on fire and they wouldn't even get singed. And there's a lot of paper here- the energy expenditure has to be enormous. They don't use spells this thorough in the library except in the classified archives." He pulled out his glasses. "You must have some sort of aether-dampening field working, too, because there's no way a spell this powerful would be so quiet."
A crumpled up ball of paper hit him on the nose. "I'm almost tempted to make you figure it out for yourself, but you'd probably try to deconstruct it, and that wouldn't be healthy for you or my sketches." Rien pinched the bridge of his nose and sighed heavily. "Do you want me to spoil it for you?"
"No! That takes all of the fun out of it." Orrin lit the tip of his finger on fire and held the paper over the flame. The casting shimmered, and the flame went out. "That's so cool."
"I'm glad you're amused." Rien began sorting through the papers, arranging them in neat stacks. "The casting uses some magicrafting techniques. I'll introduce you to Bellicose and Prufrock at some point, and they can explain the basics of crafting to you. Who knows, you might even have some talent for it."
"That would be awesome." Curiosity temporarily sated, Orrin turned the sketch over and adjusted his glasses. "So, who is this?" The sketch was old, if the date in the corner was to be believed. It was done with an amateur's hand, but lovingly- the young woman slept with a smile on her face.
"Sarila An'astri. My sister." Rien was looking out the window, away from Orrin.
Orrin's eyes widened. The date in the corner wasn't lying, then- and the woman was young, which meant Rien had been young as well. "How old were you?"
"Twenty three. I gave that to her when it was finished; it was found among her possessions after her death. Her husband's children were kind enough to let me keep it."
"She's hot." Orrin grinned.
"The most beautiful woman in the world," Rien agreed, grinning back. "She was the only sister from my age group to survive her indenture. The others killed themselves when they left the House, along with two of my brothers."
He set the sketch down, carefully. "That's...kind of terrible."
"Emotional enslavement usually is."
Orrin had nothing to say to that; slavery had been abolished for centuries, and the dwindling half elf population no longer bothered with the old traditions. Their god was dead, swallowed by the tower, and none of the Kin alive now remembered what it meant to wear a collar- none of them, except Rien.
He picked up another sketch; it was easy to forget, sometimes, exactly how old Rien was. "Who's this?" It was another very old sketch, though not quite as old as the first. A scar cut across the woman's right eye, and she slept with tension carving lines into her forehead.
"Ayanna DeLavrey. She put an end to the Fourth Era Riftwar by killing her brother and the Guildmaster of the Assassins' Guild."
"I've read about her- Eleth has some sort of weird historical crush on her."
Rien laughed. "Eleth has too much free time, but he certainly does have good taste. She was an amazing woman, and I loved her dearly- more than I should have, really, but she was...kind enough to not hold that against me. It's because of her that I've kept so close to the DeLavreys over the years."
Her features were strong, and she was older, probably in her fifties, but she'd clearly been quite beautiful once. "She reminds me of someone." He couldn't quite say why- there was nothing about her face that was familiar, but she reminded him of someone nonetheless.
Rien laughed again, but without humor. "Does she, now?" Mocking, slightly bitter.
"Ass," Orrin muttered. He hated when Rien did that- that irritating, I-know-something-you-don't-know tone of voice and smile. He set the sketch of the Lady DeLavrey aside and picked up another. It was from around the same time as the other two, of a man with scars across his mouth and nose. Orrin stared at the picture. This was familiar, too, and he had no idea why.
"He never knew I drew him." Rien nudged a stack of sketches towards Orrin, all of the same man. He was older in many of them, though curiously lacking the scars in some. "Towards the end, I filled an entire book with him, and I never told him, never showed him any of them."
Orrin looked through the stack of pages- there were hundreds of drawings, and couldn't shake the feeling he knew this face. "Who was he?"
"Someone else I loved more than I should have. It's something of a recurring theme in my life." Rueful, then sly. "He reminds you of someone, too, doesn't he?"
"Yeah." Orrin set the sketches aside and looked at Rien searchingly. "You're never going to tell me, are you?"
He shook his head. "You don't need to know."
"That isn't your choice to make." It angered him. It fucking pissed him off, actually, because he hated it when people knew things he didn't know, hated when information was witheld.
"It is, actually- possession is nine tenths of ownership, and that applies to information as well as anything else. If I told you who you were, you would live every moment of your life wondering if your thoughts or actions were your own, or those of someone who died well before you were born." He reached up and pulled Orrin's glasses from his face. "You are yourself, Orrin. Not any of them." He gestured to the stacks of paper. "And you might be able to believe that now, if you let yourself. If I tell you which of these faces might have been yours once, you never will."
"That isn't fair- I have the right to know." It wasn't just morbid curiosity, and it wasn't just because of Rien- even though he knew- knew, no matter what Rien said- that if it weren't for his soul, he wouldn't be in this- relationship, or whatever it was. He needed to know, because he could remember the Time Before, and he still woke up at night gasping, afraid that it was gone, that the bleakness would return.
He owed someone's memory a debt that he might never be able to repay. And if he had learned one thing in his life, it was to pay his debts.
Rien shook his head. "Jaden agrees with me on this- knowing would do you more harm than good." He took Orrin's chin and pulled him down so their faces were close. "And I am being selfish, Orrin. If I tell you where your soul came from, you would leave. I'm rather fond of you, for any number of completely unrelated reasons."
The kiss was less of an attempt to manipulate him than he expected.
"Please, just trust me- and if not me, trust Jaden."
"If I promised to stay, and if I told you I would leave if you didn't tell me-"
"It wouldn't change anything," Rien said gravely. "I'm selfish, but I'm not that selfish. Knowing would do you more harm than good."
Orrin leaned closer, so their foreheads touched. He liked his life. He liked his job, he liked his friends- he even liked his therapist. And he liked this- arrangement. Relationship. Whatever it was. He liked raiding Rien's kitchen and he liked the fantastic sex and he liked pancakes at three in the morning and waking up next to someone who remembered where he'd put his things the night before.
He still wanted to know the truth about his soul. But he wasn't a fool. "I trust you."
"Thank you." Rien sounded relieved- and Orrin wondered if he could push hard enough, if the other man would cave eventually. It was something to think about.
He sat back on the couch and picked up another sketch, this one of a woman with scaly shadows on her face and some sort of headdress or jewelry with a large cabochon stone centered on her forehead. It was dated about a hundred years after the others. "Who's this?"
Rien crossed his arms over Orrin's knees and leaned to get a better look. "Ah, that lovely lady is Her Holiness Manikarnika, Avatar of Venani. Brilliant woman, one of the most well read scholars of her time. Also one of the most amazingly flexible people I've ever met, though I do attribute that to her being half snake."
"Ugh. Snake? Seriously?" Orrin shuddered. "Scales and slithering- that's disgusting. Seriously disgusting."
Rien stared at him for a moment, then burst into laughter.
"Oh, screw you." The next sketch was of two people, an almost completely nondescript man and a fae-looking woman. "Who are they?"
"That's Lady Foxbird Torkehaav, City Walker and Guildmaster of the Assassins' Guild, with a lieutenant of the City Watch. I never could remember his name- I don't think she could, half the time, either." He picked up another stack of papers. "I did draw her awake several times, at her insistance. She was always particularly skilled at getting what she wanted."
Orrin knew he was slow sometimes, but he usually figured things out eventually. The fact that Lady Torkehaav's face was familiar to him was irrelevant. "Tell me more about her?" He held out the sketch.
Rien smiled all the time; he said it was a good way to put people off guard and that he was, by nature, a cheerful person. Orrin thought this was bullshit, generally. He'd gotten to know Rien well enough to tell when his smiles were hollow and when they were true, or rather, not quite as empty. The hollow, untrustworthy sort far, far out numbered the others.
He was smiling at Orrin now- a smile that barely reached his mouth, but one that lingered in the corners of his eyes. It was, Orrin realized, probably the first truly honest expression he'd ever seen on the other man's face.
Showing posts with label fifth era. Show all posts
Showing posts with label fifth era. Show all posts
Thursday, August 30, 2007
Sunday, July 08, 2007
earth mother
Faraz Aghavni is the reincarnation/reboot of Foxbird; she's 6'6", making her my tallest human character in any story. (Kupric is taller- he's around 7 foot- but he's a half-elf, and when I say half elf, I mean half elf, half giant hybrid.) She's the youngest of the soulless (not of the demographic, just of the particular small group of them that I'm generally concerned with), having obtained her soul at the age of six. Since she hadn't hit puberty or finished devloping a personality or any of that jazz, it wasn't all that traumatic for her. She remembers the time before the Tower opened as a boring, flat, colorless time. Then there was the year or so between her reawakening and her friends' reawakenings, and that was even more boring, if slightly more colorful.
She's still incredibly strange, of course. She's got no interest in people outside of her personal circle of "family," except as temporary amusements. She spends most of her evenings out a bars, hooking up with strangers. By the time she's twenty four, she's acquired as many notches in her bedpost as Silverlock had at fifty, which is a number that is not slight.
Jay has given up on getting her to stop- she can more than take care of herself, under any circumstances. She's easily bored by most people, unless they're actively working to entertain her. Most of the time, she's able to relate more to plants than people.
She's got a degree in biology and is getting her AD in arcane botany; she is, essentially, a druid. She speaks to trees. She wants to reintegrate greenery in the city- Redmark used to house a fantastic park, but most of it is gone now; the DeLavrey manor, too, was once located in the middle of a forest, inside the city. She spends a great deal of time working with members of Lesser Faery- the elves in the Fifth Era have largely lost touch with nature, but the Lesser Fae still maintain that connection.
She's a bit feral- fiercely protective of her family, but not inclined to give a shit about anything else. She's almost a mother figure- but I don't actually have any mother figures in my cast of characters (Shanreth doesn't count). She ends up taking care of Tim and adopting him as her protege/little brother.
She fights with her fists, mostly, and on certain memorable occasions, her teeth. Generally, once Faraz gets involved in a brawl, the brawl is over. She's been known to incapacitate entire teams of murderball players in under ten minutes. She's the second best fighter of the five of them- Eleth still floors her two out of three times, but she can take out Ravi and Lindra easily. She's never actually been in a serious fight with Orrin.
For all that she's a crazy Amazon, she's actually fairly mellow, and not all that different, personality-wise, from Foxbird. Not as well socialized, though that's more her own personal choice than anything to do with the way she was raised, and not as inclined to build up a harem of cranky men. But they're similar in their take-no-crap attitude towards the world.
And, y'know, she's six and a half feet tall. I'd probably be immensely fond of her for that reason alone.
She's still incredibly strange, of course. She's got no interest in people outside of her personal circle of "family," except as temporary amusements. She spends most of her evenings out a bars, hooking up with strangers. By the time she's twenty four, she's acquired as many notches in her bedpost as Silverlock had at fifty, which is a number that is not slight.
Jay has given up on getting her to stop- she can more than take care of herself, under any circumstances. She's easily bored by most people, unless they're actively working to entertain her. Most of the time, she's able to relate more to plants than people.
She's got a degree in biology and is getting her AD in arcane botany; she is, essentially, a druid. She speaks to trees. She wants to reintegrate greenery in the city- Redmark used to house a fantastic park, but most of it is gone now; the DeLavrey manor, too, was once located in the middle of a forest, inside the city. She spends a great deal of time working with members of Lesser Faery- the elves in the Fifth Era have largely lost touch with nature, but the Lesser Fae still maintain that connection.
She's a bit feral- fiercely protective of her family, but not inclined to give a shit about anything else. She's almost a mother figure- but I don't actually have any mother figures in my cast of characters (Shanreth doesn't count). She ends up taking care of Tim and adopting him as her protege/little brother.
She fights with her fists, mostly, and on certain memorable occasions, her teeth. Generally, once Faraz gets involved in a brawl, the brawl is over. She's been known to incapacitate entire teams of murderball players in under ten minutes. She's the second best fighter of the five of them- Eleth still floors her two out of three times, but she can take out Ravi and Lindra easily. She's never actually been in a serious fight with Orrin.
For all that she's a crazy Amazon, she's actually fairly mellow, and not all that different, personality-wise, from Foxbird. Not as well socialized, though that's more her own personal choice than anything to do with the way she was raised, and not as inclined to build up a harem of cranky men. But they're similar in their take-no-crap attitude towards the world.
And, y'know, she's six and a half feet tall. I'd probably be immensely fond of her for that reason alone.
Wednesday, June 13, 2007
let the motherfucker burn (Orrin babble)
(I keep watching Nip/Tuck, waiting for Sean and Christian to kiss- and they never will, but that doesn't keep me from hoping.)
I think, possibly, the real reason I've let the Fifth Era run off with itself so much is because sometimes I really enjoy naming new characters. The core five plus one all have delightful names- Orrin Brannskada, Faraz Aghavni, Ravi Anrai, Lindra Barak-Anrai, Lorreth Hjordiss, Jaden Morehan. I don't know why Blaine insists on ridiculous and vaguely ironic Swedish names (Torkehaav was mispelled Swedish for "dry ocean" and Brannskada means "burn injury") but they seem to suit him well.
Orrin is actually very little like Blaine. He's quite a bit like the person Blaine could have been, had he stayed a thief, however. Very friendly, very high energy, somewhat ADHD, fidgets with his hands constantly. He's easily distracted when he's bored, but if he's interested in something, he'll tune out the rest of the world. He can be very intense when the mood takes him.
He's 5'8" and solidly built, with traditional redhead complexion and six billion freckles. He has hazel eyes, and has never quite managed to grow a beard; after a week or so of not shaving, he gets a little fuzzy around the edges, but that's about it. This is incredibly disappointing to him, because part of him always wanted to be a pirate, and he feels no pirate is complete without facial hair. He and Mordant shop at the same clothing stores- worn out jeans, steel-toed boots, button-down shirts. He wears arm guards; he has several different pairs for different occasions, but mostly he just wears plain leather ones. They keep him from chewing on his wrists (it was a bizarre nervous habit he picked up as a very, very small child) and they hide the scars from the times he bit down to the bone as a kid.
He smokes (Blaine did, too, but Blaine hand rolled his cigarettes after picking up the habit from Maddel- Orrin smokes cheap Dzyrachan imports), but not profusely: after sex, when bar crawling, and occasionally with his morning tea when he's been pulling all nighters during exams.
He's got the equivalent of a master's degree in arcanic engineering; his doctorate thesis is on energy conversion matrices. (What? What. What? I DON'T EVEN KNOW.) All of Orrin's academic advisors love him- he's a brilliant engineer, but he's kind of a spaz. His research fellowship has him TAing a few engineering classes and some arcane theory classes. His students like him as a person, but he's a pretty useless teacher. He's also perpetually late to all of his classes.
He rides a motorcycle that actually starts three times out of five- he keeps trying to take it apart and fix it, but it hates him quite violently, and he's only succeeded in making it worse. It's got a vintage arcanic engine that isn't really compatible with the Fifth Era, but Orrin refuses to upgrade it to something that, y'know, works.
He's got decent hand-to-hand combat skills, but he prefers hitting things with sticks (his prefered weapon is something like escrima sticks, but he's proficient with a quarterstaff and a three section staff as well). Orrin, unlike Blaine, has no problem punching people when he feels it necessary. In fact, he quite enjoys it. He and Faraz occasionally go out late at night on weekends and engage in acts of vigilante justice. (There's a reason people are terrified of Faraz. SHE WILL CRUSH YOUR SOUL BENEATH HER FOOT AND DEVOUR YOUR ENTRAILS.)
He lives in one of SCoAA's graduate housing apartments, down the hall from Faraz. They used to live together, until Faraz qualified for a place of her own and moved out. (She's got a degree in biology, and is getting her doctorate in arcane botany; she's essentially a druid. Talks to plants and everything. Her apartment looks a bit like a jungle.) They still practically live together; Orrin raids her fridge almost constantly, and Faraz usually shows up in his kitchen and makes him cook for her. They make a point to meet for lunch every day, unless they're both terminally busy. They're incredibly close- nothing happens to either of them that the other doesn't know about. (This means that Orrin gets all of the gory details when Faraz randomly hooks up with some guy she met in a bar for the fourth time that week- and that Faraz has a mental catalogue of all of Silverlock's tattoos.) (Also, Orrin is a thirteen year old girl. Dear god, he is such a thirteen year old girl. Or possibly he's just really, really gay; he can't quite decide.)
He and Silverlock are ecstatically happy together, even when Silverlock does kind of get him involved in a plot to overthrow the government. (I'm still not sure what's going on with that, but whatever.) They don't stay together, I don't think. I'm not sure why- I just can't see Orrin as growing old with someone. I can't really see him as growing old, period. And Silverlock, for all that he is perfectly capable of monogamy, doesn't entirely enjoy it. Dunno; if the timeline in my head ever does get to the point where they break up, it'll probably have something to do with Theron. (What? What. What? I STIL HAVE NO IDEA, but Silverlock and Theron aren't allowed to have sex ever again, I don't care what either of them have to say on the matter.)
I think, possibly, the real reason I've let the Fifth Era run off with itself so much is because sometimes I really enjoy naming new characters. The core five plus one all have delightful names- Orrin Brannskada, Faraz Aghavni, Ravi Anrai, Lindra Barak-Anrai, Lorreth Hjordiss, Jaden Morehan. I don't know why Blaine insists on ridiculous and vaguely ironic Swedish names (Torkehaav was mispelled Swedish for "dry ocean" and Brannskada means "burn injury") but they seem to suit him well.
Orrin is actually very little like Blaine. He's quite a bit like the person Blaine could have been, had he stayed a thief, however. Very friendly, very high energy, somewhat ADHD, fidgets with his hands constantly. He's easily distracted when he's bored, but if he's interested in something, he'll tune out the rest of the world. He can be very intense when the mood takes him.
He's 5'8" and solidly built, with traditional redhead complexion and six billion freckles. He has hazel eyes, and has never quite managed to grow a beard; after a week or so of not shaving, he gets a little fuzzy around the edges, but that's about it. This is incredibly disappointing to him, because part of him always wanted to be a pirate, and he feels no pirate is complete without facial hair. He and Mordant shop at the same clothing stores- worn out jeans, steel-toed boots, button-down shirts. He wears arm guards; he has several different pairs for different occasions, but mostly he just wears plain leather ones. They keep him from chewing on his wrists (it was a bizarre nervous habit he picked up as a very, very small child) and they hide the scars from the times he bit down to the bone as a kid.
He smokes (Blaine did, too, but Blaine hand rolled his cigarettes after picking up the habit from Maddel- Orrin smokes cheap Dzyrachan imports), but not profusely: after sex, when bar crawling, and occasionally with his morning tea when he's been pulling all nighters during exams.
He's got the equivalent of a master's degree in arcanic engineering; his doctorate thesis is on energy conversion matrices. (What? What. What? I DON'T EVEN KNOW.) All of Orrin's academic advisors love him- he's a brilliant engineer, but he's kind of a spaz. His research fellowship has him TAing a few engineering classes and some arcane theory classes. His students like him as a person, but he's a pretty useless teacher. He's also perpetually late to all of his classes.
He rides a motorcycle that actually starts three times out of five- he keeps trying to take it apart and fix it, but it hates him quite violently, and he's only succeeded in making it worse. It's got a vintage arcanic engine that isn't really compatible with the Fifth Era, but Orrin refuses to upgrade it to something that, y'know, works.
He's got decent hand-to-hand combat skills, but he prefers hitting things with sticks (his prefered weapon is something like escrima sticks, but he's proficient with a quarterstaff and a three section staff as well). Orrin, unlike Blaine, has no problem punching people when he feels it necessary. In fact, he quite enjoys it. He and Faraz occasionally go out late at night on weekends and engage in acts of vigilante justice. (There's a reason people are terrified of Faraz. SHE WILL CRUSH YOUR SOUL BENEATH HER FOOT AND DEVOUR YOUR ENTRAILS.)
He lives in one of SCoAA's graduate housing apartments, down the hall from Faraz. They used to live together, until Faraz qualified for a place of her own and moved out. (She's got a degree in biology, and is getting her doctorate in arcane botany; she's essentially a druid. Talks to plants and everything. Her apartment looks a bit like a jungle.) They still practically live together; Orrin raids her fridge almost constantly, and Faraz usually shows up in his kitchen and makes him cook for her. They make a point to meet for lunch every day, unless they're both terminally busy. They're incredibly close- nothing happens to either of them that the other doesn't know about. (This means that Orrin gets all of the gory details when Faraz randomly hooks up with some guy she met in a bar for the fourth time that week- and that Faraz has a mental catalogue of all of Silverlock's tattoos.) (Also, Orrin is a thirteen year old girl. Dear god, he is such a thirteen year old girl. Or possibly he's just really, really gay; he can't quite decide.)
He and Silverlock are ecstatically happy together, even when Silverlock does kind of get him involved in a plot to overthrow the government. (I'm still not sure what's going on with that, but whatever.) They don't stay together, I don't think. I'm not sure why- I just can't see Orrin as growing old with someone. I can't really see him as growing old, period. And Silverlock, for all that he is perfectly capable of monogamy, doesn't entirely enjoy it. Dunno; if the timeline in my head ever does get to the point where they break up, it'll probably have something to do with Theron. (What? What. What? I STIL HAVE NO IDEA, but Silverlock and Theron aren't allowed to have sex ever again, I don't care what either of them have to say on the matter.)
Friday, March 16, 2007
All for the love of thee
WHAT I DON'T EVEN KNOW.
In conclusion, Orrin is an idiot. AN IDIOT WITH ADD.
---------------
Silverlock stretched out on the couch with a treatise on arcanic engineering while Orrin explored the apartment. He kept an ear open for explosions or the sound of breaking glass and kept a pencil on hand to make notes in the margins.
"Sweet Goddess!" Orrin's head appeared over the top of the couch. "Can I marry your kitchen?"
"No," Silverlock replied, without looking up from his book.
Orrin's head disappeared. There was a clang from the direction of the kitchen before he reappeared. "Can I marry your oven-stove-thing?"
"No."
"What about the fridge?"
"Already in a committed relationship with the dishwasher."
Orrin sighed, and disappeared again. He returned a moment later, and sat next to the hulking entertainment system taking up one of the living room walls. "Can I marry your sound system?"
"No."
He sighed again, and rubbed it's sleek black side soothingly. "No one understands our love."
He wandered away again. Silverlock stared at the page he'd been reading in consternation; the margin was filled with little doodles of tiny rabbits.
Orrin came back and draped himself over the couch. "The jacuzzi and I are eloping. Just thought you might like to know."
He shut the book. "Orrin, you are not marrying or otherwise running off with any of my household appliances. I forbid it."
"Hence the eloping. You can't suppress true love." Silverlock stared at him. Orrin rolled his eyes. "Fine, I won't elope with the hot tub. Can I marry you?"
Silverlock went very still for a microsecond, and glared at the younger man. Orrin was grinning, but his eyes were serious. "No. I hate weddings."
"You must be evil. Everyone likes weddings."
His lip curled in disgust. "I don't. My sister got married- she was the most beautiful woman in the world when we were young, you know. I'm not exaggerating- there was a vote. And then she got married, and she turned fat and wrinkled and her hair fell out."
"Was she still the most beautiful woman in the world?"
He carefully placed his hand on Orrin's head, and shoved. Orrin fell off the couch with a squawk. "That's beside the point." The truth was, marriage had only made Sarila more lovely, weight and wrinkles aside. He was still bitter; there'd been a time when she had been beautiful for him.
"Fine, then. It's a shame- Faraz would've had fun being my second." His head popped up over the edge of the couch again.
Silverlock opened his mouth, and then shut it, looking thoughtful. "Would you make her wear a suit?" He was fiercely grateful to Orrin for leaving the subject of his siblings alone.
"She'd probably insist on it."
He paused a moment to savor that image, and wondered vaguely if Faraz would ever consider modeling. "How hard would you try to kill me if I had sex with her? Theoretically, I mean."
It was Orrin's turn to glare. "There is no try. There is only painful death. She's like my sister, man. And you'd have to take on El, Ravi, and Lindra, too, and Jay would totally kick your ass. He hates it when people make his work harder, and I'd need so much more therapy after killing you."
"Pity." In a way, it was a comfort to know that some things would always remain constant, no matter how much the universe shifted. Still, Faraz was one of the most attractive people he knew, and that kind of lost opportunity was a crying shame. "Oh, stop glaring. I'm perfectly capable of respecting reasonable boundaries, despite all rumors to the contrary."
Orrin held the glare for another moment, then shrugged, deceptively casual. "It's not like I really have anything to worry about on that score," he said, examining his nails. "You're far too short for her."
"Oh, that's it!" Orrin was already running, but his socks slipped on the carpet, and Silverlock performed a flying tackle off the back of the couch that would have done any of his old teachers at the Guild proud. He might be getting old, and he might be going soft, but that didn't mean Orrin stood a chance. "You're not so tall that you can't be dragged down to my level, boy."
Orrin was laughing to hard to respond, but that might have had something to do with the way Silverlock was tickling his ribs with the merciless efficiency of an Assassin High Lord. When he decided Orrin had had enough, Silverlock sat back on his heels and looked smug.
"You're such a bastard." Orrin was gasping for breath.
"And I suppose you're a saint?" he asked archly. The words were out of his mouth before he could stop them; they sent a thread of ice down his spine.
"Of course not," Orrin said, oblivious. "I am only sleeping with you for your kitchen, after all."
"That's fine. I'm not a jealous man, and I don't mind sharing." He struck an aggrieved pose and flopped onto the floor beside Orrin. "Just don't make me stand second to my stove. My pride wouldn't stand for it."
"And you hate weddings," Orrin reminded him. "Still, this is a nice place you've got here."
"Your tax marks at work."
"Hm." Orrin dug his fingers into the carpet, leaving clawmarks in the thick pile. "What is it exactly that you do for Parliament?"
Silverlock gently removed his hand from the carpet and laced their fingers together. "You don't want to know, I promise you. But if you ask me again in a year, I'll tell you."
"A year, huh?" Orrin looke down at their hands, and his ears turned slightly pink. "Yeah, sure. A year. I can do that."
--
WHAT I DON'T EVEN KNOW. Someday I'll be able to write characters who aren't thirteen year old girls. IF THEY HAD PIGTAILS, THEY'D BE PULLING THEM. FATALITY.
Let's see, things- Orrin likes to cook, and is quite good at it, hence the interest in the kitchen. Silverlock's kitchen would make a professional chef jealous, but he hardly ever uses it. He can cook, he's just too lazy to bother most of the time.
And it's not so much that Silverlock is short- he is, but you never realize how short unless he's barefoot, and he's never barefoot except in the privacy of his own home. His shoes usually lift him up to 5'8" or therabouts, which means he and Orrin see eye to eye. But Faraz is 6'6", so anyone under six foot is too short for her.
Technically, they couldn't get married- marriage is a religious institution, and the Fifth Era is currently between religions. All the old gods are gone, and there aren't any new ones- just a giant carnivorous bird thing roosting in the top of Rianna's Tower. People try to worship it, but it usually just eats them. No one even knows if it's sentient.
Civil partnerships are available for any people, and convey all the legal aspects of marriage. There are even provisions for polygamous arrangements, since Ishkhahar was hardly the only deity of the Fourth Era to encourage polyamory. It's a purely legal arrangement, and is just as often made between business partners as it is married couples or groups. But Silverlock really does hate weddings; they leave a sour taste in the back of his throat.
In conclusion, Orrin is an idiot. AN IDIOT WITH ADD.
---------------
Silverlock stretched out on the couch with a treatise on arcanic engineering while Orrin explored the apartment. He kept an ear open for explosions or the sound of breaking glass and kept a pencil on hand to make notes in the margins.
"Sweet Goddess!" Orrin's head appeared over the top of the couch. "Can I marry your kitchen?"
"No," Silverlock replied, without looking up from his book.
Orrin's head disappeared. There was a clang from the direction of the kitchen before he reappeared. "Can I marry your oven-stove-thing?"
"No."
"What about the fridge?"
"Already in a committed relationship with the dishwasher."
Orrin sighed, and disappeared again. He returned a moment later, and sat next to the hulking entertainment system taking up one of the living room walls. "Can I marry your sound system?"
"No."
He sighed again, and rubbed it's sleek black side soothingly. "No one understands our love."
He wandered away again. Silverlock stared at the page he'd been reading in consternation; the margin was filled with little doodles of tiny rabbits.
Orrin came back and draped himself over the couch. "The jacuzzi and I are eloping. Just thought you might like to know."
He shut the book. "Orrin, you are not marrying or otherwise running off with any of my household appliances. I forbid it."
"Hence the eloping. You can't suppress true love." Silverlock stared at him. Orrin rolled his eyes. "Fine, I won't elope with the hot tub. Can I marry you?"
Silverlock went very still for a microsecond, and glared at the younger man. Orrin was grinning, but his eyes were serious. "No. I hate weddings."
"You must be evil. Everyone likes weddings."
His lip curled in disgust. "I don't. My sister got married- she was the most beautiful woman in the world when we were young, you know. I'm not exaggerating- there was a vote. And then she got married, and she turned fat and wrinkled and her hair fell out."
"Was she still the most beautiful woman in the world?"
He carefully placed his hand on Orrin's head, and shoved. Orrin fell off the couch with a squawk. "That's beside the point." The truth was, marriage had only made Sarila more lovely, weight and wrinkles aside. He was still bitter; there'd been a time when she had been beautiful for him.
"Fine, then. It's a shame- Faraz would've had fun being my second." His head popped up over the edge of the couch again.
Silverlock opened his mouth, and then shut it, looking thoughtful. "Would you make her wear a suit?" He was fiercely grateful to Orrin for leaving the subject of his siblings alone.
"She'd probably insist on it."
He paused a moment to savor that image, and wondered vaguely if Faraz would ever consider modeling. "How hard would you try to kill me if I had sex with her? Theoretically, I mean."
It was Orrin's turn to glare. "There is no try. There is only painful death. She's like my sister, man. And you'd have to take on El, Ravi, and Lindra, too, and Jay would totally kick your ass. He hates it when people make his work harder, and I'd need so much more therapy after killing you."
"Pity." In a way, it was a comfort to know that some things would always remain constant, no matter how much the universe shifted. Still, Faraz was one of the most attractive people he knew, and that kind of lost opportunity was a crying shame. "Oh, stop glaring. I'm perfectly capable of respecting reasonable boundaries, despite all rumors to the contrary."
Orrin held the glare for another moment, then shrugged, deceptively casual. "It's not like I really have anything to worry about on that score," he said, examining his nails. "You're far too short for her."
"Oh, that's it!" Orrin was already running, but his socks slipped on the carpet, and Silverlock performed a flying tackle off the back of the couch that would have done any of his old teachers at the Guild proud. He might be getting old, and he might be going soft, but that didn't mean Orrin stood a chance. "You're not so tall that you can't be dragged down to my level, boy."
Orrin was laughing to hard to respond, but that might have had something to do with the way Silverlock was tickling his ribs with the merciless efficiency of an Assassin High Lord. When he decided Orrin had had enough, Silverlock sat back on his heels and looked smug.
"You're such a bastard." Orrin was gasping for breath.
"And I suppose you're a saint?" he asked archly. The words were out of his mouth before he could stop them; they sent a thread of ice down his spine.
"Of course not," Orrin said, oblivious. "I am only sleeping with you for your kitchen, after all."
"That's fine. I'm not a jealous man, and I don't mind sharing." He struck an aggrieved pose and flopped onto the floor beside Orrin. "Just don't make me stand second to my stove. My pride wouldn't stand for it."
"And you hate weddings," Orrin reminded him. "Still, this is a nice place you've got here."
"Your tax marks at work."
"Hm." Orrin dug his fingers into the carpet, leaving clawmarks in the thick pile. "What is it exactly that you do for Parliament?"
Silverlock gently removed his hand from the carpet and laced their fingers together. "You don't want to know, I promise you. But if you ask me again in a year, I'll tell you."
"A year, huh?" Orrin looke down at their hands, and his ears turned slightly pink. "Yeah, sure. A year. I can do that."
--
WHAT I DON'T EVEN KNOW. Someday I'll be able to write characters who aren't thirteen year old girls. IF THEY HAD PIGTAILS, THEY'D BE PULLING THEM. FATALITY.
Let's see, things- Orrin likes to cook, and is quite good at it, hence the interest in the kitchen. Silverlock's kitchen would make a professional chef jealous, but he hardly ever uses it. He can cook, he's just too lazy to bother most of the time.
And it's not so much that Silverlock is short- he is, but you never realize how short unless he's barefoot, and he's never barefoot except in the privacy of his own home. His shoes usually lift him up to 5'8" or therabouts, which means he and Orrin see eye to eye. But Faraz is 6'6", so anyone under six foot is too short for her.
Technically, they couldn't get married- marriage is a religious institution, and the Fifth Era is currently between religions. All the old gods are gone, and there aren't any new ones- just a giant carnivorous bird thing roosting in the top of Rianna's Tower. People try to worship it, but it usually just eats them. No one even knows if it's sentient.
Civil partnerships are available for any people, and convey all the legal aspects of marriage. There are even provisions for polygamous arrangements, since Ishkhahar was hardly the only deity of the Fourth Era to encourage polyamory. It's a purely legal arrangement, and is just as often made between business partners as it is married couples or groups. But Silverlock really does hate weddings; they leave a sour taste in the back of his throat.
Thursday, February 15, 2007
Windmill, windmill, for the land, turning, turning, hand in hand
This is horrifically sloppy and needs so much editing. >_< It can actually be boiled down to the following two dramatized chat logs:
Blaine: apocalypse now y/n?
Silverlock: WAAAANGST y pls.
Blaine: k <3 ttyl
user logged off
Silverlock: WTF?
user logged off
18 years later!
Orrin: oshit oshit oshit
Silverlock: ...ROFLCOPTER a/s/l?
---------------------------------
"This is the way the world ends, eh?" Silverlock stood on the roof of his apartment building and loked out at the city. It was nearly sunset, and the sky over the harbor was streaked with pink and orange.
By the time the sun finished sinking below the horizon, Anna DeLavrey would finish ascending the broken tower.
"Please. You probably won't even notice anything is different; at worst, you'll have a hangover for a few days until the sky clears." Blaine perched on the roof ledge; he was visible as a faint shimmer of energy, but when Silverlock used his aethersight, the other man's features became clear. It was just a trick of his mind, he knew- a mental coping mechanism to put the sight of the ghost in some semblance of order.
"It isn't my own well being I'm concerned for, surprising as that may seem. I'm going to live forever, after all." Silverlock leaned against the edge of the roof and looked down at the street below. "It's the rest of the world I fear for."
"Don't. The worst has already come to pass. This, now...this is just housekeeping."
"How bad is it, really? Anna is sure she's doing the right thing, but it seems she's the only one."
"The destruction of the Voyancy created a hole in the aether; it's been devouring the upper plane ever since, and cannot be halted or filled. Its only a matter of time before it starts on this plane, and then all of this," he gestured to the city, "will be gone."
"All but the tower."
"All but the tower," Blaine agreed. "But it does no good to have the tower floating in a sea of nothingness, waiting for the creator to return and start anew."
That was true enough, he supposed. "You're smiling," Silverlock observed.
"So I am. I'm surprised you can tell."
"Death may have improved your sense of humor, but it did nothing for your sensitivity." He remained still, but reached out with his soul to trace the contours of Blaine's face. He'd memorized these lines centuries ago. "I know you well enough by now to notice when you're smirking. I only comment because you seem to be taking your imminent oblivion in remarkably good spirits, if you'll pardon the pun- and because that's your "I know something you don't know" smile, and I hate that smile."
If anything, Blaine's smile widened, and he leaned into Silverlock's touch. "I only use it when I have good cause."
"I know." He tugged Blaine closer, until they overlapped, soul to soul. "I don't suppose you're going to share the secret?"
"And ruin the fun? Never." His laughter made Silverlock shiver with the intimacy of their position. "Look, it's starting."
Aether was rarely visible to the naked eye; high concentrations of it appeared as little more than a heat haze, and were almost unheard of. Ghosts like Blaine were a rarity. The air around the tower was thick with ghosts and aether, so much that the sky was lit with whorls of white and gold. Streams of glittering soul energy swirled around them, around the city, flowing towards the tower. "Impressive, isn't it?"
"It's beautiful." The sight of so much power made the empty places in his soul ache. Briefly, he wondered if this was what Theron had felt, or Dekar; their sins seemed forgiveable in the face of such overwhelming hunger. He could feel the pull of the tower in his own soul as it drew everything inexorably back together.
"Promise me something?" Blaine's voice was soft, almost drowned out by the roar of the aether.
"Anything."
He pulled away, attention fixed on the gathering apocalypse. "Forgive me the cliche- but promise you'll stay true to yourself."
Silverlock spread his hands. "When have I ever done elsewise?"
"I seem to recall a few decades in the nine hundreds..." Blaine was smirking again, and Silverlock was amused in spite of himself.
"I was stoned for most of those and refuse to be held accountable for my actions."
"Fair enough." He was growing indistinct around the edges. "I have to go now." He sounded apologetic.
Objectively, he had no reason to be bitter; he'd been gifted with an extra four hundred years of Blaine's company, and it was more than time for him- and the world- to move on. "I understand."
"No, you don't." I know something you don't know. "But that's not your fault." He grinned. "I'll see you later."
"Wait, what-" But the ghost was already gone, dissolved into the aether.
-----------
He found one of the squishy chairs in the student center and let it envelop him while he slipped into a meditative trance. If he was going to be working here, he wanted to get a better idea of the student body.
Technically, using his aethersight on such an expansive and intrusive scale was illegal, in addition to being incredibly rude. But there wasn't a single person on the entire campus with the sensitivity to notice him watching, and there wasn't anyone with the strength or skill to do anything about it if they could. There were, however, quite a few students and teachers with a great deal of potential. He made note of the auras of those with some hope of being proficient spellcasters.
He quickly came to the conclusion that the average SCoAA student desperately needed to relax. Tempting as it was to leech a little of the stress from the students swarming the campus center, Silverlock kept his soul to himself. He hadn't accepted the Dean's offer of a job yet; he could put off fucking with the student body in morally and legally questionable ways until after he had a contract.
He carefully pulled his senses back into his body and stood, leaving the embrace of the squishy chair. He made another mental note to steal or otherwise procure a few squishy chairs of his own; perhaps he'd send one to Theron, to replace the atrociously uncomfortable things in the boy's office.
A too-familiar soul brushed against his, and it was shock that rooted him to the floor, motionless; under any other circumstances, he'd have moved out of the way before a frantic graduate student crashed into him. Notes and latte flew everywhere; most of the latter ended up on Silverlock's jacket.
"Oh fucking shit I am so sorry that looks expensive-"
"It was," he said icily, reverting to cold aloofness out of reflex. He removed the now-ruined article of clothing and watched it drip disconsolately on the linoleum.
"I am so, so sorry, and I am so, so late for class." He grabbed for his notes with one hand and scribbled something on a sheet of paper with the other. He had to be a grad student; he was too old to be undergraduate, and his aura was too well controlled. "I really have to go, but seriously, I'll reimburse you for that- fuck my students are going to kill me- just send me the bill and I am so, so sorry."
He shoved the piece of paper into Silverlock's hands, and was off running before Silverlock could get a word in edgewise.
He stared off into space in the direction the man had gone for a moment. "Son of a bitch!" And then he was laughing too hard to stand up straight, heedless of the stares of the students and campus workers around him.
It didn't matter that the soul was now shaded with fire and light instead of water and darkness, or that it was housed in the body of a redhead with fire affinity instead of a too-thin, half-Dzyrachan priest. He still reacted with the same need to reach out, to touch, to hold; he would recognize the shape of Blaine's soul until the creature living in Rianna's Tower burned the world to nothingness.
I know something you don't know.
When his laughter finally subsided into the occasional vaguely hysterical giggle, Silverlock looked at the paper in his hand. "A pleasure to meet you at last, Mr. Brannskada," he murmured.
He left the campus center whistling; he had to go see the dean about a job.
----------------
AHAHAHAHA Orrin has the most ridiculous last name ever. I can't tell which is worse: Torkehaav or Brannskada. They're Swedishly delicious!
Man. I feel like such a bad person for even considering this plotline (such as it is; this is even more soap-opera-y than my usual fare), but I can't help it. I'm already too fond of Orrin and Faraz. My headspace needed more redheads. (I think I'd keep this idea just for Faraz, because I am dearly fond of Foxbird- but she's so much more compelling when she's six feet tall.)
Blaine: apocalypse now y/n?
Silverlock: WAAAANGST y pls.
Blaine: k <3 ttyl
user logged off
Silverlock: WTF?
user logged off
18 years later!
Orrin: oshit oshit oshit
Silverlock: ...ROFLCOPTER a/s/l?
---------------------------------
"This is the way the world ends, eh?" Silverlock stood on the roof of his apartment building and loked out at the city. It was nearly sunset, and the sky over the harbor was streaked with pink and orange.
By the time the sun finished sinking below the horizon, Anna DeLavrey would finish ascending the broken tower.
"Please. You probably won't even notice anything is different; at worst, you'll have a hangover for a few days until the sky clears." Blaine perched on the roof ledge; he was visible as a faint shimmer of energy, but when Silverlock used his aethersight, the other man's features became clear. It was just a trick of his mind, he knew- a mental coping mechanism to put the sight of the ghost in some semblance of order.
"It isn't my own well being I'm concerned for, surprising as that may seem. I'm going to live forever, after all." Silverlock leaned against the edge of the roof and looked down at the street below. "It's the rest of the world I fear for."
"Don't. The worst has already come to pass. This, now...this is just housekeeping."
"How bad is it, really? Anna is sure she's doing the right thing, but it seems she's the only one."
"The destruction of the Voyancy created a hole in the aether; it's been devouring the upper plane ever since, and cannot be halted or filled. Its only a matter of time before it starts on this plane, and then all of this," he gestured to the city, "will be gone."
"All but the tower."
"All but the tower," Blaine agreed. "But it does no good to have the tower floating in a sea of nothingness, waiting for the creator to return and start anew."
That was true enough, he supposed. "You're smiling," Silverlock observed.
"So I am. I'm surprised you can tell."
"Death may have improved your sense of humor, but it did nothing for your sensitivity." He remained still, but reached out with his soul to trace the contours of Blaine's face. He'd memorized these lines centuries ago. "I know you well enough by now to notice when you're smirking. I only comment because you seem to be taking your imminent oblivion in remarkably good spirits, if you'll pardon the pun- and because that's your "I know something you don't know" smile, and I hate that smile."
If anything, Blaine's smile widened, and he leaned into Silverlock's touch. "I only use it when I have good cause."
"I know." He tugged Blaine closer, until they overlapped, soul to soul. "I don't suppose you're going to share the secret?"
"And ruin the fun? Never." His laughter made Silverlock shiver with the intimacy of their position. "Look, it's starting."
Aether was rarely visible to the naked eye; high concentrations of it appeared as little more than a heat haze, and were almost unheard of. Ghosts like Blaine were a rarity. The air around the tower was thick with ghosts and aether, so much that the sky was lit with whorls of white and gold. Streams of glittering soul energy swirled around them, around the city, flowing towards the tower. "Impressive, isn't it?"
"It's beautiful." The sight of so much power made the empty places in his soul ache. Briefly, he wondered if this was what Theron had felt, or Dekar; their sins seemed forgiveable in the face of such overwhelming hunger. He could feel the pull of the tower in his own soul as it drew everything inexorably back together.
"Promise me something?" Blaine's voice was soft, almost drowned out by the roar of the aether.
"Anything."
He pulled away, attention fixed on the gathering apocalypse. "Forgive me the cliche- but promise you'll stay true to yourself."
Silverlock spread his hands. "When have I ever done elsewise?"
"I seem to recall a few decades in the nine hundreds..." Blaine was smirking again, and Silverlock was amused in spite of himself.
"I was stoned for most of those and refuse to be held accountable for my actions."
"Fair enough." He was growing indistinct around the edges. "I have to go now." He sounded apologetic.
Objectively, he had no reason to be bitter; he'd been gifted with an extra four hundred years of Blaine's company, and it was more than time for him- and the world- to move on. "I understand."
"No, you don't." I know something you don't know. "But that's not your fault." He grinned. "I'll see you later."
"Wait, what-" But the ghost was already gone, dissolved into the aether.
-----------
He found one of the squishy chairs in the student center and let it envelop him while he slipped into a meditative trance. If he was going to be working here, he wanted to get a better idea of the student body.
Technically, using his aethersight on such an expansive and intrusive scale was illegal, in addition to being incredibly rude. But there wasn't a single person on the entire campus with the sensitivity to notice him watching, and there wasn't anyone with the strength or skill to do anything about it if they could. There were, however, quite a few students and teachers with a great deal of potential. He made note of the auras of those with some hope of being proficient spellcasters.
He quickly came to the conclusion that the average SCoAA student desperately needed to relax. Tempting as it was to leech a little of the stress from the students swarming the campus center, Silverlock kept his soul to himself. He hadn't accepted the Dean's offer of a job yet; he could put off fucking with the student body in morally and legally questionable ways until after he had a contract.
He carefully pulled his senses back into his body and stood, leaving the embrace of the squishy chair. He made another mental note to steal or otherwise procure a few squishy chairs of his own; perhaps he'd send one to Theron, to replace the atrociously uncomfortable things in the boy's office.
A too-familiar soul brushed against his, and it was shock that rooted him to the floor, motionless; under any other circumstances, he'd have moved out of the way before a frantic graduate student crashed into him. Notes and latte flew everywhere; most of the latter ended up on Silverlock's jacket.
"Oh fucking shit I am so sorry that looks expensive-"
"It was," he said icily, reverting to cold aloofness out of reflex. He removed the now-ruined article of clothing and watched it drip disconsolately on the linoleum.
"I am so, so sorry, and I am so, so late for class." He grabbed for his notes with one hand and scribbled something on a sheet of paper with the other. He had to be a grad student; he was too old to be undergraduate, and his aura was too well controlled. "I really have to go, but seriously, I'll reimburse you for that- fuck my students are going to kill me- just send me the bill and I am so, so sorry."
He shoved the piece of paper into Silverlock's hands, and was off running before Silverlock could get a word in edgewise.
He stared off into space in the direction the man had gone for a moment. "Son of a bitch!" And then he was laughing too hard to stand up straight, heedless of the stares of the students and campus workers around him.
It didn't matter that the soul was now shaded with fire and light instead of water and darkness, or that it was housed in the body of a redhead with fire affinity instead of a too-thin, half-Dzyrachan priest. He still reacted with the same need to reach out, to touch, to hold; he would recognize the shape of Blaine's soul until the creature living in Rianna's Tower burned the world to nothingness.
I know something you don't know.
When his laughter finally subsided into the occasional vaguely hysterical giggle, Silverlock looked at the paper in his hand. "A pleasure to meet you at last, Mr. Brannskada," he murmured.
He left the campus center whistling; he had to go see the dean about a job.
----------------
AHAHAHAHA Orrin has the most ridiculous last name ever. I can't tell which is worse: Torkehaav or Brannskada. They're Swedishly delicious!
Man. I feel like such a bad person for even considering this plotline (such as it is; this is even more soap-opera-y than my usual fare), but I can't help it. I'm already too fond of Orrin and Faraz. My headspace needed more redheads. (I think I'd keep this idea just for Faraz, because I am dearly fond of Foxbird- but she's so much more compelling when she's six feet tall.)