Closed The Initiative [Keene]

[Caesarion]

It was evident that Keene did not take well to the way Vox spoke, or acted, or moved. He and the slave certainly did not get on well for their first interaction - one was cold as ice and one hot as a flame. That was how he saw it. It wasn't that either of them were flawed in some manner, but that their personalities could only deflect . . . for the moment. He wondered, then, what a master of the tongue would do in this situation. He didn't really wish to make Keene curl into a ball and resolve to avoid him. Their interactions were not yet done - there could be more, today, tomorrow, or even years off. It wasn't good to make such a bewildering impression. So, as Keene seemed to allow his lot in this conversation to banish more and more, Vox prepared to react.

He supposed the strangest part of it all was how people responded to him moving closer. As if he was somehow foolish enough to wage a war against Keene. Considering the way he appeared and the way he acted, it would become clear to any of them that he was not a man of violence. He sought prestige in other ways. For now, that meant not mucking everything up with the Warden, especially after he'd spent so much time and had gotten lucky enough to find his gaze.

"I hope I don't frighten you, Ser Ward." He bowed his head slightly, as if apologizing to the young man. "I appear to have made you rather stiff." Although that was maybe an over-exaggeration of his ability, considering Keene was sort of always stiff. Still, there was a wonder that he held in the back of his mind. His stiffness at the subject could either mean apathy or the fear of certain knowledge that he held. Or mixed parts of both possibilities. Vox wasn't quite sure whether or not Keene was being fully honest, or holding something back. Something about his demeanor was just so . . . difficult to read. If they were alone, he would potentially hypnotize him for the truth. But that was too dangerous to do here, especially with prying eyes. And - he was trying to make himself seem like less of a spy and more like a concerned friend. So, forcing out the truth wasn't ideal for this situation. It was just a wonder as to whether he'd get something of the truth at all, at this rate. Did he already have it?

Keene said yes, which meant that he knew more, right? But he held back. There was a refrain. Shortly afterwards, he added that there was nothing more to discover. So, it was something he knew about already - and was involved with? If he was telling the entire truth, then what he claimed and implied so far was that he didn't attack Telemaran, but knew of it, and knew details that Vox did not. He also believed there was nothing more to find out. If all of that was true, then the logical conclusion was that Keene knew or had an idea of what happened and who did it, but didn't believe it was a threat, and possibly didn't wish to reveal the exact information of the assault. Did that mean it was a companion of his? Someone he was covering for? Either way, it seemed like enough information for the time being. Vox simply wondered how Telemaran would react to this information. Would he lay off of Keene, or wish to pursue more of the truth?

That was his prerogative, at least. Vox could lay easy. "Don't worry, my friend. I will speak to Telemaran only of what you have told me. I believe in your innocence. You don't seem like a liar." What remained was the future of Vox and Keene. His duty was accomplished for the day, but he didn't feel right just leaving it at that. Despite the two of them seeming somehow interested in one another at first, the prevailing truth was that Keene was unilaterally interested while Vox was interested in interrogating him. Despite succumbing to his master's will, it felt like a great breach of the rest of his beliefs to manipulate the Warden like that. And wasn't that funny? He was feeling one way, then the next, his 'dualities' constantly taking over. He was still adjusting to being a slave - being absolutely forced to act a certain way, while trying to retain his usual jovial self. From it all, 'Ser Ward' was probably greatly irritated or simply put into a tough place. So, how did he undo the verbal mess he'd gotten himself into? Picking at strings.

"Let me tell you something interesting, Warden," the man said. His voice was more relaxed, though a little bit playful. "I'm not entirely useless. I do know some magic, and I have sought some knowledge. It was never my life's end-goal, so I'm sure I pale in comparison to you, but there is still intellectual brevity beneath my shoulders." He seemed somehow proud of himself for the few accomplishments he'd made in the field of mind and magic. He used to spend so many years as a young boy trying to discover more and more. He was the only one in his family to have unlocked a single form of spell. All the rest depended on guards. "Maybe in truth I do want to learn more - again. Even just as a hobby. The question I have for you, Keene, is where I would even begin?" With the way Keene asked him, it almost seemed like he wished to teach him. Similarly before, Aoren had phrased such a question in a similar manner. Even back then, he had the cowardice to decline. And why? Maybe it'd be a great adventure . . . at least assuming the Warden cared to engage in it.

If not, then their day was done, and they would return to the environments befitting of their roles.

[Keene Ward]

Keene blinked at the apology, face neutral as he stared back at Vox's apparent concern. As he had never felt threatened, let alone scared, he didn't understand where the words were coming from. In a way, he supposed he didn't understand most of the reasoning behind why Vox said what he said when he said it. And on the subject of stiffness, Keene imagined he was always a bit stiff when he was standing. It was more comfortable to stand with back straight and head high, as it both allowed his bones to sit correctly and gave him a strong base off of which he could sink into a fight with ease. Slouching was far more trouble than it was worth, and Keene rarely ever partook in it. Whether Vox had made his stand especially straight and stiff or not, however, Keene wasn't sure. It was possible he'd moved so just out of his body's natural, reflexive response, but it had not been a conscious decision.

He didn't reply to Vox, however, for as far as he was concerned, there was no reply to give. An apology was little more than empty words when it had no bearing on the actual outcome of what was happening or had been said. Instead, he waited for Vox to speak once more, the man's face detailing that he had more to say. It took several ticks before he spoke again, Vox's mind seemingly needing the time to mull over whatever it was he needed or wanted to say. Keene's response had been well-enough received. He was still skeptical of the term "friend" when it left Vox's lips, but he nodded anyway, indicating that Vox's trust was all well and good - or that he was simply done with the line of questioning. His face moved very little as he replied in his soft manner, "As you wish." Whether Vox relayed only what Keene said, false information, or nothing at all wasn't of much concern to him. Telermeran was powerful, yes, but he was no master. Even in his short time on the island, Keene had connections, and he was a part of the city in a meaningful way. An enemy of Telermeran was the least of his concerns, though perhaps he should have been slightly more worried.

Another story presented itself at the behest of Vox's assurance that it was indeed something interesting. Keene, already having found the man's anecdotes to be lacking in the proposed area, simply set his eyes on Vox's to listen to whatever it was he had to say. Contrary to Keene's expectations, the information was interesting. It was not so much that Vox both had the capabilities for magic and at one time the drive to discover greater abilities as it was that he was a mage bound to the will of another. It reminded him of Scipio, a phantom shiver working its way down his spine to sit in the pit of his stomach with a sickly heaviness he did well to conceal. The morpher had been a slave to his garish master, constrained by the glyphs and threat of death. He supposed it was possible Vox was the same, a walking explosion if he were to disobey. It certainly would have made doing anything Telemeran didn't want infinitely more dangerous.

In spite of the spark of interest, Keene's gaze hardened slightly at the mention of magic in such a cursory desire. In reply as to where to start, Keene's words seemed to have dropped a few degrees, shifting from the neutral cool to a more chilled gravity. "By understanding magic is no hobby." There was nothing casual about magic of any form, not by Keene's understanding. It was a powerful, incredible force that required time, effort, and most of all dedication beyond tending flowers or the occasional practice every ten days or so. Magic was a lifestyle, a burden, a great and wonderful part of who one was and who one would become. To think of it so menially was a mistake Keene was certain had led to countless deaths. If one did not exercise the control and discipline necessary to control their craft, their craft would control them. He knew quite well what that looked like, and it was an image he had carried with him to Sahova and revisited daily.

Perhaps that was how Vox had fallen to slavery. A weak mage was almost worse than a weak man - if the magic Vox possessed was anything akin to reimancy, it must have been barely even a hobby for him to have succumbed. There was no contempt in Keene's thoughts, simply analysis of facts paired with potential scenarios. The majority of which were improbable, with some seeming far more plausible: most of which revolving around the foolish manner in which Vox seemed to think magic existed. There was, however, little else he could say on the matter. If Vox could not comprehend the full, pervasive manner in which magic became a part of one's life, anything else Keene said would be pointless. It was similar to explaining colors to the blind or music to the deaf: they were in different worlds that rarely ever touched. If Vox had expected more from him, Keene had nothing more to give as things were. He did not turn away to leave or act as though he were finished with the conversation. As far as he was concerned, a line of questioning had been opened, and he had given his reply. He stood in the few ticks of silence after he spoke, eyes steady and void of anything more than a hint of either concern or condescension - or perhaps it was just the manner in which the interior lighting caught on the grey-green of his irises.

[Caesarion]

It was difficult, though strangely exciting, to speak to someone who had such great apathy for much of what you said. What made him speak and what did not? Why did he speak when he did? Did he care, or did he only suffer to respond? Why had he not left already? He seemed to be a man more interested in words than action, and so, his maintained presence here was that of a surprise to the slave. Was this just social entrapment binding him? Would he actually feel bad to say goodbye? There were many questions in Vox's head, all the time. Questions about body language, and movements, and words, and tone. Tone meant something. The fact that Keene's tone even slightly changed between as you wish and by understanding magic is no hobby meant something. Was he more into his zone?

The warden was an infinite mystery. People like him inspired Vox and lulled him in as well. They intrigued him far more than people such as Telemaran, who just sort of blurted out everything. Aoren was sort of like Keene . . . although one was noticeably colder than the other. Aoren's tone was that of a lover's and a mentor, even though he respectfully ignored Vox's whining or his inadequacy. Keene was that of a stone that sometimes turned on its edges and whispered a word. He was beautifully benign when he did speak, and yet terrifyingly stagnant when he did not. As for Vox, he was at least enjoying this exchange. Keene grew interested to the slightest extent, enough to offer the slave some sagely advice. What did he mean entirely? The man believed that he understood, but - it was complicated. Everything was.

He first began practicing magic at the age of nine. He began with hypnotism, lulling and manipulating chickens and cats and other small creatures in his small but wealthy neighborhood. Mostly livestock and pets of people that didn't seem to care about their whereabouts. He always remembered the first time he controlled each different type of animal - the chickens barely changed, simply staring blankly instead of clucking. Sometimes they still clucked, though differently. It was rhythmical. The cats seemed to become enticed by everything, much like they would chase after a moving string. That moving string could have been someone's face, or a pile of dung. If it moved, it mesmerized them, and they wished to pursue it. Dogs just became incredibly happy. They were always that way, but it was different. Whatever stress inhibited them left. As a young boy, this made him the most joyful about his developing abilities. It meant that - basically - he could make things happy very easily. There was no need for complication in words, just a look in the eye and a shiny object.

As he grew older, he wished to surpass his brother, and so he delved into Reimancy. For many years he learned, and under the aegis of an agent of the Voice. She taught him well, the young Caesarion learning quickly until eventually he was a powerful addition to his family. The process was long and painful, but by the time he learned his second element, he had fully immersed into it. The question was . . . where did it all go? He was sixteen when he had come to the point in Reimancy where he was at now. Since then, he hadn't progressed the slightest bit. He practiced every now and then to keep himself from entirely decaying, but while there was nothing lost, there was also nothing gained.

"I know what magic is." He said, his expression reclining into almost the same stillness as Keene's. "It's the breath of the Gods. Wishing to control all of that so easily is often fatal. Recently, I've come close to such casualty myself. I have lost my way." How did he train? Learn? Progress? He'd forgotten. It was just about doing what he knew. Taking what he got, over getting what he wanted. It was more than just that, as well. He'd become afraid of his abilities because of how long it had been since he immersed himself into them. When the slavers came from him, he didn't even fight. He just ran - burned down some trees to cause smoke, annoy them, ward them off. That got him nowhere - just a tombstone to hold over his dog's graves. So what was the solution to this fear and decadence?

There were many solutions. They all depended - mostly - on him. "I would like to know more of it. The issue is, I'm quite certain you'd rather not put up with me all day." He laughed. "If so, then I will just have to wait. I know I'll get bored enough eventually to just start it up again. Hopefully I don't explode my kidney or something awful like that. Heh."

[Keene Ward]

In Keene's life, he had read an impressive amount of literature. While much of it was simply the idle scribbles of a man or woman with too much time and not enough ears to listen, there had been plenty of poetry. The art form was something of a mystery to Keene, as the inherent beauty of it was lost on him. He did not understand why one would prefer the lines: "Of ivory and pearl, she stood waiting; Her heart a flutter, the metronome of the end." when it could simply be said: "The woman was afraid." To Keene, the phrases were identical with the only difference being one had wasted enough words to finish the rest of the story: "And she was killed by a man with a knife." with words to spare. Having read so much of it, Keene was well versed, though that didn't mean he found the floral arrangements of semantics to be what he remembered. He remembered the stories, the essence, the philosophical natures of what he read. The actual words themselves he had never been interested, so he had not employed the minor effort to memorize them. While the precise pairings were not stored within the wide expanse of his impressive memory, he still remembered the pointlessness of the presentation.

When Vox spoke again, it was in the exact same manner of a poet, only there was nothing behind it. The gods had nothing to do with magic. While Keene had only recently been introduced to their power, magic was entirely different. If there had ever been a god connected with it, it was long since gone. Zulrav was as mighty a presence as Keene had ever faced, ever known, and to say that his own magic could best the ethereal being was absurd. But, whether magic was strong enough to contend with the might of a god or not, it didn't change the simple fact that it was its own force, its own power. Poetry or no, the metaphor was entirely lacking. He supposed that was the way with things, however. He had grown used to the simliar mindset of those he had interacted with thus far; the denizens of Sahova held magic in its own realm. Vox was not of Sahova. He still clung to the life that had been lost to the past, to time. Keene did not necessarily think Vox foolish in most senses of the word, but he found it almost pitiable that he would think to compare magic to the gods when it was so much more than that.

The danger of it, however, was apparent in the man's eyes. Keene had little doubt that Vox was fully aware of the manner in which magic had presence in one's life. Though Keene had never known what it was like to never know of magic, he had formed an intimate relationship with its transformative abilities. Where he had been weak, magic had made him strong. Where he had been foolish, magic had made him wise. Where he had had one life, magic had given him a new one. There were twisted, dark things that magic had wrought upon his life, that magic had unlocked for him to access both willingly and out of necessity. The only difference between Keene and Vox was that Keene had continued. Each blow, each soul tearing gash into the very essence of his being, his djed, threw him back only far enough for him to charge forward. Though cold and practiced in his exterior, a flame white as the true nature of hatred filled his drive, pushed him ever onward. It was simply the way he was, how he had always been. What some people saw as strength or determination was simply a tenacity to the emotions that he so constantly and blatantly threw away. They gathered, the broiled, and they became him.

Of course, Keene was relatively unaware of such things. He had distanced himself from emotion for so long, that he rarely ever thought much on them unless they became a hindrance, something that had been happening less since Noven's suggestion for outlets in which to alleviate some of the pressure. In truth, it only brought the fire ever closer towards the carefully crafted cage of ice that Keene had wrought around his heart. Whether ice or flame would claim him in the end, only time would tell. As far as Vox was concerned, however, Keene's emotions and mind alike were relatively tame, if not blank altogether. He didn't know what to make of the man. First he was one thing, then another; presumptuous and gaudy, urgent and soft, weak and pathetic, cryptic and strong: nothing seemed quite to fit him. He was like flowing water, ever-changing yet still somehow the same.

Keene blinked at the man's next statement. His blank face stared uncomprehendingly at what he had said. At no point had Keene ever offered to teach Vox anything about magic, thus he did not understand how his own presumptuously assumed weariness of the man had any bearing on whether or not Vox might once again take up the mantle of the mage. It even further baffled him that the other might might laugh. He never understood laughter. People used it in such a sporadic manner - even more so than the untrustworthy smile - that whenever it was used, Keene could do little more than blankly and passively wait until whatever fit of hysteria had passed. Fortunately, Vox's laughter was of the shorter sort of a chuckle before he moved into another - which Keene had begun to suspect was better described as "endless" - shift of philosophies. It was a one hundred eighty degree turn from what he had said only ticks ago, and Keene stared back at Vox's sheepish grin with the impassivity of stone.

If he grew bored? Had not they just agreed that magic was not something to fill one's idle time? Was it not a force dangerous enough to rend apart the very nature of the physical world? Keene was so confused he could nothing but continue staring for about a chime before he could say anything. The entire time, he face remained neutral, efforts mostly directed inward while he tried to wade through the paradoxical information that had been so readily handed him. At first, he thought Vox simply a liar, speaking of things he knew nothing about. However, to lie required effort, and Keene imagined that effort was something that would catch the adversely dualistic line of thought (or perhaps "lines" of thoughts). So, it stood more to reason that Vox was simply just as confused as Keene was - though it was in a different matter.

As a rational being who operated best in the comforts of logic and structure, Keene replied as he knew how: succinctly. "That would be very painful." Everything else Vox had said was entirely too messy for Keene to properly sift through. In a way, it was reminiscent of Noven: the man had always been filled with surprises and little things that Keene had found endlessly fascinating. The difference, however, was that where Noven's semi-regular displays of new facets about himself were always centralized around the steady, solid nature of who and what he was. Vox, on the other hand, was comparable to an amorphous enigma: over the course of their conversation, Keene had learned that Vox was a slave owning slave who was direct but deflecting, succinct but garrulous, who was both a mage and a hedgewitch, and a man who desired to learn but to also shun learning to remain obedient. The end result left Vox in much the same position as he had begun in, and Keene didn't know what to think of him, so he chose to think nothing at all, not until he either knew more or was required to do so.

While Keene had ended up saying very little for what was offered, in his mind he had fulfilled the social obligation of information for information. He had given to Vox what he imagined Vox had given to him; similar quality with not so similar quantity. He didn't correct Vox's false assumption that he had grown tired of him. If anything, Keene had grown tired in Vox's presence rather than Vox's presence becoming tiresome. As far as Keene was concerned, that simple fact he said anything was more than enough indication that his interests had decided to remain rather than to go about his way. Humans were mortal, their time limited. What he could gather from a book in the amount of time he had spoken with Vox was hardly comparable to the data he gathered from their encounter. Whether he could make proper sense of it all or not, however, was another question all together. He had learned the Telemeran thought him suspect in some ridiculous ploy, which he supposed was well worth the conversation alone. Thus, once his confirmation that a magically induce rupture of an internal organ was indeed something to he hoped against, Keene waited patiently for Vox to speak again or to terminate the conversation, giving no indication as to his preference.

oocCongratulations! You have thoroughly confused Mister Ward! haha

[Caesarion]

oocKeene takes words too literally! LOL
My mind will never recover from his careful and endless mental looming over each word to make sure they are 100% factually correct and don't contradict each other. I feel like he'd be the ultimate goal to impress for a lawyer in training. Haha.

BTW, sorry in advance, but this post might seem rambly. At this point I'm pretty much detailing Vox's thought process as how to approach this enigma.

The wait - however small - between Vox's words and Keene's was one of ultimate tension. He knew that he did not wait because he was slow, but because he was carefully gathering Vox's words and then carefully gathering his response. What did he do in the midst of this wait? Surely, he examined everything that the man said. He had that thoughtful, peering look in his otherwise dead eyes - though sometimes it was like some words made them more lively, and some more dead. Each time the slave witnessed a shred of disinterest in Keene's face, he fought to accommodate, and yet that in itself was an absurdly difficult thing to accomplish. Perhaps his need to interest him was what had made him so irritated. Was Keene not solely interested in the truth? He believed it to be so. Interestingly enough, he believed people like 'Ser Ward' to be the most complex of creatures, and with the most terrifying of fluctuations.

He now understood Telemaran's fleeting interest. He found potential in Keene, and yet, he was too impatient and too self-imagined to deal with the young man's distaste for flowered words. People like Telemaran and Keene, and Vox and Keene, were not built for compatibility. Were they capable of it? He did not know. And wasn't it interesting to find out? That was what this had become, really. All of the subjects now were just a test of the man's gauge for words. Vox was truly interested in learning more complicated magic and would devote his time to it, yet for perhaps what you'd consider 'all the wrong reasons'. Magic was always something that he learned in order to augment his interactions with others. When he was learning, he fully allowed himself to become entranced by the energy, but outside of that controlled environment he did not change - he let his capabilities simply speak for him rather than words. Hypnotism to control, Reimancy to destroy, they were just means to the same end he'd accomplish otherwise.

And Keene - he wished to remain in proximity of him for a while. There was much to be learned from someone who was younger than you yet more impressive. Prodigious. Keene as a motivation to learn more magic was entirely the wrong way of going about it, but he didn't believe it to be so bad as the Warden might say. A motivation was a motivation. It drove you to do well and exceed. What the motivation was mattered much less than the result of its influence. And while it all felt perhaps - very manipulative - to be thinking like this, it wasn't for bad intentions. Vox terribly romanticized everything. He saw people for their good and he appreciated most qualities as 'beautiful' or 'unique' rather than irritating or foreign. At the least, this meant that nothing he ever did had any ill will attached to it. He couldn't remember a time where he wanted to hurt someone, truly, enough to do it. Even back in Ravok after the sort of horrific actions the rival families would take, he simply questioned why they did what they did. So, the same sort of mentality lived in this conversation. He just wanted to understand this one person, and he'd do half of 'anything' to accomplish that.

Of course, the man's few words did not add much to the pool. He could question why Keene said so little, but he felt he already knew. He . . . was simply not the sort of man that Vox was accustomed to. While his tendency to respond minimally was sort of irritating, it was at least an honest representation of his personality. He figured it was sort of hypocritical to picture otherwise, considering he himself was on the far end of the opposite side, and that wasn't really benefiting their conversation any more than Keene's robotic words.

Indeed, it all would be very painful. He'd learned by himself before once the lady from the Black Sun had departed, but she left behind a legacy that he had already been removed from. Honestly, he would've loved to have so stoic and devoted a man as Keene as his mentor... for interest in both magic and him, but asking just felt like an act in futility. They had already established that the Warden wasn't really being riveted, and Vox wasn't really too confident in his ability to impress him. He was fairly certain that he'd failed horribly at said spectacle. And where did that lead him? What words could he possibly speak?

There was a moment of silence, perhaps of 'awkwardness' in Vox's terms. It wasn't long, but it was long enough to be noticed. The man went back to looking into Keene's eyes, examining his expression, though he tried to be relatively stealthy about it. As he stared, he continued to pose his endless list of questions to himself. He had never felt so challenged by someone before. It was mentally stimulating and frustrating and tiresome all the same. From it all, he could only conjure a few words: "Painful indeed." He did not wish to continue on such a line for much longer, considering he'd only spontaneously spoken it in the first place. Instead, he re-gathered himself in order to... ah... keep things moving. Whether or not he got Keene's interest from any of this or pushed him closer to the brink of evasion was really dependent on his own personal character. Some personality traits could not be read, they had to be experimented with.

"Are you the type to answer personal questions, Ser Ward?" he asked. Probably not, but this wasn't something of great gravity that he was about to pose. "I'd like to know - how did you get into magic? You're very young, right? To get where you are now, at least judging by how Telemaran speaks of you, I'd assume you started rather early. And why? What reason did you have for it, at the beginning?" This had sort of all really revolved around motivation. Vox's was flimsy but still relatively driving, and honestly it was a guilty one considering its lack of ethics. Was there such a thing as a 'better motivation'? If Keene had one, then he'd be privileged to learn of it.

"Actually, don't answer that right here or right now." He shook his head slightly. "I'd like to know more than just that. Would you be privy to indulging me? Perhaps somewhere less crowded. I grow suffocated by all of the nosy corpses gathered around." He had already turned his gaze to picture where they could go. He didn't actually seem to know anything about this place, however. Telemaran had kept him largely locked away. He hated that, but now he felt it was a relief. The rooms of his master's fairly cozy home were much greater to him than this dusty cavern from hell. It was more than he deserved, considering the weakness of mind he'd demonstrated just in this conversation alone. He felt that he almost needed to flagellate after all of his failures in this one brief evening.

[Keene Ward]

Keene nodded at the echo, the time passed having little bearing on his mannerisms. He had initiated the conversation with the intent to see it through. The exchange was not over until Vox deemed it so, and Keene was more than content enough to wait however long for a reply or a farewell in equal kind. His eyes revealed little, though they remained fixed on Vox's face as the man seemed to take a moment more to gather his thoughts before speaking. Refreshingly, it was a line of questioning that was not related to Telemeran nor a monologue of the man's past in which Keene could find little of relevance. Unfortunately, the first question was a bit obtuse. To Keene, questions were questions. The only qualifier for the was whether he answered them or not depending upon the situation. So far, there had been no question he had not answered, and he thought the inquiry as to whether or not he would answer more to be a unnecessary, thus he did not respond to the first.

The following flood of questions were carefully cataloged in the order in which they were asked. All of them were, more or less, correlated with the information Vox had offered, and Keene saw no reason not to repay him. Before he could reply, however, Vox cut him off, changing his mind in the only real consistent pattern of vice versa. Blinking, Keene looked around the hall at the busy figures around them. Most had returned to work, though a few still frowned or stared unabashedly at the pair. Keene found the request for a less crowded area unnecessary, but he also saw little reason to deny a change of venue. His body had grown quite cold, his natural inclination to run several degrees chillier than his fellow man made the Gug Andjak a place best suited to either activity or brief stays. Taking the latter over the prior, Keene nodded, turning and heading towards the large doors that separated the frigid interior from the humid, heavy air of the island's ever oppressive heat. He moved at a steady, manageable pace, stopping only when he reached the doors to push them open. He waited until Vox had passed between them before following behind and shutting them.

The courtyard, as always, swirled with the misty fog that was ever presence within its grounds. In spite of the relatively large expanse of land set aside for the graves and gnarled trees, the courtyard was most often void of anything but the mostly silent souls of the dead. Keene cared little who heard them, and Vox's request had been to find a space with fewer people in it, which he had provided. He walked for a short space of time along one of the many winding paths, making sure to keep all parts of himself will within the bounds of the little ironworked barrier that separated the ghosts from the rest of the citadel before he stopped in a space that had, at one time, perhaps been a little grove with benches for the weary to rest upon, only there were no benches and few trees. Still, it provided a much more secluded venue in which they might speak, though Keene still found the whole thing only necessary due to Vox's desire for it.

He didn't ask whether the location was private enough or not, instead, Keene turned to face Vox once more. While he no longer had the innate safety of the Gug Anjdak, in the courtyard, his magic was wholly at his disposal. Though he had little intention of using it, Keene simply did not want to discount the potential for a more violent shift in Vox's demeanor. It had yet to occur, but its likelihood was too varioable to account for, thus precautions and preparations were the wisest course of action. Speaking in the same soft tone, Keene proceeded to answer the questions he'd been asked. "I was born to learn magic." It had been a constant reminder that his only purpose and reason for having been born was to assist Mella in her work. He spoke it as simply and unimportant as if he were stating the color of the sky or the state of the weather all in the same neutrality of his natural demeanor. "I am twenty-one years of age." He didn't know if that was "very young" or not, but he figured the information matched the criteria of the question. "You assume correctly." "Rather early" was much easier to apply to the fact he'd begun to learn about magic, its theories, and its practices by the time he was able to walk and talk - perhaps even before that. At the final two questions, Keene paused, blank eyes seeing through Vox for a few ticks as he considered them, having given them little thought until they had stopped walking. "It was the entirety of my education. There was nothing else but magic."

There was no emotion in his voice as he spoke of it. It was simply a collection of facts and events that had long since passed. There had never been a point in time where he had needed a reason to practice magic, to learn, to grow, to become more than he was. It was his life, the very nature of who he was as an individual. Magic was so much a part of him that he was inseparable from it, so Vox's questions were, in a way, pointless. Keene had learned magic not because he had desired it, but because he and magic were one being, one entity. Mella had trained him well; she had weaned him from what one might consider the natural flow of life only to addict him to the infectious allure of the arcane. So young was he, that those memories were long since faded, lost to time and childhood. As far as Keene was concerned, magic was a way of life, a matter of existence or non-existence. One did not choose to simply set magic to the side like some old, used boot. Once magic became a part of one's life, of one's soul, it was inseparable, forever part of the person it was linked to.

After he had answered, Keene fell back into silence, waiting for the inevitable replies Vox might formulate. He had few questions as of yet. To him, Vox was no mage. However he had come across magic, it was in such a different way from Keene that he had confidence he would not understand it any more than he understood Vox himself. Instead, he decided to remain passive in the conversation, collecting ever more information on the man before him in exchange for his own.

[Caesarion]

When Keene agreed to move them out of their unfortunate setting, Vox had to refrain from smiling a little. That was nice of the Warden, at least. He seemed to be interested in at least being polite, accepting the words he received, and giving back. He wasn't exactly personable, but he had manners to the extent that was required of any thinking human being. That was one positive observation of him - it wasn't the only one, either. Vox acknowledged that Keene was simply different. Where some liked to lie and hide, some liked to cheer and proclaim, and some liked to escape and evade . . . there were also those who approached conversation and humanistic behavior differently. None of these things were necessarily negative. They had pros and cons. One con for Keene's personality was that it probably made him very critical of others and probably made them critical of him; it left no room for beneficial partnerships or anything of the like. On the opposite side, it was self-sufficient which was admirable. Vox didn't have a "self-sufficient" personality. He needed friends, family, people to be there for him when things got difficult. That was probably why he fell apart in Syliras, a place where he only really had one friend and nothing more.

Leaving the cold place was positive, although their new location wasn't exactly . . . what he expected. Everything in Sahova was so dead. Literally and figuratively. From between the large doors that held in the cold and out to the place they stepped to now, there was a noticeable difference. Misty fog that made him anxious, like anything could pop out of it. There were graves even here, in the courtyard, dead plants and disgusting abominations in proximity. If this was supposed to be a place of commerce, they instantly failed the moment they decided to plant the first tombstone. Was that not more appropriate for the outside? The Nuit favored their closeness to death - Vox found it disgusting instead.

He felt like there were ghosts everywhere, too, watching him. Following his movements were spirits whispering in his ear. He could hear a faint humming. Was it another man? Nuit? Something else? Regardless, it made the mood much more creepy than it already was. The slave was . . . definitely having a difficult time adjusting to this stain of a city. He missed the exotic masterpiece that was Ravok. Syliras' tall, dull walls and Sahova's ghastliness revealed to him just how unwise he was for leaving the estate all those years ago. He was a silly man.

When they pulled over to, something of a corner... Vox attempted to relax himself a bit, despite feeling a little bit anxious of this area. Knowing that Keene knew the city, was a warden, and was powerful was a relief. It didn't take long before he managed to mostly ignore their environment and instead focus on Keene. Now, he felt relieved to at least be away from all the Nuit. Quiet was quiet, humming or no, and whether or not there seemed to be apparitions leaking from the fog. He could at least believe, then, that he was superstitious.

"Born to it?" He asked, his expression becoming a grin. "That's some confidence, Warden. But I'll concede. You seem to think about magic more than you think about much anything. I don't mind. It's sort of quirky in a way." He chuckled momentarily. 'Quirky' wasn't really a good word for it. He meant to say 'cute', but not everyone felt comfortable being called 'cute'. He didn't see Keene as the type to appreciate it, considering he was so literal in every way. "I began when I was nine, but have essentially taken a seven year break from it since I last developed. I am twenty-four right now. Twenty-five soon. I expect a present." Sarcasm. The rest was... pointless information, but at least Keene would get an idea of who he was speaking to. He didn't seem to truly dislike knowledge about Vox, though the slave still couldn't understand why he hadn't left already. Vox didn't mean anything to the city - not yet, and perhaps not ever. It was not the best investment.

When Keene professed that this was his entire early education, the young man almost felt sort of bad. Why was that? There was no way a child chose to live like that. There needed to be something - like a parent's pressure, or a requirement by law, or something of the sort. The last time the Ravokian had met someone who began so young, it was because they were a slave, one used for battle. Then again, Vox supposed that everyone was built to serve to some degree. "Overbearing parents?" He asked, if only to trigger a response. "Is this place safe to cast in? I'd sort of like to see you do something. Maybe then I'll know just the fullest extent of Ser Ward's potential." That would be interesting, he imagined. He aspired to see just what the stoic young man could do outside of the field of conversation. Magic was, after all, his whole world. It must've been a glorious thing to behold.

[Keene Ward]

The statement Vox found so amusing was not without reasons. Had Keene been of the more typical individual, the words would have been quite the turgid claim. Built as he was, however, he merely frowned at Vox's comment. He had been, quite literally, born to learn magic. If the other man - as it seemed was the case - could not believe that, there was little else to say on the matter. The truth was often not the expectation; it could no more be stressed as true than one might try to convince another that the two hands he possessed was not three as the other thought them. He had not said what he had said for Vox's pleasure, and he found the acceptance odd - Keene's concept of condescension was iffy at best. At "quirky" however, Keene gave a blank blink. He'd never had that particular word used to describe him, and as far as we was aware, it was a term that did not fit him in the slightest. Vox had proven himself lacking in the realm of correct assumptions, another relatively constant trait Keene was hesitant to attribute to him quite yet. There were plenty of times when Keene's educated suppositions proved as erroneous as thinking a tree a stone. Vox may have been insightful with others and only faltered with Keene, something that he was more inclined to think as Vox was so very confident in his conjectures.

Not unexpectedly, Vox offered the relatively same information he'd requested with an addendum that Keene found as strange as anything else Vox had done. Firstly, Keene had only ever received a single gift on his own birthdays with the instruction that further "gifts" were his own responsibility. Secondly, Keene didn't understand humor. He had never been able to tell sarcasm apart from the common manner of speech or a joke apart from a fact. Thus, the present was then something he believed Vox to truly desire, but he had no intention of getting for him. Though there was an age difference between them, it was relatively minimal in the grand scheme of the Sahovan culture, and Keene felt little obligation to oblige such requests based purely on the fact that Vox was his elder in years. He supposed it was possible Vox simply meant the present was something he expected in general, so with that in mind, he simply stared mutely back, waiting for another question or comment he might reply to with a bit more confidence of thought.

The question that came required a bit more thought than to reply with an immediate answer. Keene had never considered Mella to be his "parent". She had been his master, and he her student. Never had they ever exchanged such words as "mother" or "son". It hadn't been until Keene had read a book of Syliran children's tales that he had learned of what a mother was - even then he had not drawn the connections to the own woman in his life until much later. A mother was something coddling, caring, and ultimately an agent of weakness. Mella had been his teacher, his instructor, and the source of his purpose. She had been neither a parent nor had she been overbearing. She had trained him to realize the extent of his abilities and groomed him to push beyond them. Thus, with the same soft, chilled confidence, Keene replied as neutrally as before, offering fact rather than opinion. "No."

Vox's request for a performance was one that Keene deemed acceptable enough, on conditions. "A spell for a spell then." The other man had held up his end of the exchange well enough that Keene saw no reason to doubt that Vox would display his own abilities after Keene's display. As far as the safety of casting went, Keene imagined that explosive examples of something as volatile as reimancy was best left to the Testing Grounds or the wilds outside of the citadel. Instead, he reached out, hand moving slowly to assuage any alarm, and removed a stray hair from Vox's shoulder. Holding the thread of Vox's djed between his thumb and forefinger, Keene drew a steady and controlled breath, with the grey skies of his own djed rising from within him, swirling around the hair in shimmering billows as it sloughed off from his hands, visible only to those who shared in his discipline or the practitioners of auristics. He stood very still for several chimes, infusing the growing cloud of djed with his desire to deter all things directly related to the tiny object in his hand.

When the tasking was complete, Keene let the hair fall as he drew his hands through the fluffy mass of pulsing djed, drawing them to his chest, crossing his hands as he brought them to rest over his collarbones. The djed responded, drifting over his body and pressing against his frame, conforming to the shape and contours of both his skin and clothing. Slowly, his hands lowered, falling back to his sides to leave the front of his body with a shimmering, opalescent barrier that ran from the bottom of his jaw down to the belt around his waste. It wrapped partially about his body, like a breastplate without the straps to hold it in place. Running a finger through it to test the uniformity, Keene found it satisfactory enough, as he had already spent a few of chimes tasking it. Turning a passive stare back to Vox, he nodded. "You may strike anywhere on my torso." After which, he waited. The shield would prevent any attempt of Vox's to penetrate it with his own body, meaning that Keene had nothing to brace for. Thus, he stood as he always did with straight back and relaxed shoulders, lips settled on a neutral line.

While shielding had not been the focus of his magical efforts for most of his life, he imagined that, if Vox had had a seven year gap in his own education of magic, a simple shield was more than enough of a taste of what Keene was capable of. Whatever magics Vox possessed, Keene found that it was always something worth knowing, be they friend or foe, what the other had in terms of skill and ability. Thus, he was interested, but it was not displayed on his face anymore so than it had been before. Magic was, as Vox said, one of the more common occupants of his thoughts among the nightmares and incessant flow of memories that mixed with the present world. He was built for magic, not so much for the humanity that the craft seemed to require like fuel.

[Caesarion]

If there was one thing in the world that Vox despised, it was stillness. Even his moments of silent introspection often occurred when surrounded by other people - animals, voices, events. He could not live a quiet life, not ever. He craved all the ferocity and the drama of the metaphorical wilderness. Because of this, he decided somewhat early on that Keene was perhaps not the ideal person for him to surround himself with. Keene was meditative, thoughtful, silent, focused, driven. All of these qualities were good - they were qualities that often produced what is closest to the "perfect human" in terms of their ability to fulfill tasks and acquire ambition. However, Vox craved something more profound. He craved the darkness of manipulation, the game that lived behind smiles and laughter. The constant battle for domination that lived behind the tongue. Keene was no master of this battle. He was . . . a warrior of a different war, and because of that, the slave did not wish to do battle with him - whether for mercy or out of lack of passion.

"What if I strike elsewhere from your torso?" He grinned, already knowing the answer. It would be an assault . . . and thus, not worth bothering with. One thing positive about Vox was that he was not the least bit violent. He never fought but for self-defense, and even then, he always preferred to reason with people. Losing a battle of words never killed a man. Losing a battle of blades did. He preferred the more docile games - they kept him alive, even though he'd been reduced to his current state of being. "Don't worry," he added, "I won't."

The man stared into the other person's eyes, catching the iris as the Warden stared back at the slave. He put on a pleasant facial expression, looking away for only a moment to witness the full creation of the magical 'armor'. "Don't lack in confidence of your shield, Ser Ward. You can trust me not to hurt you." That was suggestion, something he liked doing just for fun if nothing else. A hypnotist technique. Trust me not to hurt you. The words were pointless considering he wouldn't hurt anyone without good reason, but he said them anyway. And he'd been doing the same - conditioning his master, into trusting him fully, someone who he did have reason to hurt. He'd gone down this path for a long time, but only here had he become so bold.

Regardless, his hands became the medium for Res that began to funnel out - a thin layer of gas, forward into a circle that then became a cloud, energy becoming something that seemed less and less like energy, but more like a natural occurrence. He wasn't a gifted mage, but he was a mage nonetheless, and this 'lightning storm' spell was as authentic as any. He relaxed his muscles and breathed in and out as he cast the spell. He always made sure to relax when he used any form of magic, because otherwise he always drove himself crazy with fear and anticipation of . . . bad things happening.

When the spell was complete, the cloud formed spikes of lightning that then refined into projectile bolts - all together, they struck at the shield Keene had created around his torso, making sure to hit around the center so as to not jump and strike at his flesh. To be honest, this casting of a spell gave the slave a sort of rush, because this was the first time in a long time he'd gotten to use magic on another human being. And the results were well - he didn't think the shield necessarily overpowered the 'sword' all too much when push came to shove. "That's the extent of my Reimancy, I'm afraid," he said, grinning. "But I broke the rules. I cast two spells on you." That sort of thing - saying it, was enjoyable for him. Tempting curiosity. It was true, but he would never prove it true, because he didn't plan to tell Keene that he'd made a suggestion. And he wouldn't tell anyone if he ever planned on hypnotizing them - which was sure to happen soon, perhaps against his master, in the most eventful of days.

"My friend, it's time to say goodbye. I fear I've strayed from my Lord for too long. He may question my motives if I near you too much longer." He bowed courteously, tapped the Warden on the forearm, then began to make his way back home. "If you ever want to speak to me, simply tell Telemaran. I'm sure he wouldn't mind the company of such a devilishly handsome and powerful wizard. I think he's into that sort of thing." He laughed, waving himself gone.

The slave learned a few things - one, that there was likely no method of winning people over in this city by words alone. He needed to practice to become . . . much more powerful. Perhaps, by surpassing his master, he could obtain freedom by the council.

[Dravite]

Caesarion

XP Award:

• Meditation: 1
• Philosophy: 3
• Observation: 5
• Logic: 2
• Acting: 1
• Interrogation: 2
• Deduction: 2
• Persuasion: 2
• Reimancy: 2
• Hypnotism: 1
• Rhetoric: 3
• Socialisation: 5
• Intelligence: 3
• Subterfuge: 1
• Flirting: 1

Lore:

• Philosophy: Everything has its time
• Vox: A man of wavering faith
• Vox: Life as a slave
• Telemaran: Has a keen eye
• Sahova: Not a preferable place to live
• Telemaran: A man with many enemies
• Keene Ward: A danger to Telemaran
• Keene Ward: Never judge a book by its cover
• Keene Ward: An attractive man
• Keene Ward: A very forward man
• Nuits: A bunch of rotten turnips
• Keene Ward: A pleasant man
• Intimidation: Using your eyes to cause unease
• Sahova: Where magic can be found
• Keene Ward: A Warden initiate
• Personal Magic: Shielding
• Sahova: The Courtyard

Keene Ward

XP Award:

• Running: 1
• Endurance: 1
• Bodybuilding: 1
• Stealth: 1
• Deduction: 1
• Logic: 3
• Politics: 1
• Acting: 1
• Persuasion: 2
• Intimidation: 1
• Intelligence: 2
• Socialisation: 4
• Observation: 4
• Rhetoric: 2
• Investigation: 2
• Subterfuge: 1
• Auristics: 1
• Shielding: 2
• Philosophy: 1

Lore:

• Sahova: Not as bad as it seems
• Endurance: Testing your limits
• Sahova: A hot place to live
• Intelligence: Asking the right questions
• Vox: A socially dangerous man
• Vox: The slave
• Vox: A man without a home
• Vox: An unnerving stare
• Vox: Keen to learn
• Vox: The Mage
• Philosophy: Those who seek knowledge will find it
• Vox: Owned by Telemaran
• Vox: Soon to be twenty-five

Notes: Guys, wow, beautifully written thread, you’re both really good with words, but I have to slap some honestly down here; I hated it. The internal monologue was really, really difficult to process and award anything for and while I am a lover of descriptive writing, I feel like you overdid it. Length does not equal quality, I say it time and time again and if you want more graders to pass this way, perhaps that little gem might be worth keeping in mind. It took you a thousand words to tell the reader ‘Keene has difficulty grasping social cues,’ and while I'm sure many people will disagree with me, it just didn’t float my boat; sorry. On the up side I think I squeezed as much as I could out of this one in the three and a half hours it took me to grade. I hope you’ll be pleased with the skills and lore I did manage to award. Let me know if you think I have missed anything here and be sure to edit your grading request!

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