tfln/captcha carry over

[geriatric]

some might be nsfw

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@ clutterbitch

[geriatric]

[ overflow from here ]

[ personally, he doesn't think that someone who is several thousands years younger than him (technically) should be able to fluster him, and yet. ]

Yes, I take away a treat every time you try my patience.

[ this is not the truth, but it doesn't matter. emet-selch is too caught on that last text, on the oddest feeling of one foot in the past and the present and feeling as if the gulch between is ever-widening. a few moments later another text comes. ]

You've made your desire for grapes and cheese quite clear. Where's the garden, then? I do not intend to bring this to the Crystarium just to move all of it again.

[ it would be easy, but it's the principle of the thing. ]

[clutterbitch]

there is truly no limit to your wickedness. [ this draws a laugh out of him. ]
perhaps i will work harder to please you, if it means i might get a few extra snacks for the trouble.

[ though perhaps not as neat as Emet-Selch would prefer, viktor does take care to replace what he's rearranged, stacking what he plans on taking in a not-so-neat pile before shutting the crate and replacing the items that had been set atop it.

he gathers his own things up and makes for the door before pulling his tomestone back out to reply. ]

Lakeland. north and east of Laxan Loft, there is an isolated garden on a rise of land. you can spot the ruins of a gazebo from a fair distance away.
i will make my way there after a stop in my own room.
if 'twould be easier, i can simply give your threads a tug when i arrive, so that you know exactly where to go.

[geriatric]

Do that, then, I've a few spots left to check and I do not know how long this will take.

Please bring a couple blankets, I'd rather not have to change my trousers just because the wet earth seeps through.

[clutterbitch]

i will do aught in my power to spare you the immense suffering of muddy trousers, my sweet aubergine.

[ and he does have every intention of doing so, even if he teases. to his room, where he puts away all but one of Emet-Selch's sewing projects and a pendant that sings with unfinished magic. into his satchel those go, along with three blankets, a tin of the tea leaves he knows Emet-Selch favors, and a bundle of sugar cookies wrapped in a square gingham cloth.

he makes it halfway out the door when he reconsiders, comes back to wrap himself in a shawl and pull the hood up over his head. better not to risk being tied up for two bells helping his neighbors with their every need. next, down the amaro enclosure to fetch Del, who whistles at the sight of him, heedless of the cloak.

it's a short flight to Inviolate Witness, once little more than a ruined park, Viktor has come here often to clear his head — and the surrounding weeds, coaxing flowers to grow here again in the process. many moons of work, finally paid off in fragrant dots of blue and purple and red. the gazebo is still half ruined, though. he wonders if Emet-Selch will see that as a lesson in the making, as well.

speaking of- as he fetches the blankets from his satchel, he reaches for the braid that binds them, and strums it thoughtlessly, signalling his arrival. ]

[geriatric]

[ He's knee deep in wreckage when he feels the little tug, straightening in an instant like that thread is laced through his spine and upon tugging it forces him up right. If he stretches he can distantly feel Viktor on the periphery of his awareness, warm and bright in direct contrast to the cellar he's digging through.

The Inn likely would not thank him for it, but he'd built an additional room off of his own quarters and masked it from sight with barely a thought. That which he does not deposit into the Crystarium's kitchens or larders goes in that room, just in case. At least they'll be set for months; no more plodding down to the kitchens to get snacks.

The ale he had been searching for successfully found at the very bottom of a ruined crate, Emet-Selch does return to the Crystarium first. Covered in dust and grime and with soggy boots from one of the cellars being flooded, he makes a cursory effort at cleaning up and changing, and then once he's collected his bounty into a bag, steps through a portal to where Viktor and his oversized bird stand with the backdrop of the start to an ocean of flowers behind them.

It is, he admits, a very lovely view. ]

Two of the cellars are destroyed, but I salvaged what I could. Did you remember the blanke- ah, good. I suffered wet socks for a good portion of that. I am not eager to repeat with a similar experience.

[ Nudging the corner of the blanket square with the tip of his boot, Emet-Selch glances over at Viktor. ]

Can your beast be trusted if I set this bag aside and we attempt to focus on growing your seeds?

[clutterbitch]

Two layers of blankets, even. And a third yet in my pack, in case we get ch-chilly. Your trousers will be s-safe. [ Funny to think at how Emet-Selch now braves soggy socks when, less than a year ago, he was flicking away creaky screws simply because he found the sound a little irritating. And here, now, it is Viktor who spends aether thoughtlessly, smoothing wrinkles out of the blankets and in so doing, enacting change, turning the lower blanket to something like oiled hide, sure to keep any moisture at bay.

That done, he glances up. ] 'Tis a shame about your cellars, though. [ Always a shame, to lose that which is irreplaceable, no matter how many times one sees their world brought to ruin.

That thought does not take hold, though, for Emet-Selch is right there with new distraction. He wrinkles his nose. ] Del is no beast. She is a princess. Near as clever as Grani.

[ The bird in question perks up from where she'd been running her beak along a mossy stone bench, fluffs her feathers at the sound of her name, and goes right back to what she's doing when she realizes she is not being called. It rather calls Viktor's claims into question. ]

The satchel will be fine. Come, sit with me. [ He flops back, legs stretched out, and pats the open spot beside him. ]

[geriatric]

[ He feels the blanket change shape and form, woven thread tightening, settling into a thicker material and he cannot help but marvel at the ease with which Viktor operates now. ]

There are others to replace. You needn't worry your too-soft heart about some flooded corridors. I salvaged what I could.

[ Emet-Selch raises an eyebrow at the bird, but doesn't argue her intelligence any further. Instead, he makes his way to where Viktor sits and makes no attempt to settle down. Instead, he offers a gloved hand, shifting one foot behind himself to brace for Viktor's weight. ]

Up with you. If you want your grapes, we ought to start with those first and foremost. Fetch your seeds, select a suitable spot of earth.

[clutterbitch]

Too-soft, now, is it? [ He sounds amused, doubtful, craning his neck to look up and meet his eye. Impossibly tall, he is, and nearly something ethereal, haloed in sunlight the way he is. Viktor's smile, soft and silly, speaks volumes, but he turns to his satchel to fetch the seeds he's brought, gently . ]

Ah, I see. Eager to start your own private vineyard here on the plateaus.

[ He needn't aid to stand, but he takes Emet-Selch's offered hand, anyway, and hefts himself up, teetering into Emet-Selch's space, and letting his fingers knit through the gaps in Emet-Selch's own once he's up, just a moment. Enough for a squeeze, before he parts and ambles over to a spot where weeded ground had not yet given way to wild gardens. This, he assumes, must've been a space where something had once been purposefully cultivated. Roses, he guesses. This place was likely once filled with roses.

Now, it will be grape vines.

He crouches down at a patch with sparse grass and looks up at Emet-Selch once more. ]

And which comes first, the sprouting or the soil?

[geriatric]

Are you not the one fretting over rotted wood and smashed glasses?

[ He hefts Viktor easily enough, only the faintest bit of magical assistance to manage the motion and then once he's settled on his feet, steps back a touch to give Viktor space to determine where best to plant.

He gives Del a lingering, dubious look but when the bird doesn't seem interested in his bag he follows after Viktor, toeing at the bald ground. ]

For longevity, you would need to alter the soil first. It has been a while, but you may wish for better drainage. To manage that, you've two options. The first option is to simply attempt to change half of the clay-like soil to gravel. The second is to attempt to introduce gravel into the substrate itself, forcibly aerating the soil as you do.

[clutterbitch]

Not over rotted wood and smashed glass, but the stories lost with them.

[ Viktor rests his palm over the ground and, tentative, cautious, focuses on the earth until the make of it comes into focus. Not a tangle, but orderly lines of muted gold - the earth, the stone - interwoven with bursts of gleaming chaos, colorful little anomalies that, once upon a time, would have been the cause of a fearsome headache. Now, with the beginnings of understanding, with the skill to focus, they simply glint, lovely, and Viktor can begin to understand exactly why Aepymetes was so desperately in love with his weave. ]

And you. To lose that which you'd so carefully collected. [ A pause, his head lists to get another view of the threads beneath him. ] Gravel, I think I can manage. 'Tis quite saturated with Light, here, still. [ He tips a grin in Emet-Selch's direction. ] Do you mind sh-shiny grapes?

[geriatric]

[ Sometimes, he can brush away Viktor's empathy and not think about it, but other times it catches him and he wants to squirm underneath the heat and weight of Viktor's love for the most inconsequential things. He hadn't thought to grieve - they weren't old in the same way the belongings of the ancients were. They were his collection, and he collected so much over time he had accepted there would be necessary casualties of some kind. ]

Focus on the gravel, not on me. [ He drops into a crouch next to Viktor, peering at his hands and then after a beat of hesitation, looking properly. Viktor glows so brightly he thinks he ought to have accepted the offer of a hat, earlier. ]

So long as they are edible, I care not. Gravel to aerate the soil, and then - prepare your seeds and I will return shortly.

[ He does not care to make them attempt to make manure for fertilizing; rather than do that he rips a portal open carelessly and steps back onto the farm from earlier, digging in a barn shed until he comes out with a half-full bag, dropping it upon the ground. ]

Once you've tended the ground, then you may plant. 'Tis not so different from coaxing seed to flower in the Underworld; it may even be easier. The difficulty is not putting too much of your own aether to induce flowering and speed the process to fruiting. The moment you feel a drain on your aether, you will reach out to me and borrow my own. Do you understand?

[clutterbitch]

As you wish.

[ It does not quite bother him, being brushed off as such. A faint sting, easily set aside. It is as Emet-Selch had said, there must be a balance. A sun and a moon, light for the dark. One to think ever of the next great and harrowing step, the other to remember that even the smallest things may have been important to someone. If he is silly for it, he is silly.

Without tools, he relies on spellwork to do his planting. Earth is easy enough to move for one practiced in White Magic, a swipe of his hand does the trick. For gravel, he finds the exact thread that changes dirt to rock, pins it in place with care, and then applies the stones to the ground the way he might have applied the same to the face of some fiend years ago - shotgun blasted. That should sufficiently aerate.

A layer of soil over that, then the process is repeated twice more, making layers.

When Emet-Selch returns, Viktor is clutching a handful of seeds between his palms. His body's preference for stillness makes it difficult to stir them from their slumber, and he can't help but wonder whether his own aether will negatively affect the taste, but eventually, he settles on planting. ]

Aye. Aye. No over-d-doing it. I am not a ch-child. [ He frowns as he sets the seeds into the earth, and hasn't quite wiped the look away when he glances back up. ] That farm I glimpsed- on the Source? 'Twas safe? No Terminus creatures?

[geriatric]

[ It is not the first time being awkward about having empathy extended to him has made a situation difficult and it will not be the last. That does not eliminate the flicker of guilt for trying to dismiss it so quickly. They were intended to share one day with Aepymetes and Hythlodaeus. They will not be able to do so, but a handful of them shared with Viktor is sufficient. He did not spend years trying to make the wine; all he did was purchase the bottles.

Ridiculous. He shouldn't feel so irritated when Viktor has obviously suggested this with intent; of course he'd threaten to ruin it. ]

Of course not.

[ Before that sour look can curdle fully onto his face, Emet-Selch finds himself distracted with the question, with the simple surprise of finding somewhere seemingly untouched by disaster. ]

None at all. I searched while I was availing myself of their cellars, but could find nothing. My suspicion is they either evacuated with the other swathes of farmers in one of the initial waves, or- [ his shoulder rises and falls in a shrug ] The animals were well-kept. Rain kept the troughs full, their fields were flourishing. One would never know what has occurred to look at it.

[ Crouching, he presses a hand against the ground and hums when he finds the ground sufficient as if he expected anything else. ]

The difficulty after fruiting is ensuring you push to ripeness, not to a point where they rot on the vine. Were I you, I would attempt to grow as many plants as possible, and then attempt to coax them to fruit one by one.

@ clutterbitch

[geriatric]

[ from here ]


When I've finished my information gathering, I will be better equipped to decide on a course of action.

Do not think your offer is unappreciated. Were I you, I may very well decide the best solution is to eliminate them altogether, no questions asked, and 'twould not be a poor plan.

[ gaia is proof, though, as is he after a fashion. how utterly exhausting. ]

You ought to ask the spoiled princeling if he recalls any particular characters offering their assistance. Those who one or two would have spoken vehemently against. Who would have nudged that which most were vaguely uncomfortable with just enough.

[clutterbitch]

would that i could be searching with you. hobnobbing with nobility does not number among my skills. that was usually Alphie.
you are not having too much fun without me, i hope.

[ he gets a little melancholy thinking about Alphinaud, and does not reply for some time, busying his mind with his current biggest problem - the landed gentry presently claiming ownership of this reflection's sole known passage to the Sea. it is almost offensively easy to get information out of him. ]

not a poor plan, but there is worth in pursuing the more difficult, less certain option. if there is a chance of seeing someone live and do good, i will always take it.

he loves to wag his tongue. i've already mentioned that we might aid his people in reversing their current climate woes, and right away he placed the blame upon his disgraced uncle, who now wastes away in some tower. though he mentioned co-conspirators, he was reluctant to elaborate.
i'd head to the gaol, but acquiring leave to visit the man is proving challenging.
our charming despot is a fair bit too enamored with viera, i think.

[ ... ]

i know i said i prefer to let people live and do good but i may make an exception. just this once.

[geriatric]

No fun, no misery. I am simply wandering through locations we used to use, finding each and every one empty. To do so is not overly taxing but it is tedious.

Foolish of him; the better option is to rid yourself of potential threats to your rule rather than locking them away, no matter how satisfying the latter option is to lord over them.

Were I inclined to a specific sort of pessimism, I would suggest that the heroes of this realm had a hand in the mysterious lack of Ascians. Have you encountered any? I'm half-tempted to make an extra stop in any tavern I might encounter if locating them becomes too difficult.


[ ok he has to be normal about this, he cannot be Too Eager, but, ]

If you change your mind, I would be present.

[clutterbitch]

ah, yes, the running back and forth portion of world saving. i am well acquainted. pass.

i will let him know you think he isn't dastardly enough. surely that will have no ill effects on our already precarious diplomatic situation.

the realm's current heroes? no. but the servants whisper when they see me. had you noticed? it is not because i am a viera, as i thought. it is my flowers. there is a grave, i am told, belonging to the hero who stopped winter's spread a score prior to our arrival. blue lilies grow from the plot in spite of the cold.
perhaps a visit might put us in the direction of like-minded defenders of the realm.

[ trying desperately to stifle laughter in the presence of their problem royal. ]

OH. you are positively wretched.

[geriatric]

Much less tedious if you've the means to teleport, I'll never understand how either of you endured so much walking. Miserable.

[ then again, he did walk hither and yon as solus. he hadn't much liked it then, either.

just as little as he likes this. there's a momentary pang, trying to identify if he'd ever interacted with the shard here. he cannot recall anything recently, and so he was likely not responsible, but there was still a chance. ]

I see.

Have you reached out to see if you can feel the shard within the Underworld, then? I doubt you would find much difficulty in doing so, though I would advise you to wait until I am there to attempt.

And yes, thank you for noticing, I feared it had nearly been forgotten with all of these toothless discussions.

[clutterbitch]

i do not believe for a second that you find no joy in it. walking is the best way to discover all the brilliant little secrets the star hides for us.

i have not.

[ typing... and deleting, several times. there is no reason to posture for him, no reason to hide fear or uncertainty, and so... ]

i worry that a soul unattached, with duty done, might feel drawn into me permanently were i to seek them out.

would you prefer i show you my teeth more often?

[geriatric]

[ viktor's right. emet-selch won't admit it, but he has enjoyed poking nosily about, checking in on how all of this has gone in the wake of the unsundered falling. it could have been much worse. ]

That would be the intent of reaching out, would it not? To determine if it would rather rejoin with the whole. You've nothing to fear stealing if the soul has already passed back into the Underworld. 'Tis why I suggest reach out through your tethers to the Underworld rather than both of us trotting down to find the sliver and risk an accidental rejoining.

And yes, immensely.

[clutterbitch]

to learn more of their journey. how we might preserve the star they love as we do what we set out to do. or perhaps a hint toward which Ascian shards they faced, and where we might find them. would it not be cruel to deprive them of their place in this world? to deprive the star a soul that would keep it?

[ ... ] you mean that, aye?

[geriatric]

This is not a conversation that requires an answer at this point in time. I would encourage you to consider the thought, nonetheless. I do not think it a cruelty, but I am not a shard of you. Why are you so hesitant to have a simple conversation, hero?

Am I often in the habit of saying that which I do not mean?

[clutterbitch]

how can you look at them, know them, after everything, and still see broken pieces to be reclaimed as a matter of convenience?
i will not pretend the shard does not call to me. i feel their pull even now, soul deep. but i have already seen, felt, what happens when a shard gives themself to their source. it was not healing to be made more whole. i do not feel fuller for robbing the First of Ardbert's soul.
Cylva. Lamitt. Renda-Rae. Nyelbert. Branden. Seto. more besides whose names i will never know. they will cycle anew and Ardbert will not be with them. because of me.

you want me to show you my teeth? then do not assume i see rejoining as anything less than a cruelty. 'tis murder. and a shame that you lack the perspective to see that.

[geriatric]

What is to prevent you from visiting in this future you are so vehement about creating? The shards are not nearly as inaccessible as they once were. You do not rob the shard of anything any more than someone moving from one house to another robs their former home of them.

You belong to yourself, not to the masses.

[ he's not responding to the rest of that, he's not starting a fight, but boy he's in a bad mood now. ]

[clutterbitch]

'twas a future i thought us both eager to make.

that is not what it feels like. not to me. that which was cut from me has had lifetimes now to grow into something new. it is akin to grafting a whole tree onto the oak from which it was originally cut. i would be changed, but i would not be this reflection's Azem. i would be some in-between thing.

i belong to myself. and Ardbert to himself, 'til he didn't. this reflection of my soul is no different.