( open ) i am not made of porcelain pleasantries; you will find that these things are my armor

[favouring]

CHARACTERS: Severus Snape, Princess Nuala, and you.
LOCATION: The Oxygen Gardens; the flets.
WARNINGS: Updates if necessary.
SUMMARY: Nuala has arranged for Severus to ward the women's flet against certain Dark Lords. Magic ensues.
NOTES: If you have no reason to get at the flet itself, feel free to find Nuala working on her sewing at the bottom of the tree; she will probably be down there to head Nuada off at the pass if he gets the wrong idea about a human male in the ladies' household.

The request is made in person, rather than through the network; she doesn't entirely trust it, particularly as something she's so unfamiliar with, and when the matter is one of safety...she had rather be prudent, all told. More than that, she'd rather be able to tell Nuada that she was so prudent, when (if) he takes issue with her actions.

Specifically, inviting Severus Snape to apply his warding prowess to the flet in which the ladies of their small community live. They've heard little stir of Morgoth or his ilk, but the weight of years and fear in her own brother's eyes haunts her and while she mightn't presume upon how he goes about protecting his king - would Thranduil tolerate such protection?she doesn't know, but she has a suspicion that Nuada might not like it terribly much - she doesn't see any harm in drawing on her own resources to look after those women she shares her new home with. Galadriel, Tauriel, Luthien-- Elizabeth, who is most breakable among them, and whose mortality she is acutely aware of. They weren't so far from mortals, then. She's not so unaware of the girl she's taken charge of.

Sitting in the grass with her ever-present sewing in her lap, at the bottom of the tree while they plot out ideas, she makes a face suddenly-- "Perhaps it wouldn't be entirely unwise to include some protection against fire."

Her brother, the diplomat.

Comments

nuala.

[darkart]

Severus is sitting quietly, unused to things like social sewing circles; he drifts in and out (mostly out) if the other women are around, not wanting to interrupt and not knowing what to say or do otherwise. He's happy to do this - so to speak, it's not as if he ever actually seems happy - and it's interesting work, so he doesn't mind. (He minds the potential for her brother to send a spear through his chest at thirty yards, but hey, occupational hazards happen everywhere.)

"That one's simple enough." About fire. He's got his notebook, the one that came with him when he arrived, and has been taking down notes in slanted writing that's half-word half-runes, the results probably indecipherable. "The trick is going to be making it so that you know when your wards have been violated." And not just him, which only distantly helpful and not the point.

open.

[darkart]

The kind of warding that Nuala wants would take time even at home where his magic is unhindered - here, working within limitations and with the requirement of weaving it into the princess's own awareness, it's going to take even more time. So as this isn't a project where he gets to walk around the flet in a circle, say a few magic words and then leave, Severus is going to be around for a little while. He makes every effort not to be working when anyone is actually in the dwelling, and even when he visits Nuala to check something or to work on fabric, he's as unobtrusive as possible. Though part of him is definitely intimidated by elves, his attempt at invisibility is more courtesy than fear.

Sometimes he's inside, sitting on the floor near the walls and etching invisible instructions into the wooden seams, sometimes he's outside down below-- once he's on the roof, which is necessary for a while and something he hopes he's not going to ever have to do again, after. (You goddamn acrobatic tree dwellers, what the eff.) If someone returns home he'll leave, mannerisms ever-distant, but he's not going to bite anyone's head off if they approach him.

open

[disfavour]

[ He tires of talking with the passengers, especially when the mentioning of crew sounds insanely close to servant in his estimation and they seem to expect him to grovel and gush over basic needs being provided for or the chance to 'do something' and take the farcical idea of seniority amongst other passengers seriously. No, he steps away from their delusions, for the time being. Elected from nothing, raised from dust, not even dirt, no one bar a handful on this floating trash-can has his respect. Nuada's magic is tethered hatefully on this ship, what little power remains is covetously and jealously guarded, meted out only when he is at his strongest.

Or his most embittered, such as now.

The Glamour is a simple thing, given he doesn't really change shape; it's the perception of the world around him which alters enough to give form to a giant black wolfhound, six-feet tall with the same narrowed golden eyes, treading the gardens like the spectre of Black Shuck himself. Quite honestly, he feels like his life would be better spent ripping out throats. He has gathered an elongated list of Arrogant Expendables, as of late, and it ought to be trimmed, but there's little enough effort that goes into avoiding their inane approximation of wit and saving himself the bother; the Aes Sidhe version of throwing on a bathrobe and pretending to be a wizard. A trick, but a useful one.

Unlike the spell which removed the lips and teeth of a guard, prior to his incarceration on the ship. Something on that scale, he's saving up for the right person moment.

Large paws the size of a man's face tread silently through the foliage which parts around his shoulders as he follows Nuala's scent to a glade. Sitting primly beside her, tail curled around his feet, he watches her sew as his ears tick around, following the nuances of noises here and there. ]