o13. quasi closed.

[forgodssake]

CHARACTERS: Charles Xavier + Caprica "Natasi" Six + Garrett Hawke; and others.
LOCATION: Probably there are trees.
WARNINGS: TBA.
SUMMARY: So busy keeping my head above water that I scarcely know who I am, much less who anyone else is.
NOTES: A series of pre-planned threads and a general catch all for September, so please, if you want to do something, shout at me!

Comments

[judex]

[ Fenris looks back at the tree, scanning bark until pareidolia kicks in and reveals a face--a funny one, necessarily, but almost certainly not one the man also saw--and he's smiling a little when his focus swivels back, but he doesn't explain why. ]

I'd say that depends on the person.

[ His voice is a wry scrape, devoid of malice, with no particular person--deranged blondes or purring magisters--in mind, or else he wouldn't be so careless about stepping forward for a closer look at the man's unmarked hands. Not too close, not close enough for the magic in his brands to stir, but that's not caution. Only manners. ]

[queasycrow]

[ There's a slight laugh. The start of one. ]

I lack the knowledge about my personal history to be that particular.

[ He spreads his hand, and with the soft sound fire ordinarily makes as it burns air, a hovering ball of flame appears above his palm, throwing warm orange about in queasy illumination. There's a quirk of humour nested subtle in the corner of his mouth, before he under-arm throws this last conjuration, hand out to guide it towards its arc -- not exactly where Fenris was looking, but in the midst of the blackened wood he's created all the same. ]

What I know is, I can do that. Scenic rolling hills, other bits and pieces of polite, boring countryside. Lots of things on fire, probably not my fault, despite all appearances.

[ He offers out his hands a bit as Fenris approaches. Baking warmth from recent fire saps swiftly from the cooling air, and his flesh is unharmed. ]

Pointy ears, [ he adds. ] But I'm rather sure you'd have made an impression. We must be perfect strangers.

[judex]

[ It takes him a second. He's distracted by Hawke's hand--unmarked, unremarkable except perhaps for its size, but where it's closest to Fenris his white tattoos shift brighter, subtly, like a filmy surface reflecting faint light. He doesn't notice that at first, because that second he needed passes and the flattery sinks in.

His gaze darts up to Hawke's face, sharp-eyed but simultaneously softened by a single huff of involuntary laughter. ]

I doubt that.

[ There aren't many people, in the scheme of things. Several hundred--though perhaps there were more before the crash, lost now--and from what Fenris has seen, he's the only one who looks like this, branded and pointy-eared with the shock of white hair unearned by age. He doesn't resent that the same way he would if he remembered why, but he doesn't like it much, either.

And speaking of not resenting things: ]

Is it only fire?

[queasycrow]

Only fire, he says. Because flames bursting from my fingertips at will isn't impressive enough.

[ The teasing is broadly spoken and good natured, as if his focus hadn't darted towards the soft glow of illumination zithering up strange markings. Hawke turns back towards the blackened tree, seeing as it's primed for even more abuse, and with a glance that bids Fenris follow the short distance, he makes his way towards it.

Reaching out, fingers splayed, he concentrates. Not quite as easily as aforementioned flames, it takes a few seconds before it takes effect. The temperature around them drops by a handful of degrees, but surrounding his hands, the air grows even icier. Frost whites across charred black, in fern-like patterns. ]

That's about as deep as my bag of tricks goes, as far as I'm aware. Your turn.

[judex]

Only fire, [ Fenris insists while following behind him, dry but unmistakably good-humored. It's a shame no one has the memories required to appreciate the rarity. The trade-off is that Fenris can instead appreciate the view of Hawke's broad shoulders, and, you know--

he was never shy.

He's equally unabashed about his interest in the crawl of ice spreading from Hawke's hands. (Buried somewhere even deeper than his memories of the Tranquility and of Kirkwall, there's his sister, knobkneed and gaptoothed, with electricity arcing between her fingers. He wasn't jealous. He wanted everything for her.) When Hawke lowers his hands Fenris presses one of his own to the bark, briefly, and leaves behind a much smaller melted hand print. ]

My turn? [ He looks down at his white-lined hand--not stupid, only stalling. It hurts. He's not so hardened against it at the moment. But he isn't an infant, either, and after a moment of consideration he curls his fingers into a fist and sends blue-white light flashing up as far as his elbow. When he holds his hand out to Hawke for inspection, it's translucent, only half here anymore. ]

I haven't tried setting it on fire.

[queasycrow]

[ It doesn't occur to Hawke that it hurts, but it may occur to him to ask, at some point in the near future. Right now, he only watches with interest as what he instinctively feels looks like magic in a distilled, pure form, illuminates ghostly along brown skin. He reaches out, hovering his palm an inch or two above Fenris' knuckles, and unbidden, white illuminates brighter again.

It feels odd. Like a spell already cast, lying latent in flesh. ]

Do you know what it is?

[judex]

I do not.

[ A little distant, contemplative, looking down at his hand--their hands, Hawke's in the way. He cants his head and tips his chin out in warning (albeit not much of one) before he turns his palm up and lifts his hand through Hawke's. Into it. On his end, it feels like pushing through water: there's substance, but not resistance.

It's almost like holding hands. ]

Whatever it is, it seems to like you.

[ Because of the glowing. Don't take it personally. It's not that much like holding hands. ]

[queasycrow]

Ahh.

[ That comes out flat and unsettled, going still beneath his clothing; but then his white teeth show in a cut of a grin, distinct in the midst of all that beard. Only fire. Puts it into perspective, really. ]

Well, I like it back. [ His voice is warm with a curl of overt flirting -- less with the lyrium and more with the elf, honest -- but his hand pulls back, because no, it's not very much like holding hands.

He looks at his own palm. Wiggles his fingers. Still corporeal. ] I'd invite it out for a drink if we had more on tap than last week's rain water. There's something I remember, too -- beer. And how we don't have any.

And that I'm Garrett.