Iron, Rags and Bones

Re: Iron, Rags and Bones

Postby Cherny » Thu Jan 02, 2014 1:57 pm

It's a moment's understanding between swordswoman and squire, teacher and student; afterwards, a shift in the boy's attitude from resentful suspicion to something more like hope, more like trust. A reprieve, of sorts, from whatever the Marshall might have had planned, the choice to be made between Gahald and Brown, and his curiosity burns as to the means by which such a decision might be put into effect.

A nod for Sir Elliot's contribution, next, both encouraging and deferential, perhaps realising the lapse in manners that their talk of do you remember entailed.

The knight has his breadth of vision, an eye for the wide sweep of his goal - a better world - and yet it must be his squire, whose duties and concerns tend much more towards the prosaic, who offers quiet guidance in where his master might place his feet next in pursuit of the dawn horizon.

So, a question of practicalities. Of drawing the conversation back towards what might feasibly be done.

"T-two more, sera?" The original choice between two paths: Gahald retained, Brown abandoned; Brown restored, Gahald unmade. A third he can imagine - though not how it might be brought about - in which both are allowed to live their own, independent lives as paragon and rogue. But a fourth? Unless it's the unthinkable inversion from both to neither, he can't think what it might be.

"I, I d-don't know what's possible, s-sera." A quiet frustration. "How c-can we think of, of anything if we don't know w-what we can't d-do?"
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Re: Iron, Rags and Bones

Postby Glenn » Fri Jan 03, 2014 5:50 am

Gahald was not entirely a fool, even if he had a bit of it in him. It was one thing for Ariane, traumatized, fallen, hurt as she was, to make claims, to respond and react. It was human. That Cherny agreed with her in his own distinct way, changed things slightly. In the face of everything else, Cherny accepted that Elliot Gahald was better than Elliot Brown. Despite that, no, more than in spite of that... in the very face of it, he seemed to continue to believe that Gahald was once Brown. That was telling. It was undeniable. It seemed that young, loyal Cherny, did not even hold out hope that the thief had just been a spell's glamour upon them all,and he, more than anyone in Myrken, had good reason to hope for just that. It forced a young knight to look at things directly.

"It goes against everything I know and feel to admit for the possibility of another self, another me's existence, right? If such a being does exist," and he'd seen strange proof of it, false memories made tangible. They had plagued him from the outside in, "then I will choose life over non-existence, for myself and for him. I will always choose life in all of its forms.

"If the world I will strive for is one that could not bear me, then I would hope it therefore a world that no longer needed me."
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Re: Iron, Rags and Bones

Postby Carnath-Emory » Fri Jan 03, 2014 6:23 am

She could have stayed here an hour yet; she could have stayed here half a day, consuming whole hours with her pursuit of that very first question. Interesting, she'd said, and meant it, and it would have been the easiest thing to commit herself to this, to exploring the strange topography of this very young mind, to following his thoughts to wherever they might lead -

If not for a boy trapped in the onyx prison of his dreams and hers.

Moments ago, she'd spoken with her attention carefully diverted from the transformation her student's eyes betrayed. It was essential, then, because that look was like a living temptation; keep your eyes too long on something like that - encouraging, nourishing - and after a while everything you do, you do for no better reason than to get more of it. There's a sickness hidden in the idea of rewarding what was only a mistake averted - and well after it ought to have been, at that. But that moment has passed, and the tight grin that she offers him now is as much a matter of eyes as of the rest of her: "We'll speak of this later," and makes a quiet promise of it that way.

"And you," she begins, a pointed glance for Elliot Gahald; a subtle flattening of the lips, all for a young man who's complicated everything with his very genuine existence. But whatever she might have said had intersected with his own quiet statement, with so much blunt assessment that she could become nothing but silent throughout it.

I will always choose life.
And this woman, this weapon - this thing which very much likes, sometimes, to kill - nods its silent assent.

This time, when she steps into the corridor, a coat reclaimed, the door closes behind her. This time, her departure does not pause.
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