lostcarnival | [open] december will be magic again

Entry tags:

[open] december will be magic again

Who: everyone!
When: the evening of D15
Where: A small meeting hall on the moon, close to the portal to the carnival
What: a whole bunch of show-offs meet up to show off their magic, people interested in magic come to learn about said magic, and other people show up to see if something inevitably gets set on fire. (aka mage club)
Warnings: none so far, will edit if needed.

The meeting hall is a large open space, with hardwood floors and a rustic decor. A few chairs and tables are scattered around, though there aren't enough for the amount of people who'll hopefully show up. Some food has been set out: mostly finger foods (tiny sandwiches, fruit, veggies & dip) though there are some savory options and plenty of home-baked cookies, courtesy of Rin. Drink wise, there's water, hot chocolate, hot tea, and a few bottles of wine because tipsy magic sounds like an awesome idea and this is what happens when the alcoholic makes the dinner menu. Aside from the food table and the few tables, there's not much of anything in the room: plenty of open space for showing off or getting out of the way of someone who wants to show off.

One of the doors of the meeting hall leads to the outside. There's a wider, 'backyard' sort of area with plenty of room for people to cast magic as large and impressive as they want. A fire pit stands outside also for warming your hands and other fire-based magic. Please don't set the building on fire.

This is all very informal. If pressed for details, Strange would have told anyone to just come whenever, stay as long as you like, and so on and so forth. The emphasis is on learning about each other's magic, displaying one's skills and talents, and helping anyone who wished to learn magic decide on a path for them to take.

Showing off is just a given.

( ooc: This is an open mingle log! Feel free to make your own top-levels & tag around! )

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

That catches Syrlya's attention, and he's surprised to hear Foster not only refer to lighting a candle with magic but calling it easy. Of course, before he can ask he's turned the conversation back around. Oh, he'll get to it after.

"No, it isn't. I am a Mesmer, and my specialty is in illusions." He can't say he's completely alone in his abilities, either--Childermass has some similar functionality with shadow magic, and Taako has similar spells. "But I would not be here if I cared only about my specialty. I'm interested in everyone's magic, especially how it functions between our homes."

"Illusions?" Foster repeats; he's already forgotten about the other topic. Illusions. Seen, but not real. He knows this one.

"Illusions?" he says again. He's got brain damage, that's gonna happen. But he's rolling ahead now, hasty as he catches the coattails of the thought, the knowledge that almost escaped him, that's already escaping, so he has to say it, quick, before the memory is lost again--

"Green--green magic. Like a glamour."

"Glamours, precisely!" He points for emphasis, smiling. "But it isn't green. Chaos magic is purple."

This is a world difference. Syrlya is aware of that, but he can only describe his side of the color-coded magic experience. "Necromancy is the green one."

"Necromancy is red," Foster counters immediately. "Drawing on white or black."

Never mind that Lambert has already informed Foster that where he's from, magic doesn't have any colours at all. Foster just hates contradictions that aren't part of a pattern. But that's not the real issue; he won't remember what he was just told about Syr's arbitrary colours one hour from now, let alone one day or one week.

"Chaos. Explain." It's an outright demand. Because as far as Foster is concerned, magic is also patterned. Chaos has nothing to do with it.

But the word has power to it.

And that's a contradiction that merits his attention.

Syrlya's not sure if 'sickly green' or 'red' is a more appealing appearance of necromatic magic. But all right. In Tyria it's green, in Foster's world it's red. They call it the same thing, anyway.

"I manipulate chaos energy. It--" He circles his hand vaguely in the air, trying to remember how he explained this before. "Magic in Tyria is a tangible force. Almost an element itself. It has different aspects that are the basis of different professions of magic."

A demonstration is probably the easiest to get the point across, so Syrlya holds his hand out with the palm face up. His fingers twitch, and then what look like translucent glass shards, in different shades of purple, start to materialize and concentrate towards his palm.

And then he releases the magic before it forms anything, and they pop back out of place. "Chaos magic interacts with reality. It is the aspect Mesmers draw on to cast our spells."

"Magic is part of the real, but is unseen..." But can be used for what is seen, but not real... or what is both seen and real. That makes sense.

It's the only part that does, and Foster's expression sort of hardens.

"What about necromancy is found in chaos?" There are a lot of things in magic that could be considered chaotic, but necromancy is not one of them. In fact, it's because of the lack of chaos that Foster can understand it. The transition, the mechanism between life and death is straightforward--tangible, real. There is a direct path there--the process may be convoluted, but the results are clear.

The only chaos there is the chaos wrought by the result--is that what he means?

"Oh--no." Syrlya waves his hand dismissively. "Mesmers use chaos magic. Necromancers manipulate life energy."

It is, luckily, a profession of magic he knows more about than most others. Still not near as deeply as mesmerics, but enough to hold a conversation about it. "But you have the first part right, although if you get a dense enough pocket of magic you actually can see it."

It's beautiful, if he didn't know how utterly dangerous it is.

Foster can relax a little. That lines up perfectly then. Or well enough; chaos and fae are fairly synonymous, even where he's from--green magic, or the magic of what is se4en but not real, is wild magic, and inherently fae.

He's a little nonplussed by the information about visible magic, not as a result but as a raw energy--he gestures with one furry paw as though to wave that information away.

"I wouldn't know, I'm not a dragon."

"Neither am I," he responds wryly. Just the spawn of a dragon. "Anyone could see the magic of Tyria with their own eyes, when it's concentrated enough. Although, that much magic is only going to be present on Tyria itself, I imagine."

He sure isn't surrounded by, or manipulating, near that much energy. He gestures to Foster. "Back to what you said before--it's common to light candles with magic?"

Foster doesn't have anything to say that. If there is magical energy concentrated enough anywhere in his world, it's not on the centre plane. Dragons themselves are the bastions of magic there, the pillars supporting the entire magical structure. When you use magic, you're borrowing from the power of a dragon's mere existence.

So his expression is just kind of blatantly dispassionate until Syr asks about candles.

Then he looks... amused?

"....yes?" His tail swishes slightly; he cocks his head, regarding Syr somewhat out of the corner of his eye, the ghost of a smile already fading as he glances away. "Lighting candles, freezing water... simple state changes. Nothing you can't do with a lighter or a freezer anyway, it's just something to learn on."

Syrlya gestures. "But on such a small scale? Trying to do so in Tyria is... well, magic is difficult to to control that precisely, the effort to do so just isn't worth it."

He pauses, still curious. For all of the large, dramatic spellwork around the carnival... doing something simple that isn't capable in Tyria is somehow still among the most impressive. "Can you do that?"

"Ha ha!" Foster laughs hollowly. Bitterly. "Sure, if I could remember."

There's a lot behind that particular statement; it's a pretty loaded sentiment for him, and there is no amount of self-loathing that his words could sufficiently contain for it.

"...... ha ha. Fuck. I'm sure I could reinvent it, if it wasn't a huge waste of time..."

Syrlya regards Foster curiously. He doesn't know anything about him, so why that's such a heavy topic is... lost on him. But he's also not going to ask.

"What were you hoping to learn, then?" That is what he said he came here for, and it's obviously not for lighting candles or heating tea.

It's probably better Syrlya doesn't ask, truth be told. Foster blinks slowly, a bit like a cat. And a bit like a lizard. Nothing like any of the animals he actually has physical traits of, because of course not.

"Something....." Foster struggles to produce a description, and resorts to clawing through his hair while he agonises. 'Novel' isn't the right word, though it would be nice. 'Interesting' is vague, though excruciating specific by his standards--that one is really the crux of the problem. 'Useful' too much like asking for the same boring stock spells he doesn't want.

'Inspiring?'

No... not even he knows how to encapsulate that particular excitement and energy outside of a single specific context.

"....versatile," he says finally, giving up on communicating anything more precise.

"I need more ideas, I need something to work with."

The word he settles on doesn't give Syrlya any more concrete of an idea what he's looking for.

"My impression is that most magic is versatile, should you know how to use it accordingly." He would say all, but there's probably some world out there determined to prove him wrong. It might even be Foster's.

"I have had close friends who were Necromancers, so I have some insight in it. But do you have an actual goal in mind, or are you simply looking for a new experience?"

Foster manages to look vaguely startled--not because he didn't make sense, which is really what he expects out of everything that comes out of his mouth, but at the somewhat mundane revelation that Syrlya is not only familiar with necromancy but friendly with its practitioners.

"I didn't take you for the type," Foster replies, a little more cautiously. Aren't plants--greenery--associated with life? Even the fae, he's been learning, see them as such. Which... confirms, to him, the truth he has already known.

Death, and for that matter the abomination of undeath, are antithetical powers to the living, but bound up with each other immutably and inevitably. The powers of growth and decay are connected by the very force that opposes them.

Which would make Syrlya's friendliness with necromancers seem less aberrant, but you still can't use a live plant to raise the dead. Even a funeral lily must first be cut for the ritual.

Red and green magic are much the same.

"I have... a purpose, but no means--no acceptable, haha... no acceptable means to achieve it."

He tilts his head, averting his eyes in what is either self-deprecation or disgust.

"I am... too limited by my frame of reference."

Syrlya raises a brow at that. Sure, necromancy isn't a common profession among his people--and most practitioners of other races are wrapped up in their rituals and religions (except asura, who are wrapped up in science). But it isn't a decisive factor in association or personality.

Still, Foster has a problem he's clearly trying to solve and Syrlya isn't going to derail that. He folds his arms loosely as he watches him turn away, unaffected by Foster's internal conflict.

"Well, what is your purpose? What are you trying to achieve, and why does your magic currently fail you?" He needs a clear context before he can try and provide anything remotely useful to Foster.

"Assistance," Foster replies vaguely, gesturing shortly with one paw. This time, however, the ambiguity somewhat more deliberate. "Something to ensure people who work for the Carnival return alive." Nightriders like Syr, for example, though he's a bit dubious of what he's meant to do to... benefit, to provide ammunition, to... to strengthen someone like him.

Foster's magic is designed to sustain only what's already dead, and then only in a physical sense--the soul and mind can be retained, but they will always be secondary to his own will, making it functionally useless for most interpretations of this. He's devised a way to change the dead, physically, based on his own experience with transformation of the physical form, but that flesh was under his command to begin with.

And having learnt to alter the living mind in a small way, he would prefer to keep that skill to himself.

Regardless, he's already anticipating the answer he does not want and will not abide--andmoves to head it off.

"...preferably by averting harm before it's incurred, or some other mechanism, some... invented means of insurance, or magical intervention."

He regards Syr askance, his gaze steady.

"There's a medical tent for a reason."

It is usually better to just not get hit in the first place versus needing to be magically patched up later. That gives Syrlya significantly more to go on, however, and he puts a hand to his chin as he gazes thoughtfully. His focuses drifts, because his thoughts are all on the kind of magic Trahearne and Marjory used, and similar abilities talked about. Trahearne used mostly minions, and Marjory... Marjory dabbled in just about anything.

"Curses," he mutters to himself, and then his expression lifts as he realizes that explains nothing. "Ah, that is--necromancers in Tyria have spells known as curses and blood magic. Part of them is transferring the necromancer's pain and afflictions to their enemies and driving them into a weakened state--by turning their strength against them or robbing them of their livelihood."

He waves his hand vaguely in the air. "A weaker enemy causes much less damage and is easier to overcome."

The fact that Syr doesn't fight him about his disinterest in healing arts would have made Foster suspicious were it not for the follow-up; something concrete, something tangible. Something... that sounds like exactly what he's thinking of.

"Blood magic?"

Just the name causes Foster to perk up immediately. Rather visibly, in fact--his ears lift, eyes bright with surprise and interest.

"I know blood," he says--not dismissively, but with fervour, with intensity, with passion. Blood is the core of his magical structures, the dark, deep pool in which his frame of reference must always anchor. Blood is what he knows.

Curses--

He hadn't thought of casting anything as a curse, had all but forgotten curses existed, so marginal were they to his awareness. But they exist where he's from. They exist, and suddenly he feels pieces fitting together, one or two of numerous, a picture though still incomplete.

But they fit. He himself was born with a curse--a curse no will could have undone. A curse of flesh, of rot, of disease. A curse not of magic, but of fate. A cursed fate. What better cast to his magic, after death, than a curse?

So there are further similarities. That's good--that should make it all the more viable to practice, shouldn't it?

Syrlya smiles, clearly pleased they've made progress in that regard--although he suspects not as pleased as Foster is.

"What is the nature of blood magic for you?" He hopes, fairly comparable to Tyria. How many variations of 'drip blood and chant' can there be?

The nature of blood magic. The nature of blood magic.

The nature of--

"The nature of blood magic is the nature of blood." Foster doesn't understand how this is even a question. "Inside everything is blood. Not just the body, the ocean, the world, reality is filled with blood. It is the beginning and the end. There is no truth without blood. It is made to be shed, to spill as you are--you are born in blood, live in blood, die in blood...!" As he grows increasingly impassioned, he advances progressively--his breath coming shorter, his attention paid to things like 'swallowing' coming less and less.

He is more than simply aware of blood--he is absorbed by it, bathed in it. He knows Syr bleeds; he's seen it, knows the plant man spills not in red but in gold, like Ginko--an unforgivable change to that which is too essential to be forgotten, to be ignored... though Syr's blood (unlike Ginko's) may be his native form, Foster can't stomach the idea of blood that runs so sluggishly, so reluctantly from the body.

Edited 2017-12-29 08:12 (UTC)

Well, Syrlya does live in a lot of blood. But he's pretty sure he's an outlier, and that is not how average civilians live. He lets Foster rave without interruption, but his expression becomes slowly blanker and less connected as it goes on. Briefly, he regrets asking.

"Right," there's no point pedantically arguing 'everything is blood' (he's pretty sure rocks don't have blood) so he's just going to brush right past that. Foster's just very passionate about his weird hobbies, sure, he can roll with that. "But what does your blood magic do?"

The spells, Foster. He's asking about the spells.

There is no point in arguing with him about any of it. There are a hundred arguments that Foster has to refute any point Syr could raise, and more. Some of them make more sense than others, and none of them give insight into what he's talking about.

It's really very generous of Syr to call it a 'hobby.'

"Oh!" His face clears immediately--why didn't you just say that, honestly. "It's... mmmm. Blood is the essence, the vital element basic to the act of being--both the essence of the body and the being which inhabits that body. It is by that power that blood can be used to control it."

It's a weird hybrid of textual readings and quasi-coherent ideology, but the idea's there. If Syr can find it.

"Do you understand? Blood is not the soul, but the will outside of it."

Foster doesn't care even a little bit about souls, save for as a tool to produce a certain result. But as the flesh is bonded to the soul, the soul can be bonded back to it.

"I..." he furrows his brow thoughtfully. He's making an honest effort to understand, at least, but Syrlya's magic is functionally far removed. He doesn't work with the physically reality.

This is necromancy, though, and control is a different form there. "So blood magic is what you use to create and control your minions?" He gestures, unsure if that is the term he even uses. "Your constructs, the--the corpses."

[open] december will be magic again

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