lostcarnival | [Closed]

Entry tags:

[Closed]

Who: Syrlya and Strange
When: Day 90
Where: Their trailer
What: Syrlya finishes working out a new portal spell shortly after they leave Eden

Syrlya's injuries are, thankfully, not debilitating. Shamshel left long, nasty iron-claw scars across his chest, but the wound it shallow enough that he's not restricted to rest in the medical tent. The rest of his injuries are even more superficial, so once he has the wounds cleaned and bandaged he's back to the trailer--and back to work. He's down to just his pants for the comfort, which reveals under the bandages the bone-like pattern that's discolored the leaves along his spine and ribs--and a growth of what looks like feathers, dark purple, from his tailbone. He's trying to ignore that.

The mirror's been pulled down from the bathroom again, although this time propped against a bookshelf in the trailer rather than laying on the floor among the papers. He has a short knife he's used to edge runes into the back of it, running along the side, and the glass is now clouded by the swirling, incomplete entrance of a portal. He waits for a minute, and once he assures the stability he grins.

"I've got it!" He says with more enthusiasm than he meets anything else likely, tapping the knife against the side of the mirror.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

Syrlya pulls his coat out of the closet, and at first the only sign Syrlya heard him is the short pause before he starts pulling it on and getting himself properly dressed.

He adjusts it before pulling the belts around, back stubbornly turned. "I don't have anything at all to say to you right now."

His tone is clipped, tight. He's pulling his gloves on next.

Thankfully, Strange can speak enough for the both of them. He's downright staring at Syrlya, as if the force of his glare would be enough to make the other man turn around and actually look him in the eyes.

"Wismuth happened months ago," Strange points out, with a scowl. "If I said anything to offend you during that event where friends of mine were enthralled and my old torturer showed her face again, then I am terribly sorry I did so. But you need to get over it."

It's stupid for Syrlya to carry a grudge for this long especially since, in Strange's eyes, any orders that he didn't follow must have been relatively inconsequential. After all, Lambert was back on his feet soon enough.

A twitch runs down Syrlya's spine (and tail feathers) and he barely restrains another spike of anger at that response. He has to remind himself that this isn't going to go anywhere, least of all by yelling, but damn if it's hard.

"If you don't know the wrong, then you cannot apologize for it." He stretches his fingers under the gloves, then adjusts the ribbons before bending over to grab his boots. "But I doubt you really consider anything you do wrong to begin with."

Is that what would please Syrlya? Strange giving him a litany of his faults? How childish. Strange's claws are digging in his hands as he deliberately tries to keep his mood and his tone of voice level.

"I could say the same thing about you." He's still watching as Syrlya gets dressed, staring daggers into the back of the man's head. "Or is the nightrider's backup too proud to admit when he's made a mistake?"

Syrlya turns to the kitchen, closing the closet door as he moves to pull out a chair... that he still stubbornly doesn't face to Strange. And then he sits down to start pulling his boots on.

"Perhaps if the Nightrider tells me we made a mistake." He plants his foot against the leg of the table as he jerks the boot up all the way. "But I am not going to justify myself to you further, Strange, because it isn't going to matter. You will insist that you know better and you're right."

He waves a hand dismissively before pulling on the second boot. "I'm afraid you will have to find satisfaction in talking over someone else."

This obviously isn't working. So, like the stubborn asshole he is, Strange gets to his feet, walks over towards the main door, and leans on it. He's at least making a token effort to show Syrlya that they're having this conversation, even if Strange is 100% certain Syrlya could find a way to push him aside if needed. At least Syrlya's going to have to look at him should he want to leave the trailer.

"You're right. Why justify yourself to me when you can constantly berate me, dismiss my plans, belittle my actions, and talk over me at every turn?"

Edited 2018-08-27 04:28 (UTC)

Syrlya doesn't exactly notice Strange moving to the door, though he hears him moving around. It's only when he gets up at he stops, briefly thrown off to see Strange blocking the way.

He frowns, pressing his hand against the table. "You mean when I tell you to use your brain and be a little more considerate before you act? Because in the past few weeks you have sold your service to the enemy, been killed, and got stuck in a powerful magical artifact that Mother only knows what it's done to you!"

Strange is about to list off a whole list of things that Syrlya's criticized him for, starting with 'literally every plan he had related to the Mirror' and finishing with 'any time he even suggests Syrlya might be wrong,' but then the other man mentions his death. And that just tips Strange further over the edge. He's still digging his claws into the palm of his hand, but his fists light themselves on fire in a sharp blaze of fire.

"You four were the ones who killed me," Strange snaps. "And considering that the other three taken were rescued without fatalities, my death is on your hands, not my own."

Syrlya freezes, all the aggravation slowly melting from his face and his back straightens up as he stares at Strange. He's actually struck silent, making a struggled attempt to speak that fails to actually produce any sound and instead it just leaves him looking at Strange numbly.

There's a lot of reasons for why Strange's rescue resulted in a lot more blood, starting with the fact that he made Lambert promise as much to begin with were he ever enthralled (and what do they do with the kidnapped), but the blame grips Syrlya coldly and he finds he doesn't have it in him to argue.

He shakes his head, a little of the confidence lost in his tone. "And that we had to do it is exactly why I wish you wouldn't dive headfirst into things that can be catastrophic to you. No one wanted it to come to that!"

While Syrlya remains quiet, Strange continues to burn with silent fury. He's downright glaring at the other man, hands still clenched in flaming fists.

"Do you think I wanted to run into Ignatius in the first place? That I planned to be captured by the Architects? I could be kidnapped and tortured again by Nightshade and you would somehow find a way to say that was my fault."

He knows that he occasionally does reckless things. But at times it seems Syrlya and the others are ready to chastise him simply for breathing.

Syrlya blinks rapidly, and then screws his eyes shut and pinches the bridge of his nose. "I did not say you were doing it in purpose, I said you do not think. You act impulsively and without any regard for the power that we are contesting, and don't you care what's happened to you as a result?!"

He gestures in Strange's general direction, furrowing his brow. "You won't--you won't listen to anyone else, and then there are consequences but you do not seem to learn from those either."

"Says the person who impulsively charged at one of the Architects without any regard for the power that he was contesting." As Strange mirrors Syrlya's words back to him, his voice takes on an odd tone, as he mirrors Syrlya's intonation and tone of voice along with his actual words.

Strange doesn't seem to realize what he's doing as he stands in front of the door, hands clenched and still on fire.

"For all you chastise me about not thinking, you're no better."

That does briefly throw Syrlya off, having never seen Strange parrot him like that before. But he doesn't assume much of it the first time.

He sighs, rolling his eyes. "I knew exactly what I was doing. I have years of experience with this kind of fight, Strange, and I know how to handle it. Look--" He gestures outward. "Will you believe me if I show you the wound is not severe?"

As soon as Syrlya mentions his years of experience, Strange rolls his eyes. "I literally have as much experience as you do—hell, I probably have more," he points out. Syrlya is something like five years old, he can't play the experience card in Strange's mind.

"And it doesn't matter that the wound isn't severe. What matters is that you put yourself in a position where it could have been. I saw what that damn bear did to Childermass and Samyaza, the only reason why you aren't still in the medical tent is that you were lucky."

"Luck--I was lucky!" Syrlya looks at Strange in disbelief, before throwing his hands up. "Not that I know how to fight, not that I've spent my life at the forefront of battles like this--you think I was just lucky!"

He smacks his hand against the table, pressing firm as he leans against it. "You don't think I am capable of anything, do you? It doesn't matter what I say or do, because you are already convinced I am ignorant and weak and inexperienced!"

Strange just laughs bitterly as the flames around his hands creep further up his arms. He's wearing a long sleeved shirt with the sleeves rolled up, but it's only a matter of time until the fire reaches his sleeves. Angrily, he jabs a finger in Syrlya's direction.

"Do you even care what I think or are you just looking for another reason to talk over me?"

Syrlya narrows his eyes. "I suppose I have cared too much about what you think if I have tried to prove myself to you. But it does not matter, because I am going to see my duties through regardless whether you respect my abilities to do so or not."

So that's a no, then. At least, Strange is interpreting this as a no. Perhaps it's best now that he's got confirmation Syrlya doesn't give a damn about him. He can start not caring about the Mesmer in return.

"Your abilities have nothing to do with the choices you've made. The fact that you're a powerful magician doesn't change the fact that you're a stubborn ass who refuses to even admit that he might have made a mistake. If you think I don't respect you, then leave. Nothing's preventing you from living with me anymore."

Says the person still standing in front of the door.

"You're standing in front of the door, Strange," he points out coolly, slowly pushing off the table. "Nor do I have to leave the trailer. You can't throw me out."

If he waltzes out it's going to be by his own decision and not because Strange told him to leave, so he stays stubbornly in place. "But I am tired of arguing with you, Strange, so fine. Think whatever you want of me."

Shit. So he is. Strange moves away from the door and, without saying a word, storms back towards the beds. He turns himself smoke to float up to the top bunk and reforms partway underneath the red cape that he wore while enthralled by Ignatius and is now currently serving as an impromptu bedspread.

He is straight up facing the wall. It's Strange's turn to try and stubbornly not look at Syrlya. As he does so, he tries to calm down his flames and hopes that the fire-resistant cloth of the cape helps temper them down a bit.

No commentary, just sulking.

Syrlya's gaze drifts sideways as Strange goes off to sulk. He doesn't comment, instead gathering some paper, his notes on the portal signet, and a pen from the shelves before he sits at the table and starts writing. Two can play the silent game.

The silent game lasts for five or so minutes before, unsurprisingly, Strange is the one to crack first. Tired of sulking, he gets his dumb wife gem therapy rock and takes it for a spin to try and calm down. The video's at an awkward angle, as the memory projection of Strange and Arabella almost perfectly hits a corner of the room. But the audio's crystal clear. The longer the audio goes on, the less the top bunk smells like a campfire or singed fabric.

Syrlya now has to deal with the audio of Strange and Arabella making conversation interspersed with a slightly ludicrous amount of kissing noises.

Syrlya for the most part ignores that. The blatant kissing gets the occasional glance, but from his angle he can't see much about Strange is doing. So he focuses mostly on his work, and trying to calculate further iterations of the portal to be more efficient after it's been tested.

Then it clicks in his mind what he's probably hearing and he does a double take to the top bunk. "Wh--are you listening to yourself kiss your wife?"

Is that what's going on up there??

The audio stops when Syrlya speaks up (and Strange accidentally knocks the gem off it's point, stopping the memory). Oh shit. He's still there, isn't he. Strange knows that any explanation is going to be mocked, since it's not like Syrlya would understand things like 'missing one's wife terribly and using her voice as a coping mechanism'.

So in a very dignified fashion, Strange simply throws his pillow at Syrlya's head.

Syrlya is smacked in the face with a pillow.

And then he grabs it and throws it right back.

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject