Private a Magician's Bouquet

[Kaisa]

White Port, Altalusia​

The vaulted ceilings were taller than she remembered, stretching on with their painted on scenes of hunts and seafaring, the great crystal chandelier in their midst casting a prismatic dazzle on every surface. The air swam with perfume, darker tones of spice and pine mingling with fresh ones reserved for the transitional period of spring — no florals yet, thank the Eight. A bit of sage burned for flare —to exorcise the Winter from their bones and their minds. It was quite the complement to the rosemary and thyme come whafting in from the banquet tables.

None paid her mind as she practically marched on, dark hem and the off white wimple about her head huffing with movement. By the look of everyone’s stemmed glasses, mostly full, and the general air of expectant mingling, she wasn’t late.

That’s a first. Perhaps she should’ve taken that detour to the Scrolls enroute after all.

At the sound of her footsteps, the snap of every rapid heel-step and click of a magician’s tools about her chatelane, one roused to attention in the crowd. A smile spread upon their face, luminescense flaring in a cheerful ripple about the gaps in their scales. A small gesture was given to whom surrounded them, to excuse turning towards her approach.

“ Kaisa Latva. “ The host spoke, decorated sleeves baring clawed hands that spread out in greeting.
“ Myyr Burakh of Anchor Hill. “ She responded expressionlessly, stopping in a sharp bow that kicked one leg to the front and bent at the hip, one arm to the side as the other crossed the chest. This seemed to amuse Myyr, who bared sharp teeth in a snicker, the white flame about their black eyesockets flaring purple.

“ Happy birthday. “ Kaisa continued once she’d straightened, putting her hand into the one Myyr had offered in greeting. In a raised brow, she appraised the gaggle about them. “ I didn’t know you had this many friends. “
“ You know how it is — This is their opportunity to wring favours from me under pretense of caring that I’ve aged another decade. “
“ Magicians. “ Kaisa huffed, as if that hadn’t been her plenty of times.
“ Quite. “ Myyr repeated, releasing her hand in a squeeze. “ But not you. Is that for me? “
“ Yes. “ She responded, glancing down at the little potted plant she’d carried under her arm like she was seeing it for the first time. The leaves of the little tree shivered as she brought it to the fore.
“ I detest gifts. “ Myyr remarked blankly, looking at it in a manner reserved for stray dogs and particularly large rats.
“ I know. “ Kaisa shrugged. “ Where’d you like I put it? “ Since there is no gift table.

With the enthusiasm of one unceremoniously made parent to a child they suspected to hate, the birthday host opened their hands in surrender, reaching out. Claws scraped the fired clay of the pot as it left the grip of its bringer. Myyr paused then, seeming to consider the gift.

“ Roaming Prune. “ The fire beneath their skin sparked with recognition, flickering a red as the eyes that weren’t eyes fell back upon the giver. Kaisa shrugged.
“ Suppose it made me think of you. For the beautiful little leaves. “ She reached a hand to try one of them, the jagged edges so similar in appearance to those upon nettles.
“ I’m flattered. “ Myyr answered dangerously, smile growing sharper. “ I’ll think of you next I draft curses. “
“ I look forward to it. But consider keeping the pot, at least — “ Kaisa added, hand falling to her hip as she withdrew. “ It has such curious memories. “

This was not disputed, silence upon them as Myyr bobbed their head in a hum. The grip upon the pot adjusted, clay brought to rest upon the crook of a silken sleeve. Away from skin.

“ Please enjoy the party, my friend. “ They said finally, head bowing. Kaisa sniffed and shifted on heel, glacing at the terribly large room. Everywhere she looked, was another sparkling and curious presence. People known and unknown.

“ Oh, I will. “ She finally allowed herself crack a smile, striking another bow for effect in the same motion that saw her turn on heel.

But first, a drink.

 

[Zayad]

Zayad moved with a grace of someone who didn't belong, but always arrived on time. He was underdressed for the occasion by Miradi custom, but looking around the room, he wasn't alone in this choice. The silk that wrapped him was charcoal, blue embroidery visible only from certain angles. Still slightly disheveled from the trip, he chose to remain unkempt a few beats longer. He adjusted nothing, as he stepped forward, the ceiling seemed to shrink back.

Standing by the threshold a beat longer, he was met with a thousand layered scents. He expected this, so in a room of pines, rosemary and sage, he chose to smell of ink. The vapor followed him, reminding of both a funeral and a cleansing. It was only a matter of geography. The crowd was of some interest. But nowhere close to the creature they were orbiting.

He had never seen Myyr Burakh before, but he knew the rumors. Scaled. Fire-eyed. Altered. One tale said they'd burned a priest's name out of history by staring at it. Another claimed they lived six centuries and forgot more than most weavers would ever care to learn. Zayad didn't care for the stories. He only cared about two things. Myyr Burakh might know something about the dracophage. And Myyr Burakh was still alive.

He drifted for the refreshments first, not out of hunger, but habit. Parties were performances. And he had years of practice in his role. He took up an orange that had much to learn from true vintners and sipped before he would approach the host. As he came forward, his arm held a glass case no longer than his palm. Inside, suspended within blown crystal a small prism twisted slowly in place. If one looked closely, they could see small strands of near transparent living ink anchoring the jittery structure. Every few seconds it would change shape. Sometimes half-letters. Sometimes shapes. Then nothing at all. The air around it hummed, just barely.

He approached like he was joining a conversation, uninvited, but impossible to ignore. „Forgive the intrusion. I was told to bring a gift, and couldn't bear to disappoint.“ He held up the object, not forward, but visible. „It listens. Carefully. Not unlike myself.“ It wasn't easy to read the creature without it voicing an obvious sign of approval or displeasure.

„Some call it a memory trap. I prefer resonant courier. It absorbs near shroud tension, ambient weave, and some claim strong intention.“ A sip of wine as he rotated it so it could capture more light from the chandelier. Happy accidents. The creature allowed the silence to stretch. Zayad could not afford being on the back foot. „And if not... I'm told it makes a delightful paperweight. And I rarely lie.“

The fire flared in the empty sockets. Irritation or interest, unreadable. His was a study of people and their actions. He had yet to gain firsthand experience with creatures such as this.

Myyr took the prism in complete silence. Reminded Zayad of the 'ni ceremonies of old. Claws curled delicately beneath the glass. The ink produced a symbol Zayad didn't recognize, but would remember.

„How thoughtful,“ Myyr spoke flat. „A listener, in a room full of talkers.“

The briefest break before light flicked beneath the scales. Bright as spite. Or laughter.

„You bring me a spy that whispers back only what I've already felt.“ the object turned slowly in their claw. „But I suppose even ink deserves to be burned every so often.“

Their face never changed as the object disappeared in the folds of their cloth.

„Thank you, Zayad al-Kuresh zi Takoumba.“ They said it perfect, as the fire inside grew. Each word like a finger placed on a pressure point. „I look forward to what it forgets.“

A small shiver down the guest's spine. He had never introduced himself.

His bow had been lower than intended. He'd need to do better next time.

Back to the refreshments. And as far away from Myyr as he could reasonably manage.