Private Reflections

[Walter Thornley]

Brows peak in sympathy and apology, quietly, as Walter realizes he's the one who caused disbalance.
"I-..."

He could answer. He could answer in words that describe tendencies, and movement, but not the things themselves.

He could say that Cellachán builds bridges over the river to cross from one bank to another, calculates how to dig into each bank to change, stifle or broaden the water's course, engineers structures to harness the power of the flow, and that all those rest on order wrought by sharp angles and certainties, the chisel of the mind carving and the force of will weaving together what must seem like a faceless, though vast, power to bring possibility into material world. And what the professor teaches others to conceive of, leans on that material world, and benefits many people - but it is irreverent to things that are already there, more often than not perceiving them as material for consumption and alteration. At best, there is some effort in not overstraining the natural Shroud. At worst, cities fly and leave wastelands behind them. But between those two, reliable things are produced, available for anyone - for the weavers are not many - to make use of enhanced tools in their work and entertainments at their leisure.

Walter could say that the chisel has long been wringed out of his own hand, but the will remained. That, within that same metaphor, he feels the movements of the banks eroding and the speed of the flow with his skin, the passing schools of fish and the distant peppering and undulation of worms in the soil, the new cycle of a fox carcass in death and the transmutation of the flowers on the berry bush. He can understand all these, he can truly fathom them if only he strains his mind to perceive. But whether he does or not - he is always in the river half-way deep, looking at other people building bridges, and watermills, and sluices. He is always in the veil half-way, whether he wants to or not, whether he looks or not. And the chisel, the precise formulas, the certainty, is being tumbled in the muddled stream like shards of broken glass - there, his lens of focus once has been, and there, his roots now lie.
And there is no place for things like him in the new world that does not recall the hallowed power of oaths, hospitality, and reciprocity.

But he doesn't.
It's all wishy-washy to anyone, especially so a mathematician.

"I'm sorry, Professor," he says instead, and looks contrite for that matter, sincerely, as he also lowers the gaze into the kindly prepared coffee, "I get carried away. There was no intent to offend you. I suppose that... what I meant..." he bites the inside of his cheek, brows furrowing in search for words, "...was that I was curious whether you know of the subject somewhat already. It's quite alright, either way, but heed that some of this might sound like old wives' tales to you until you see it work."

He strokes the wall of the cup with a finger, idly, as if soothing himself at the sensation of the hot, smooth surface of it.
"I'm glad that you are keen to learn about my reconstructed view, if only to broaden your own horizons. And I could share what I know. What I wrote about, it has to do with older... rules. Some rules that imbue power that cannot be skewed, or altered, or enhanced - because their power has come not from a calculation of natural things, but from repetition and the exact will for a certain effect of many, many folk."
They weren't the architects. But those repetitions were the rocks that lined the stream, and did not let it run wild nor erode the banks.

He ran fingers through his hair, raked it the same way he'd always done when anxiety would flare and settle in. Glanced at the academian, and tried to elaborate,
"In this category, you'd have true names, and rites of creating a bond of kinship through exchanging or mixing blood - such as in some marriage rites. Aspects and bonds between these aspects are the staples of my new angle. Within that framework, someone overtaken by their wilder nature would respond only to someone they share a mutual bond with, calling onto the power of that bond exactly - and only if that bond is stronger than the other one that might form, which is a fresh link between predator and prey to-be. There is no way to measure such a thing in numbers, but there is a way we all intrinsically measure the strength of such bonds, isn't there?"

A slow exhale escaped him, shoulders slouched slightly.
"Because the wilder nature isn't the only prime state for a being like that, and because being bound by blood does hold a power, it works in reverse, too, such as the offspring taking on their parent's nature while not having been exposed to the source, themselves."

Walter gestured around him with the gloved hand, chuckled.
"I hope I'm making sense. And if I'm not, I'll wait for a moment to show you. And if there isn't one, I invite you to speak with the locals about their burial rites and ash ceramics. Observe the ambient shroud, the warding weave that isn't at the perimeter, and, while weak, does not disturb the architecture below nor our own wards. In the meantime, we could talk of something else." Gloved fingers drummed a little against the bench. He fidgeted with his coffee. "For example, would you feed my curiosity, and confess to whether you are partial to liquor?"

 

[Cellachán]

“… but there is a way we all intrinsically measure the strength of such bonds, isn't there?”​

The glimmering white cup comes to a stop, halfway to those broad, brownstone lips.

“… it works in reverse, too, such as the offspring taking on their parent's nature while not having been exposed to the source, themselves.”​

Cellachán blinks, his expression enigmatic as he stares for a long moment into Walter’s increasingly Stygian eyes. Then his own lower, to regard the coffee in his hand with that same thoughtful look.

“In the meantime, we could talk of something else. For example, would you feed my curiosity, and confess to whether you are partial to liquor?”​

​

—And his gaze jumps right back up to Walter’s face, his cervine features freshly surprised once again. It lasts all of a second… before the corners of his eyes crinkle up, and he tilts his head back with a soft bark of laughter. The broad bows of his antlers thud lightly against the stonework behind him.

“I’ve been known to enjoy a tipple every now and then,” Cel admits, recovering himself enough to finally have a sip of coffee. He closes his eyes as it hits the tongue, giving himself some time to appreciate it. “Mmm… and more than just a tipple, when the occasion suits. Alfvig could probably share a few stories from some of our faculty parties if you ask him next time you speak. Personally, though, I have little recollection of the events in question.”

Another taste of fresh brew, then Cel puts his cup down. All that uncertain energy has evaporated off him like fog against the noonday sun, so that when he offers Walter another smile, it’s back to being an earnest little thing.

“Rest assured — there was no offence taken, My Lord.” The professor underpins this with a casual little shrug, to drive the point home. “I was just a little out of my depth there. That’s not such a bad thing, though. Nor even an unwelcome one.”

He looks toward the fire. The alder is at its peak right now: burning as bright and high as ever, before its trajectory turns downward into sullen embers and choking ash. A poker finds its way Cel’s hand, and he starts to consolidate those crumbling sticks; shepherding the scalding-bright coals into a focal point below the tripod of hornbeam logs. Already he can see a corresponding glow from their charred undersides.

“I shall make time to ask about these practices. Their effect on the Shroud aside, I wonder what else will the people of Arpa will be able to tell me? Only seems fitting that I come to know them.” “Thank you. What you just told me… no, it doesn’t strike me as the kind of thing from ‘old wives’ tales’. In fact, there’s quite a lot of sense in it.

“‘A way we all intrinsically measure the strength of such bonds,’” Cel repeats, and he sounds strangely wistful, with the firelight dancing off his eyes. “Because you’re absolutely right. It’s one of those things you can feel the shape and extent of, even if you don’t precisely know how you’re doing it.”

A truth, he realises, that is so much more intuitive to living things than all those impersonal numbers and uncaring formulae that weavers like himself have carefully extracted and refined from breaking down the universe piece by piece. Something understood as much by the heart as by the head — if not more so. As such, an understanding shared not in solitude, but shared with most all those who have a concept for such things. Varying to some extent from person to person, sure, but unified nonetheless.

Of course such things would become so large, so nebulous, that they escape the concrete limitations of specific, ‘direct’ Aspects…

Cel visibly rouses back into the present. With another brief smile toward Walter, he rests the poker back in its place, then slides along to his coffee and notes. Well, mostly just his coffee; for all his earlier thoughts about the urgency of haste, Cellachán feels he’s entitled to indulge in a spot more of casual conversation with the Baron Thornley.

“Apologies. Happy to let that rest for now, should you so wish. I admit Your Lordship now has me curious about the subject of liquor — and whether you had a particular drop in mind?”

 

[Walter Thornley]

The eyes crinkle up, the tiny hint of shadow around the nose, and the sound of laughter might not be the tone he's used to, but Walter feels relieved, regardless. At least Cellachán does not look quite as astounded by his audacity, anymore.

“I’ve been known to enjoy a tipple every now and then,”​

The obscurata's eyes narrow into a good-humoured, doubtful squint.

“Mmm… and more than just a tipple, when the occasion suits. Alfvig could probably share a few stories from some of our faculty parties if you ask him next time you speak. Personally, though, I have little recollection of the events in question.”​

A silent 'aha' with mouth curving, lips parting, and a chuckle that sinks warm into his chest.
"And here I was wondering if the reverie of the arcane architects should be as elaborate as their works," he muses, a smirk opening perhaps too much, the edges of front fangs catching briefly against his lower lip. "Perhaps, I should ask him. Next we speak."

He's not entirely expecting to make it out of here alive, and so the words dim and gaze travels off the eyes, to the mouth, and away from the deer-kin's face. A smile graces him on apologies accepted, however, a slight bow of his head follows.

Feeling welcome wraps him in temptation, not to move, to let another moment settle, revel in its warmth and just... let go.
He doesn't, but only just, shoulder meeting the wall of the inglenook once again, sturdy blue cotton and dark-grey wool protecting skin from harsh texture and arching bulge of the stone.

He doesn't succumb, but lets the silence linger until Cellachán springs back to life, and regards him with a ready spark to the inquiring gaze.
"Nothing untoward, I would assure you," he murmurs, "It is customary to serve appetizers of brewed variety at dinner, I wished to make certain that it would not upset your sensibilities. And, more to the point, I wished to share some of the Bremen herbal liquor. It's sweet, incorporates our unique herb among the rest, has a vague scent reminiscent of florals, and with a bite of sourwisp spice, that sort of burn and warmth emerging from a mint-fresh chill. A night cap, but if you take a liking to it, I would bring it alongside other things to our debates. Seems such a shame to discuss rites and meditations whilst woefully sober, m? Anything you would be partial to, yourself?"

 

[Cellachán]

“Port,” declares the professor, with nary any hesitation. “I’m partial to all sorts, but a good tawny in particular is something of a weakness of mine. Terrible stuff to overdo it on, mind you. As Alfvig will no doubt be happy to inform you.”

Walter seems as though he’s more at ease, now, and that helps Cel find it in him to relax as well. He has another leisurely taste from his cup, throat filling with the vaporous aroma of café, while the smile in front of him brings to mind another interesting thing — those sharp fangs. By human standards, they appear to be very prominent.

Perhaps folk are just built a little different in Bremen.

“I’ve not tried sourwisp before. I seem to recall hearing that it’s made from… apples? A particular variety that’s been cultivated in your barony, no?” Cellachán’s head nods vaguely up and down a few times. “Either way, it sounds like a fine digestif. I must say — Your Lordship is giving me much to look forward to this evening.”

Hopefully not too much… especially if Walter decides to add port to the mix as well. Cel needs to keep at least some measure of clarity for the work ahead, and outright drunkenness aside, nothing puts one off their game quite like a hangover. They can save it for the after-party once all this macabre business here in Arpa has been sorted out.

His eyes slip away; off of Walter, passing over the cup in his hands, to settle on the man’s investigative notes. Still largely untouched, but perhaps it’s time to change that. If Baron Thornley is willing to help shape their lenses, Cel can point him toward the refractive calculations from his observatory project for various thicknesses — start figuring out what’s best for the distances they’re dealing with and for the specialised materials needed to peer through the Shroud, while the professor familiarises himself with everything Walter has discovered about their ticking time-bomb so far.

After all, they’re going to need something to discuss over dinner.

“I was thinking,” Cel says, slowly, flipping once more through his book as he slides it across the table at Walter, “Smoked armonium glass for the objective lens. That glare from the sky makes things even harder, but this would filter out ambient light in the visible spectrum while still permitting wavelengths embedded in the Shroud to be conducted along the armonium content…”

 

[Walter Thornley]

"I'm certain we will soon have an occasion to overdo it just a little," Walter gestures with his good hand emphatically. "I do not wish to rely on an account for things that I could learn first hand, when I would otherwise be woefully deprived!"

And while neither of them says anything out of politeness, Walter still takes care to hide the grin as soon as it managed through. As if it's a shameful thing, to feel relief after so long.
"Port, though. I have a bottle right this moment," he chuckles under his breath, "I'm not as fond of bitter as I used to be. And as of sourwisp - no, actually. It is an herb. Finicky one, too, only grows in one spot in the land, and seems to object to most forms of trying to multiply it. So we tend it, and enjoy its unique blend for the palate. It's sweet-sour combination is reminiscent of apples, I guess, so you aren't entirely wrong, but also..."

He trails off, and is grateful for the professor to interject. The focus shifts. The coffee runs out...

...They are in the middle of trying to workshop not the calculations themselves, but the list of all things to consider, and their measurements to boot, a branching list filling out the paper every which way in Walter's hand, quill pulling the ear down under its weight as the man relies on his bare hand for gestures, and seems to avoid moving the right one too much as the weather turns and the joints require some rest.

It's then that Walter is interrupted by a knock.
"My Lord..."
Reggie calls him out, keeps a calm face while Cellachán is present, but Walter reads that calm for what it is. And so, some color seems to leave his eyes, and despite the cloak not bearing down on his shoulders and framing his form, every step he takes to the door grows heavier with weight. Stops, and the last words that he speaks softly that day are,
"I will begin once this is handled, Professor." He is no longer at ease. Warmth sifts through words, escaping as he rearranges for his status' proper bearing, and cools the blood.

Outside, allowing Reggie to take lead, he learns of the reason for disturbance. They've caught the thieves.

For a few minutes more, as his boots tread across cobble and mud, and the chill runs through his bones, he still holds that vivid scene. The blooming hearth, the vivified academian, the scent of coffee, the sturdy wall taking some of his weight as he leans to it. He cradles it in his mind, and hides it far away, so it is not marred by what's to come.
He goes far away, in his head, eyes like unlit windows.

An hour later, he announces their guilt. They die by his sword before being strung up in the gallows among those that struggled before falling limp. Pillagers' Row.

---

He is a little distant at dinner, at first, as if it takes some time, and a couple glasses of brew taken perhaps a little hastily, to build a red river between him and the gallows.
The shoulders keep perfect pitch as he seems to mellow.

He asks Cellachán about simple things. Family, whether Cel is following the Makari fashions, whether he has any dish he's fond of. He asks of new styles in architecture, he asks whether the man enjoys theatre, or social events. He speaks of Glitterwake, when the newly discovered mineral had been on display. Technology progresses quickly, truly. There is a bit of wistful apprehension mixed in with admiration in those words.

It's quiet. Pleasant.
He doesn't push if Cellachán does not volunteer information, he does not speak too much of his own family, and asks to perhaps put off the verification of the rumours about his past till a later date - but seems at ease talking about most other things, which end up mentioning him having travelled across the South, sailed with a crew (though he does not divulge the details, he seems elated at the prospect of recounting all the folklore, songs and rhymes collected from the shore and island dwellers along the route), and having lived in the Free Cities, for a spell. Out of order.

His eyes are gentle, but dark, for the rest of the evening, and his smiles do not linger. But by gods he tries, and does his best.
Because civil folk have different sensibilities. Because he does not want to be a tall, dark shadow across everyone's memory. Even if he... has to.

---

The next day, a procession enters Arpa - but in the gloaming dawn hours before, Reginald has passed the measurements to the professor, which could only mean that someone has been awake into the witching hour. The lord is away, by then - pulled outside by something that required his attention and a ride of three blue lanterns flickering like hopeful stars into the damp, foggy night.

In the days after, Walter tries to make time. It's often that duty takes him, to hold council with the town elder, or pass missives to Agatha, maintain communication with outside, make plans for the next two seasons in preparations, projected progress in repairs and requisitions. He executes those attempting to mess with food supplies in person, and leaves them for the black birds, and the message sticks very quickly. The commonfolk are all fed, regardless of their status. The healers have taken to fixing some longer health problems with some of them, and it feels hopeful when the majority of cases seem to be chronic conditions and hard labor injuries.

A week later, the candle-burning pair run out of coffee. But the next caravan, inbound in two days of irritant withdrawals, brings more, procured at the vendors at Walter's foresighted behest. Different, all lighter roasts, and barely enough to survive the nights.

Occasionally, Walter ventures outside, when the reports that find him signify something that would cost too many lives that he'd be willing to sacrifice, or when the reports indicate that his particular ability with the Shroud is required. He returns worse for wear, some times assisted. He hides indoors, and works if he can work, and is bed-ridden for some time if he cannot - until he looks presentable enough to show his face in public again.

He has very little time.
But he makes it - when he does, he smells of medicine for keeping focus, of pain-relieving ointments, wears the oval reading glasses that cast some charming, faint rounded shadows on his cheeks. He smiles the easiest smiles he has.

FIN