This Beautiful Complexity

A strange sort of tutelage.

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A large forest in Central Anaxas, the once-thriving mostly human town of Dorhaven is recovering from a bombing in 2719 at its edge.

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Tom Cooke
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Race: Raen
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Sat Mar 02, 2019 9:56 pm



monica's apartment
early evening on the 34th of Ophus, 2718
Lying just in front of Monica’s door inside the apartment, obviously slipped in under the crack, is a small, unassuming letter. It’s sealed with a nondescript blot of red wax. From the outside, the only hint of the thing’s origin is the stationery; when held up to the light, the envelope bears a watermark in the shape of a man on a rearing horse with one hand raised, a shield behind him. There’s no writing on the envelope, and inside, there’s only a plain piece of parchment, folded crisply and neatly in the middle.

Constable Inspector Delacore,

I’m aware that it hasn’t been long since you’ve heard from us, and I’d be remiss not to acknowledge that your recent dining experience with Diana and I was less than typical (or enjoyable, unfortunately). I will not patronize you with an apology, because an apology is not enough, and there is little I – or anyone – can do. I’m afraid I’m a man of fewer words than I used to be, and I hope you’ll forgive me for my brevity.

If you are still receptive to my offer, please send a letter to the enclosed address. For the next week, I will be out of Vienda on business. If, on my return, you would like to initiate the partnership we discussed, you need only say so. If not, I will not disturb you again.

-A. Vauquelin



Fucking benny, Cecily,” said Tom. The candlelight flickered over the passive’s face; even this close, he couldn’t puzzle out her expression, couldn’t make heads or tails of the tense, thin press of her lips. It was something like a twitchy smile. He reached out a hand to touch her shoulder, but then hesitated, hovered – let it fall back to his side. Instead, he just said, “Benny. Great.”

They were in the incumbent’s study; Cecily was sitting in his chair, hands folded in her lap, finished with her work. Tom was behind her, one hand on the back of the chair and the other twitching at his side, peering over her shoulder. The letter sat before them, the still-wet ink glistening in the warm light. There was another piece of parchment a little to one side, more than a little crumpled and covered in a very different hand –


Constable Inspector Delacore,

I know it hasnt been Im aware you heard from us recently and Id be remiss if I didnt acknowlege that your dining experience


That was where Tom had given up.

“Where did you learn to do this?”

“I’ve always –” Cecily’s shoulders drew up around her ears. She turned her face away from him; the candlelight shivered shadows over her face, caught gossamer highlights in her red hair. “I just – well. Sir. I, er. I’ve just always been good at it, sir. If that’s not –”

“It’s fine. It’s more than fine.” He tried to offer her a smile, though he knew by now it wouldn’t do any good. The best thing he could do, he reckoned, was move away. So that’s what he did: his hand slipped off the back of the chair and he slipped away, silent, padding through the dark toward the window, where Osa and Benea made the frost glow and illuminated the wood paneling in ghostly white.

“Thank you, sir. Am I dismissed, sir?”

He turned a little. She was tiny next to the great wooden desk, head down and face pitted with shadows. “Of course,” he replied, trying to sound easy. Nonchalant. “You can come and go as you please, hey? Now, I mean. I don’t bite. Though I’d be fair grateful if you’d help me out with this again – in the future. If you could.”

“Whenever you wish, sir,” she said, standing up carefully. She bustled out of the room without another word, stiff-backed, stiff-necked as if frightened to look over her shoulder.

“Only for that,” he called after her, feeling like an idiot. “Not for – I mean, just for that.” He bit his lip hard, staring at the empty door, then turned back to the window. His hands twitched; he wrung them, not sure what else to do with them. “Clock the fucking Circle,” he whispered. “What did you do, Anatole?”



After the clocking mess of that dinner, he was surprised she’d agreed so readily; now, here he was, standing outside of a nondescript door in a nondescript hall after having stood on a nondescript landing, shivering in the cold, bracing himself against whatever was to come. An image of the constable hung in his mind, a sort of shuddering double-vision: a strangely awkward woman in a pantsuit, looking uncomfortable with galdor formality; and a woman in green, cold as the Ophus wind, staring down a barmaid with violence in her blue eyes. Both of them perfectly coiffed, perfectly made up. What did it mean?

But in a strange way, she was like a lifeline to him. Something about the way she’d talked about the mona earlier that month had given him pause. It was like she’d shrugged off some mantle she always wore, if only a little. He’d seen something then – something he almost wished he hadn’t seen. Gollies weren’t human, but he didn’t know how else to say it. In that moment, the constable had seemed almost human to him.

Funny, that. Fair mung. He wasn’t even human anymore.

He’d piled on the layers, wearing his thick coat, his scarf drawn up around his nose and his hat covering his red hair; it hadn’t been hard to get around Uptown unnoticed and alone, especially in this weather, when nobody who wasn’t bang moony wanted to be out taking a stroll. He’d slipped in the ice once or twice on his way over. The whole world felt blanketed in it now: the sky was white, the ground was white, the walkways were dusted; it lay thick on the awnings of the shops, and icicles dangled from the eaves of the townhouses. It was quiet.

Now, inside, his gloved fist hovered over the door. He drew in a breath, swallowing thickly – was that the beginning of a sore throat? He frowned deeply underneath his scarf. Then, with another shuddering breath, and another, then –

Knock, knock.

He pulled his scarf down around his chin and took off his hat, tucking it under an arm. Then he shoved his hands in his pockets. His fingers were numb to the knuckle.
Last edited by Tom Cooke on Sun Mar 03, 2019 9:54 pm, edited 1 time in total.

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Monica Delacore
Posts: 48
Joined: Wed Dec 05, 2018 6:28 pm
Topics: 8
Race: Galdor
Location: Vienda
: mind is willing, soul remains
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Sun Mar 03, 2019 6:34 pm

OPHUS 34, 2718
MONICA'S APARTMENT ⋆ EARLY EVENING
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The fact that anyone would want to meet again after such a dreadful dinner event - least of all Incumbent Vauquelin - was enough to surprise the constable; receiving yet another letter from the strange, political household had left the woman to read on in confusion, tucking the letter away to sleep on the matter. When, in the morning, she decided to agree to further contact and send a letter in response... it was all the more confusing.

Still, questions plagued her curious mind of the Incumbent's condition. The nature of his backlash, the extent of his amnesia, the little amounts he had recovered... none of it made sense to her. Even stranger was something more genuine that once again blossomed, just as it had at their initial meeting in the tavern - a desire to help, to see the older man succeed and regain his gods-given, magic-wielding abilities.

At least he had mentioned his lack of interest in taking up his former Perceptive conversation. She doubted she could've helped in any measurable amount in that regard.

Her suggestion to meet up at her apartment was coming back to haunt her thoughts now that the day had come. Why had she said that? Given her address as if it was a title, something easily thrown away rather than stashed in case of future need... it was unwise of the officer to do and she knew it, and perhaps that was what made the woman pace about the apartment for the better half of the day, fiddling with the furniture and doing her best to make the place look presentable. It was no mansion, that was for sure, but it would have to do.

It was certainly nothing special - plain, with the most basic of furniture and lacking all decor. No evidence of knick-knacks or hobbies or collections littered her apartment, rather it was a stark display of how little the constable cared for anything beyond her work. Still, she lit the hearth in an attempt to make the apartment a bit more homey, lingering by the fire afterwards and leaning into the heat to calm her nerves.

She sure hoped the Incumbent wasn't expecting anything fancy. The last time she'd had someone over, it had been... no, no, she'd never had anyone over, never mind. Monica's delicate fingers fiddled with the edges of her sleeves; the woman opting to stay in her normal home-attire rather than dressing up for the event.

It was a strange contradiction to her appearance in the outside world - no makeup at all, hair let loose to fall about her shoulders, clothing comfortable and casual in the form of a long-sleeved gray shirt and nondescript black trousers.

Gods, she hoped the Incumbent had low expectations, otherwise she'd have to run off and change.

By the time the Incumbent had approached the door, Monica was up and moving, striding nervously to the door before he had even knocked. Still she waited; standing on the other side of the door and taking a breath to steel herself, and once a knocking reached her ears, the woman finally opened the door.

"Incumbent Vauquelin," greeted the blonde, offering a small, uncertain smile, "come in, it's dreadfully cold out there, isn't it?"

Stepping aside, Monica waited for the older galdor to enter the apartment before shutting the door behind him. Just as soon, the blonde regretted her choice not to dress up for their meeting - the Incumbent was dressed casually, thankfully, but she had underestimated her own discomfort with allowing someone to see her in such a fashion.

"Would you care for something to drink? Tea, alcohol, ah - that's all I've got besides water. I've never been able to stomach that kofi har or whatever they call it."
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Tom Cooke
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Sun Mar 03, 2019 11:32 pm



monica's apartment
early evening on the 34th of Ophus, 2718
The doorknob turned, and he squared his shoulders. He had some words dancing around in his head, the how do you dos and the requisite golly bowing and the explanations, the apologies for his windswept, frazzled hat-hair and his informal clothing; he was rehearsing them over and over in his mind, unable to keep it all straight with his nerves full of ants. When the door started to open, he opened his mouth, drawing in a breath in preparation to speak.

His mouth stayed open, and all that came out was a quiet choked noise before he clamped his mouth shut.

The first question he’d have asked was, Who the fuck are you? For a second, he thought he’d gotten the wrong address; he thought about bowing and excusing himself, scurrying off to regroup and figure out where Monica Delacore really lived. The more he looked at her face, though, squinting after the blinding brightness of the snow, the more he thought, It really is her. And when she greeted him – with that sheepish little smile, no less – he knew.

“Er – Constable Delacore.” His look of surprise resolved itself into a shaky smile. He bent in a deep, fluid galdori bow. “You look –” He paused, then let out a soft, genuine laugh. “Well. Very well. And thank you. Really. It’s coming down out there.”

With a cursory glance over his shoulder, he followed her in, feeling more than a little on edge as he heard the door click behind him. It’d been awhile since he’d been alone with anybody in their apartment; he didn’t feel safe anywhere anymore, much less here. The back of his neck was prickling. Still, he had to admit that the warmth was welcome: he’d already taken his hands out of his pockets and started pulling off his gloves, trying to shake feeling back into his fingers, and his stinging eyes were starting to rest, adjusting to the relative dark. The first thing he saw was a cheery fire crackling away in the hearth.

Then, glancing around, he took in the plain, spartan furnishings. He blinked, not sure how he felt. It’s – well, it’s nice. He kicked himself into motion, wrestling out of his coat and looking around for the coatrack. Absently, he started, “Oh, please. Incumbent Vauquelin was my fathe—” and then broke off, brows drawing together. “Well, my father wasn’t an incumbent, so the figure of speech doesn’t really work. Not that it worked anyway.” When he located the coatrack, he bustled over to hang it up. “Regardless, I’m not here as an incumbent.”

Getting out of all these layers felt like uncasing himself from a cocoon. He hung up his hat, took off his soaked, snowy boots, divested himself of the weight of his scarf – he felt a dozen pounds lighter once he was done, and terribly diminutive in his sweater and trousers. At least he didn’t feel overdressed, or underdressed, or anything but even with the constable; in fact, he felt a little vulnerable himself, but he imagined it was mutual. It was easier to play the role of the incumbent when he was dressed in a galdori politician’s finery, acting out the rigid social mores of the upper classes in equally rigid attire. Now, he just felt like a man, but that man wasn’t Tom. He was exposing something that wasn’t his to expose. He didn’t know how to be Anatole casually.

He turned to the constable. “Whatever would make you more comfortable, at the end of the day. But you can call me Anatole, if you like.” The thought came unbidden to his mind: Nobody’s ever going to call you ‘Tom’ again. His lip twitched, and he fumbled lamely for words. “And tea, thank you. If it’s no trouble. I’m going to, uh –”

With a nervous little laugh, he gestured toward the fire, studying the constable’s face one last time. Without that perfect makeup, she looked strangely younger – and that smile? He couldn’t figure it out. Since their first meeting, she’d been the consummate Seventen officer, the portrait of a capable auntie, but there had been something about her behavior around him that had felt…

What? What was it? That was what he couldn’t puzzle out.

Tearing himself away from the dilemma, he trundled over to the fire and stretched out his sore hands with a sigh of relief. Over his shoulder, he said, “I can’t thank you enough for your hospitality, Constable Delacore. I hope you know what you’re getting into; we may have to break out the whisky before we’re through with all this. It’s been awhile since Brunnhold.”
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Monica Delacore
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Joined: Wed Dec 05, 2018 6:28 pm
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Race: Galdor
Location: Vienda
: mind is willing, soul remains
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Mon Mar 04, 2019 12:20 am

OPHUS 34, 2718
MONICA'S APARTMENT ⋆ EARLY EVENING
Image
Incumbent Vauquelin's initial reaction to the opening of the door was nothing short of puzzling; Monica ignored his delayed reaction at first, rightfully assuming it had something to do with her rather dressed-down appearance. Self-conscious wasn't the perfect word for the feeling pricking at her as the older man entered, beginning to remove his many layers, but it was something close. She was quite uncertain of how to receive the little compliment, unsure if it was meant genuinely - how could it have been? - but again, ignored it, pushing her discomfort down for the moment and focusing instead on the other galdor's words.

The mention of the incumbent's father - and his failed figure of speech - made her relax slightly, the woman pleased with the lightness of his tone, of the way he flowed over the little mishap without lingering or saying something foolish in an effort to make up for it. It was surprising really, how the incumbent lacked many of those galdori customs and traditions she had grown so accustomed to - although, his memory was clearly returning, as his speech had improved tenfold since their first meeting, and his tendency to bow in greeting had returned.

The constable crossed her arms over her chest as she watched the man finish pulling off layers, his form seeming smaller now in her little apartment as opposed to in that expansive mansion of his. It was another little thing to put her at ease, to calm her nerves - the incumbent could make her uncomfortable, sure, but he couldn't put up a fight. Not against her, anyway, she decided as the man offered his first name in place of his formal, political title.

"Of course, sir," she said with a nod, "Anatole it is - and, you're welcome to just call me Monica, if you'd like, sir."

The man's little gestures toward the hearth brought another shy smile to the constable's unpainted face, "yeah, go ahead, it should be nice and toasty by now. I'll get the tea started," she found it strange how... well, she just found it all strange - having someone in her apartment at all was a new experience itself, and she found herself unsure of what to do, where to go. What was she supposed to do with her hands? Conflicted with keeping her arms crossed or shoving her hands into the pockets of her black trousers, Monica opted to let them fall (almost) comfortably at her sides, striding across the room and to the stove.

The blonde set out an old kettle, one her mother had offered to her when she left home, filling it with water before sitting it over the heat. Meanwhile she listened to the incumbent speak on the other side of the room, and a glance over her shoulder provided the sight of the older galdor warming his hands.

"Oh, it's not a problem," offered Monica, walking across the room to join the man by the fire, "I'm not one to turn down a chance to down some whiskey - or figure out magical issues, for that matter. I must admit, actually, that I'm kind of glad you're not interested in returning to the Perceptive conversation - I would still try to help, of course, but that's definitely not my area."

Sleeved arms extended toward the fire, the constable opting to warm her own hands as well. It wasn't the finest of apartments, after all, and she had a tendency to freeze in those areas of it that the heat failed to reach.

"Uh, I do apologize for not dressing up a bit more, and the apartment's rather bare - I'm not so inclined to make an effort on my days off. I... don't generally have company," she added with a light, uncertain laugh; as if she'd ever had company.

"Anyway, I think we should start by analyzing where you're at, before we throw anything too difficult at you. Your wife mentioned you were doing better - is that true?" though her tone shifted at the mention of the man's wife (her dislike had been rather clear at dinner, unfortunately), she was far from judgmental in her question, "our main problem will be in persuading the mona to listen to you again, of course, but anything you can remember will help - whether that's a few spells or only a few words of Monite."
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Tom Cooke
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Mon Mar 04, 2019 11:38 pm



monica's apartment
early evening on the 34th of Ophus, 2718
It took him a little while to process that, standing in front of the grate with his hands stretched out, the life slowly seeping back into him. With his back turned, he heard her voice and the sound of her footsteps – quiet, not at all the confident click of Seventen boots – and the sound of the kettle being put on the stove. He heard her tell him, with as much deference as ever, to call her ‘Monica’. He heard Constable Inspector Delacore say the words “nice and toasty”, which rang in his head like bells.

“Monica,” he said. The name hung in the air. Something about the normalcy of it taunted him. “Monica it is, then.”

He felt her join him beside the fire, an unassuming shape in comfortable clothes. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw her extend her hands toward the fire; there were four hands outstretched in front of the grate now. Four delicate, galdor hands. A strange feeling bubbled up in him, the feeling he got when he thought too hard about who he was now, and he shoved it down, strangled it before it could make him feel dislocated and strange. Instead, he tried to tune into what the constable – Monica – what Monica was saying.

I… don’t generally have company.

Like hell she didn’t. If it hadn’t been for that light, nervous laugh, he might not’ve been able to keep himself from snorting; he’d never been able to imagine the stone-hearted auntie with a vibrant social life. Now, though, the idea took a different shape, melancholy and unsettling. Who was she really? “No, no.” He forced himself to be nonchalant. “You’ve made as much of an effort as me, at least. I was just – surprised. Not a bad surprise, though. Not at all.”

It wasn’t even a complete lie, he reflected.

She went on, true to what she’d said earlier, methodically – and how gently, how utterly without judgment. For a fraction of a second, before he caught himself, he almost felt bad about lying to her. Fucking Circle. Remember who this is, Tom Cooke. And don’t forget it. Still, she wasn’t patronizing him with empty encouragement; she wasn’t even speaking with a morbid scientific interest of his condition, like the Hoxian diplomat had back in Vortas. She was approaching it like a problem that had to be solved – like somebody who was damn good at solving problems.

(He did notice, of course, the twist of her tone as she mentioned Vauquelin’s wife. A number of thoughts about that sprang into his head; he didn’t have time to speculate, though.)

Tom bit his lip, squinting into the mellow flames. How am I going to play this? “If you want me to be perfectly honest with you,” he started, and then hung there for a moment. His mouth was dry. “It’s not – common knowledge. Diana is concerned about my position. Our position. Officially, my recovery is proceeding apace.” Damn, but I’ve gotten good at golly-speak. Top of the fuckin’ spice rack, I am. “It is true that I’m catching on quickly; clearly, I no longer feel the need to speak like a wick or a plowfoot.”

He laughed – one of Anatole’s humming little laughs, the one he’d taught himself to do. Inwardly, he felt as if he’d just set himself on fire. He hadn’t planned to say it; it had just slipped out, like any of his usual expletives, like any of his usual –

He forced himself to go on, shoving it to the back of his mind. Couldn’t show hesitation. Not now. “But I’m afraid that – in terms of my memory and my, ah – my knowledge-base – I haven’t recovered much at all. Not where it counts.” He was starting to feel flushed, starting to sweat. He turned away from the fire suddenly. “You can see why I’m in no hurry to take up the Perceptive conversation again. I’m –”

He moved over toward the sofa, feeling as if all the muscles in his legs had turned to jam. Needing something to hold onto, he let his hands linger on the furniture, a little shaky. If he was supposed to be recalling something traumatic, he supposed it was convincing enough. “I’m, ah – everything is new. If you’ve never felt Perceptive backlash, count yourself lucky, Monica. It’s like being –” His hands tightened on the back of the sofa; he shifted his weight from leg to leg. “Rearranged. As if I were this apartment, and the chairs were there, and the table was there, and then somebody – somebody who wasn’t me – came in and… moved it all around. And now everything in my mind is different.”

Tom jumped. The kettle began whistling. “Here, let me –” He glanced around, located it almost immediately; bustling over, nearly stumbling as he left the safety of the sofa, he took the warbling thing off the eye and set it to the side. Steam poured out of the spout. In the low light, with the warm crackle of the hearth behind, it looked positively domestic.

He frowned, turning back. He shut his eyes and drew in a breath. “This is not to leave this apartment, but – I know absolutely nothing. About anything. I barely even remember going to Brunnhold.”

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Monica Delacore
Posts: 48
Joined: Wed Dec 05, 2018 6:28 pm
Topics: 8
Race: Galdor
Location: Vienda
: mind is willing, soul remains
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Tue Mar 05, 2019 12:43 am

OPHUS 34, 2718
MONICA'S APARTMENT ⋆ EARLY EVENING
Image
Blue eyes flicked over, peering to the older galdor as he spoke, grateful for the warmth provided by the fire. She was glad she had opted to light one - the apartment would've been as cold and unforgiving as the world outside had she decided against it, and that certainly wouldn't have been a great environment for this meeting.

No, all of their meetings thus far had been far too cold.

Monica wasn't surprised to hear that the man's wife was mostly concerned with their reputations - wasn't surprised to hear slurs fall from his lips, either, but then she had never been one to notice those things. They were simply a part of a galdor's vocabulary, and the word flew under the radar as easily as the smoke was pulled upwards and out of the little apartment before them.

"Yes, I imagine your political standing makes handling the situation all the more difficult," she said as her eyes turned back to the fire - they were just as quickly drawn back to Anatole as he turned quickly from the hearth, crossing to the sofa now that he had apparently warmed himself enough. That was awfully quick; the sudden shift was perhaps less strange when combined with the discomfort of his words, the remembered traumas of his backlash, but nonetheless it put the constable on edge.

Rearranged, she noted the word as her eyes followed his hands, followed the nervous movements of his fingers as he clung to the fabric of the sofa. That was an odd way to put it, she thought, but never having experienced backlash herself - certainly not Perceptive - she couldn't say that it was untrue. The mona wasn't a force to be disturbed or pushed against its will, and she had to believe the punishment fit the crime. Still, if anything drew sympathy from the steely Seventen, it was one in need of monic redemption.

When the incumbent jumped, presumably shocked by the sudden noise from the kettle, Monica was unable to keep from doing the same; the woman's jolt a subtle one but there nonetheless. The sound was a familiar one in her home, did the incumbent not make tea in that mansion of his?

No, she supposed not. He had plenty of servants to do that for him when he wished.

"Oh, ah," she began, starting to follow after the older man but stopping once she reached the edge of the sofa. Anatole's low confession, eyes closed and body clearly just as uncomfortable as Monica's, it would have all been more surprising if she hadn't suspected it in the first place.

"Of course, sir," the blonde nodded, "that's not any of my business to indulge to others. Trust me, sir, I'm not looking to spill your secrets."

A quiet clearing of her throat; a nervous tick she'd long ago learned to turn off in public. Pale hands pushed her sleeves above her elbows now that she was warm, the constable finally following the incumbent into the terribly small kitchen, "I take that to mean you don't recall the exact nature of your backlash, either, but that's alright. We'll start simple, sir. Here, let's sit - if the mona's distressed it can be particularly overwhelming, and judging by your field, it's not your biggest fan yet."

Monica moved a stack of books to the other side of the table, clearing a space for the two of them to sit and not feel too terribly claustrophobic in the clutter of grimoires and journals and papers from work that she definitely wasn't neglecting.

Rather than sitting at the head of the table, the blonde seated herself in the chair beside it, "there's honey on the counter, next to the stove," offered the constable as she pulled a rather old journal from the pile, a few pages falling from their bindings which she hastily stuffed back into the book.

"I kept all of my notes from Brunnhold - all ten years, mind you, so you'll have to forgive a few... choice words here and there, but I think they'll help with the basics. I don't think we should go straight into casting - unless you want another backlash, of course - but we can build a foundation. Have you tried, ah, speaking to the mona? It might sound a little hokey, but that's a good way of seeing where you're at."

She pulled the sleeves back over her arms as she spoke; it was too difficult to focus when the raised marks on the outside of them pressed against the table and buzzed in her head like an insect.

"Even just in your head. Sort of like.. praying, I suppose."
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Tom Cooke
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Tue Mar 05, 2019 10:05 pm



monica's apartment
early evening on the 34th of Ophus, 2718
It was odd, being in the tiny kitchen with her. These were the kind of close quarters Tom was used to, though; his apartment with Clark and Meggie had been smaller even than this, and his beloved’s had been about this size. When he’d pictured where a golly auntie might live, he hadn’t pictured anything like this. There were even books cluttering up the table, stacks of them, journals stuffed full of loose paper.

While she was shuffling things around, he noticed the marks on her arms and filed them away in his head, not sure what to do with the information. He wondered who’d had the misfortune of scrapping with a Seventen.

She said she wouldn’t let his secret get out, and he breathed a sigh of relief, if only for effect. Somehow, he hadn’t thought she would. Being honest, the way she kept calling him ‘sir’ was grating at his nerves; he was a tallyboy from the Harbor, not some imposing galdor patriarch, and he’d already made it clear that he was fine with being on a first-name basis. What in the hell was this, then? Was she this formal with everyone? He supposed so, though it didn’t check out with everything he’d seen. Was there some reason why she’d have so much respect for a politician she barely knew?

“You want a cup?” he asked absently, rolling up his sleeves. He located the tea, located what little silverware she had, and the teapot and the cups; the earthy rustle of the leaves against the spoon and the tap-tap of the metal set his nerves at ease. Any excuse to busy his hands. As he poured the boiling water in from the kettle, he closed his eyes; a great gout of steam billowed up, warm against his face and hands. He found himself smiling. It’d been a long time since he’d done this. It reminded him of somebody.

He snatched up a cloth and picked up the teapot with care, hissing between his teeth as he scalded the tip of his finger against the hot metal. Monica had already cleared a space, and he maneuvered his way in, setting the teapot down. Now that the leaves had had some time to steep, the air smelled like something – bohea, maybe, but he couldn’t tell. It was an Old Rose smell, though, and it put him in higher spirits. “Thanks. I like it black, though. And no – you’re right. I’m afraid I don’t remember.” He bustled over, fetched the cups, and then paused as she spoke again. When he turned, it was with a puzzled expression, red eyebrows raised.

“Speaking to the mona in… Monite? In Estuan? Just – in your head?”

Superstitious nothings, he’d thought. But then – fuck me, it can hear your thoughts? Well, gollies’ thoughts, he supposed, and probably his, seeing as he was one now – ‘ley lines’ and all, whatever that meant. (How did that work, anyway? Was that a physical thing? It bothered him to think that this body had some kind of organ or nerve that Tom’s hadn’t. Made him feel fair queasy.) Either way, this all implied a level of intimacy he hadn’t thought anybody had with the mona. His arms were prickling with goosebumps.

Suddenly, it occurred to him that this was the sort of thing you could get drunk on – this special connection with the mona, this thing that humans like him didn’t have. You could even start thinking it made the gods love you more. What a fucking thought to think.

He brought the cups back to the table and pulled out a chair; he wasn’t paying attention to where he sat, but it happened to be the seat at the head of the table. He slid one of the empty cups toward Monica, then picked up the teapot carefully, standing up a little to lean over and pour her and then himself a cup. When he sat back down, he found himself fidgeting, cupping the steaming mug in his hands. “Right – now?” He met her gaze steadily, his large grey eyes wide. “And what are they meant to do in return? How do you – know?

With your luck, Tom, you’ll piss ‘em off proper and really backlash – wouldn’t that be something? Clock yourself up real good, start thinking you’re really Anatole. Then we’ll have come full circle. Hell, who knows? Maybe you’d be less miserable like that.

His glance flicked down to the journal she’d just opened up; he followed her hands as she hastily rustled some loose pages back into it. Choice words, eh? He didn’t look any closer – even he knew that would’ve been rude – but he scooted his chair over a little with a grunt and a creak. Something about sitting at the head of the table made him uncomfortable, but he couldn’t say why.
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Monica Delacore
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Location: Vienda
: mind is willing, soul remains
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Mon Nov 11, 2019 12:00 am

OPHUS 34, 2718
MONICA'S APARTMENT ⋆ EARLY EVENING
If anything in particular stuck out to her about this strange, unconventional little meeting that the Incumbent had requested, it was the fact that he was moving about her little apartment's kitchen and brewing his own tea, asking her if she wanted some as well, as if he wasn't a high-ranking politician in a relatively unknown woman's home. The older galdor actually knew what he was doing, and that was even stranger, drawing the constable's eyebrows together in a curious but unassuming look. She had assumed that, like any other gentleman of status would, Vauquelin would be at a loss in the kitchen; she had seen servants in his home, and knew that his dear wife wouldn't dare prepare their meals herself. At least, not if she was as proper and self-respecting as she so seemed.

Even so, Monica was grateful for the opportunity to focus on clearing the table, and it proved useful when the Incumbent approached to set the teapot on its old wooden surface. The tea was one she'd not bought herself, not having the time for such things as purchasing various types of tea when it took ages just to go through what she had, but a gift from someone - from her mother, perhaps, to go along with the kettle, but the thought served only to send a brief, subtle ripple through the constable's otherwise steady field.

As Vauquelin - no, Anatole, that was what he'd requested - gave his response in the form of ever growing questions, Monica turned in her chair, eyes darting across the room to rest on the man where he stood, cups in hand. "That's quite alright, sir," the blonde began, "I would say it's better that way, to not remember it - and to steer clear from Perceptive for now, as well, lest you make the same mistake again. Sir."

She was nodding before the galdor had even finished his inquiry in regards to speaking with the mona - he really had forgotten just about everything, it seemed, but that was quite alright. He had paid - was clearly still paying for whatever dire mistake he had made before, when he had experienced a backlash intense enough to produce such results, but no true-born galdor could be made irreparable, not unless they'd been weak and wavering in the first place.

The constable had seen it starting to settle into the Incumbent's very bones, before, when she had found him lying low and barely recognizable under the grime of the Dives and soaked in the stench of lowborn filth. That was when a man's true colors came out, she believed, when they were around those unlucky enough to be born lesser, when they had the decision of being kind or of being true. When a man faltered in his beliefs, surrounded by plowfoots and wicks so often that he began viewing them as anything close to being equal, when he forgot his divine right and responsibility - that was when they changed, to the point of not being a real galdor at all.

It was odd to watch someone else pour her tea for her; the blonde suppressed the urge to clear her throat again, bowing her head in thanks and pulling her cup close to her. She mirrored the Incumbent, holding the hot cup between pale, delicate hands, breathing in the steam and allowing it to calm her. Blue eyes held gray, and the constable offered another nod.

"Yes - if you're comfortable with that, sir. You can try it in your head, or aloud, and don't worry on the language of it. You only need to worry about intention, right now - the mona isn't going to listen to you if you don't even have the desire to be heard."

When Anatole scooted closer, pulling his chair somewhat closer to get a better look at the journals she'd retrieved, Monica moved to open the first. The opening pages were simple, to an educated galdor - the very basics of Monite, the founding principles and functions, all scribbled onto paper in a slightly shaking hand, the lines more akin to little ripples of words. She angled it so that the Incumbent might get a better view, reaching for her cup afterward to take a sip of her tea. Afterward, she set it back down soundlessly, the action well-rehearsed, and continued -

"That likely isn't going to make much sense to you at the moment, sir, but it will. Monite is, of course, the language that we use to communicate with the mona around us, and to ask that it fulfills our request. We, as galdori, have the power to make these requests, but in the end, the true power comes from the mona and from our relationship with it. Hence why - excuse me, sir - but why someone with a bad relationship with the mona can backlash so terribly."
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Tom Cooke
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Mon Nov 11, 2019 8:34 pm

Monica's Apartment Uptown Vienda
Early Evening on the 34th of Ophus, 2718
It struck him more than once that Constable Delacore was looking at him with some kind of surprise, like he was a cat walking on its hind legs. He didn’t think there was anything much miraculous about making tea, much less himself making tea; but then, he hadn’t got to do it in a month and a half, since he’d moved back into that strange Uptown house everybody said was his. For maybe the first time, Tom’d had the presence of mind to wonder what she saw when she looked at him, Incumbent Vauquelin making her a cup of tea, and it sat ill with him. He couldn’t’ve said why, and that almost made it worse.

He tried to put it out of his head. She was tilting the notebook to show him, and he scanned it, best as he could. It was all bleary, clock and damn it. Sniffing irritatedly, he muttered, “Where’d I…” and shifted in his seat, reaching into one pocket and then the other of his trousers; after a moment, he pulled out a pair of reading glasses. The thin, wiry metal frame glinted in the low light as he settled them on his nose, straightening them awkwardly, like he wasn’t used to the motion. He wasn’t; the bridge was icy cold against his nose, and it took his eyes a few seconds to focus through the lenses.

The first thing he noticed was the handwriting, and a little smile brushed warmth into his face, for just a moment. Seemed like the lines shook, just a pina manna, like the hand that wrote them wasn’t too steady – and they rolled out from themselves, shivered out like little waves on the beach. He couldn’t make much sense of the Monite, but he recognized words he knew in Estuan; he tried to make sense of the way the Monite and Estuan were grouped together, tried to make sense of the lines and labels.

He noticed, on his periphery, how she set her mug of tea down without the slightest sound.

Peering at her over the rims of his spectacles, he raised his eyebrows. “I’ll – I think I will,” he replied, shifting back in his seat. “I’ll give it a try. Uh,” he murmured, breathing in deep.

His glance flicked away from the notebook and back down to the table. Taking off his glasses, he laid them on the table, then rested his hand beside them. Feeling as self-conscious as ever, he shut his eyes.

It wasn’t hard to imagine any of it, any of this moony voo chroveshit, with her field – and his own – washing over him in a way he couldn’t understand or explain. Not over him; through him. Ley lines, he thought, and shivers rippled down his spine. It wasn’t like the woobly he’d felt when he was still a natt. He could differentiate, now, if he knew what to call them: he knew that the strange lightness of the mona in Monica’s field denoted clairvoyance, and he could feel all the little movements, the little pulses that went through them.

He could feel his own, too, grating against the fabric of him like sandpaper on skin. They scraped him raw and bloody, it felt like, every second that went by. The set of his face was grim, and he couldn’t keep from grinding his jaw. He kept his eyes shut, and he tried to focus on that feeling.

If he was the mona – like hell, he thought – but if he was the mona, he didn’t think he’d much like himself, neither. He could tell they were perceptive, under all that porven disturbance; they’d hung round a different soul, once, a different soul in this body, using this voice to speak to them. Tom thought if he could talk to them, if he could get them to listen, he’d tell them he didn’t understand it any better than they did. He didn’t know why he hadn’t died proper.

His throat tightened. He felt like he couldn’t breathe. A flinch went across his face, and he opened his eyes; his hand had balled itself into a tight fist on the table, white-knuckled.

Slowly, taking a deep breath, he loosened it. “I – I can’t.” His lip twisted. Looking irritable, he took his steaming cup and raised it to his lips, but he found it too hot; hissing a curse under his breath, he put it back on the table.

A pause. Sheepish, he looked over at the Constable — at Monica and her notebook. The anger had gone out of his face; he looked tired. “I’m sorry, Monica. It’s still – fresh. Might be better to start with something more, ah, more – rote.” He tried a wry smile, but he didn’t think it turned out too good. With a shaky, stiff hand, he gestured delicately at the notebook. “May I…?”

If she gave it to him, he’d lay it on the table between them, scooting just a little closer again and putting his reading glasses back on. “I never really got to – ask – at dinner,” he said after a pause. “Why clairvoyant.” He squinted at a line of Monite, ambling shakily across the page; he touched the old ink with an equally shaky fingertip, tracing the lines and curves, mouthing the Estuan underneath it. He didn’t dare even mouth the transliterated Monite. He glanced up at Monica again, his brow furrowed.

“I’m not too keen on the idea of perceptive magic, anyway. I don’t know what kind of a man I was, but – I don’t know about – asking the mona to mess with somebody’s head, or make them see something differently. I don’t like the idea of it.” The wry smile was a little stronger, this time. “But – what’s it mean to you? The clairvoyant conversation.”

He reckoned it was a bold question, and he didn’t half trust her, but he couldn’t shake his curiosity. Looking at her now, he still couldn’t reconcile this face with the one he’d seen in the Dives. He would’ve thought she’d favor static, or – living, maybe, he thought with a shudder, old memories stirring up in the back of his head. Clairvoyant was nothing but a mystery to him, and so was the Constable.
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Monica Delacore
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Race: Galdor
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: mind is willing, soul remains
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Mon Nov 11, 2019 9:50 pm

OPHUS 34, 2718
MONICA'S APARTMENT ⋆ EARLY EVENING
Monica couldn't say why it felt odd to look at Vauquelin then, reaching in his pockets for a pair of wiry reading glasses, the frames quite obviously meant for his face but sitting awkwardly, there, like they'd never rested on his nose before. There was a smile on his face, warm but unwelcome, in her mind, and the constable opted to look down at the journal instead. Perhaps she should have rewritten her old notes before the politician had arrived, so as not to put him through the trouble of making sense of her Brunnhold scribbles. She knew that her notebooks weren't filled solely with helpful information, that there were pages here and there of childish drawings of fellow students and animals, snide comments added beneath certain subject matters from classes she didn't particularly like - but they would do well for teaching Mr. Vauquelin the basics again. Her pride and anxieties of her student years had no reason to hinder the man's road to recovery.

"Good. Don't push yourself, but it would be excellent to establish a line of communication," Monica straightened up in her seat, observing through an even, guarded gaze as Anatole removed his glasses and prepared himself to try. He was uncomfortable to even attempt, that much was easy to tell, but something about it seemed to stir something else, his expression firm and laced with notes of agitation. The blonde could see all the little details, her blue eyes darting from his jaw - he was grinding his teeth, she could see the bone move - to his hand that rested on the wooden table - balled tightly into a fist, tense and pale - to the eyes he'd shut in preparation, but she said nothing, and in the silence, not even her breath could be heard as it left her nose.

There was a moment - a brief, fleeting moment - when the Incumbent first opened his eyes, when he reached for his steaming cup of tea, in which the constable's field seemed to dampen, pulling itself quickly away from the older galdor and back to her, and in which the inspector, truly, appeared small. It was gone within a moment, her field returned to normalcy in the unseen space between them and her hands returning to her own cup from where they'd been placed in her lap. When they'd got there, she couldn't quite recall, but the blonde took another long sip of her tea before allowing herself to look at the Incumbent again.

"That's quite alright, sir," she pushed the journal closer to the older at his rather meek request, "there's no need to jump right into anything. It can be a long process, I believe, to convince the mona to listen to you properly again."

She only wished that she'd had more experience with this type of situation. It felt like an obligation, like a divine responsibility to her fellow galdor to help him restore his abilities and return to the right side of things. What he had done to so deeply damage his relationship with the mona, she supposed she would never find out, but she was eternally grateful that she had not experienced the same. To live as the Incumbent had during his disappearance, without magic or direction, would be to not live at all.

An eyebrow raised as the man spoke again, this time with inquiries about herself and her own choice of specialized conversation. "Why?" the constable repeated, as if she'd never been asked that question before and hadn't ever thought to ask it herself. It had never been much of a question, for Monica. From the start, she had known that clairvoyance was what she was meant for - it only felt natural, and she had never considered anything else. She knew the basics of other conversations, as all students had learned, but she had never felt the desire to switch conversations.

Why clairvoyant? It was a new thing to wonder about. She had always appreciated the ability to find, to see, to know - it had proven useful throughout the entirety of her life. Growing up it had given her a barrier, of sorts, a way of knowing where people were and knowing then, from that, when exactly they would be back. As an officer, it was infinitely useful in the search for criminals and other lowlifes, to start.

"Well, it was an easy choice, sir. I knew that I wanted to join the Seventen, and I knew that clairvoyance would be useful." Monica drew her hands together, resting on the cold surface of the table but not visibly bothered. She continued, eyes flicking down to the journal's aging pages, "and I appreciate the... neutrality, of it. You aren't asking the mona to harm or to repair something, you're only asking to be shown what you need. Excuse me for my opinion, sir, but I don't believe our magic is meant for that kind of change in the world, only for better understanding it."

She had never told anyone that, she realized, but no one had ever asked. It was rare for the constable to admit anything other than the desire for power and control over the world and its inhabitants - but she didn't believe in gaining those things through the use of magic. Magic was divine, it was a gift, a promise made to their kind and it was their duty then, to the mona, to prove themselves. They were given the power to destroy and recreate, and far too many gave in to the temptation without realizing the harm it brought upon themselves. Monica was destructive, she was violent and cruel and would be the very first to admit that, but she'd never used her magic for it.

"I'm not certain what kind of man you were before either, sir, but I agree with you. I don't believe we should have that kind of power - seeing is one thing, but changing - I don't believe we should change things in a person's mind. It's the only thing we have to ourselves, and it shouldn't be manipulated."
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