[ He'd taken a detour after bidding Tavor what he flatters himself was a congenial farewell, and sure of the path he'd marked (twice now, first by himself, second by messenger). However steeped in decay Brandon had found the house, the beast warrens below are worse. Yet the carelessly flung aside nephilim skull is still discernible in all of it — older, keener, and familiar. A frigid wisp of a curse escapes its mandible when he lays hands on it again, like sudden exposure to outer space. He laughs and tucks it into his coat again.
Only later, in his room, does he think to ask it about Qetzi'ah. It is obdurate as always, refusing questions it deems inadequate or imprecise, giving poor answers when backed into a semantic corner. Brandon is familiar with its ways, and clever enough, though he has yet to realize that it's his lack of power, his vulnerable mortality that forces it to answer in a way it wouldn't answer the real necromancers.
And so... an answer, of sorts, to the pressing question of what Qetzi'ah would accept as a gift. This time the skull is the one who laughs.
He doesn't loose another messenger just yet. It is not necessary, given Kaevyn's skills. All he has to do to put this plan into motion is make a call. ]
There are hooded figures in the forest. Dark creatures, Kaevyn can immediately tell, watching from one of the branches of the tallest trees. With his poor eyesight there isn't a lot of detail he can see, and with the spells they cast all around him he becomes almost blind to their traps. He is still angered by the invasion, he is still reckless, so he throws acorns at their heads and flees to hide between the leaves. Capturing the little fae who has no allies is almost instantaneous after that. He's placed in a container from which he can't escape, isolating his magic so he can't interfere with any machines that cross his path on the way to who-knows-where.
He weeps, threatens, he laments, he curses. It is the longest time of his life and he keeps switching between furious and terrified. Finally, he arrives at a dark forest, where the messenger awaits Brandon's arrival to pick up the bottle. ]
[ It would be nice, if he could pull off letting Kaevyn out of the jar, coaxing him along, and passing him over to Qetzi'ah in the guise of the friend and protector he has always played for the faerie. Brandon is a pragmatist, however. That situation is unlikely and it could all too easily get out of hand. Instead, the messsenger's mass of dark wings furl about the glass, further darkening the view from within.
When the hand insinuates itself among the swirl of feathers, it's like a veil being drawn away: the jar is lifted, and there finally is Brandon, and beyond him the crooked imposition of the Morrison house. ]
Hello, Kaevyn.
[ His voice is a whisper, some tender and uneasy emotion threaded through it, too difficult to pick out of the low volume. ]
[ And immediately, out of the darkness, relief washes over him. Small hands press up against the glass, eyes staring up at Brandon, a very small heart beating very fast. While the voice that greets him is quiet, however, Kaevyn can't quite read the situation to reciprocate the tone, wings expanding in a display of emotion. ]
Brandon! Oh, Brandon, my friend, my very first friend! You do not realize how I am relieved! Strange, villainous creatures came to my forest; they soiled it with their dark magic and took me away from my home. I believed that I was doomed - doomed! But now here you are, and I am saved after all. Quickly, you must release me!
[ The hush of his voice in response to that gush of words is strangely melancholy for the boy who has always taken the trouble to be so smiling and pleasant for his friends. ]
Oh, not here, Kaevyn. We're surrounded by monsters. But I will. I promise.
[ He cradles the jar to his chest like it's precious, though it is far from delicate, fingers stretched where Kae's tiny hands press against the glass. The messenger departs before them in a disorganized flutter of shadow, scouting to make sure nothing too untoward awaits them on the way to Qetzi's garden. ]
[ To be true, Qetzi no longer takes an particular pleasure tending the House's garden. It has become a chore, tending the plant beds so that she can gather the produce there and feed herself and her sneering cousin. She longs to stop and let it grow wild, but her (now quite hated) sense of duty keeps her here, her mind however is elsewhere. She thinks she will go out into the woods when she is done, find the place she likes with its wildflowers and knotted trees and sweet laughing little dancers who would help her sleep. She certainly finds no rest in the House itself.
She turns as she hears Brandon, already frowning as she dusts off her hands. ]
What is it.
[ Honestly, she assumes that Haran has sent him with some frivolous request that it will not amuse her to fulfill. ]
[ Brandon does not manage to be reassuring to the fae, so desperate to get out, confusion in Kaevyn's eyes as he is instead tucked against the student's chest and led elsewhere. Another strange place, surrounded by this forest made of dark things. He does not like being here... it feels like a disease trying to spread into his limbs, his wings, to stop him from flying.
His quiet comes to an end when they come across Qetzi. Then his panic and indignity begin anew. ]
A witch, a witch! Oh, I can see it, it is in her hair, it is under her nails! Brandon, you must run! Take us from here, take us from the monsters before we are devoured.
[ The sudden iron in his voice should be unfamiliar to both of them, and it doesn't go well with the bands of magic infused into the words. Soothing works best when it's actually soothing, not intended as a quelling measure, like being hit over the head by a heavy box wrapped in velvet. ]
Quiet.
[ With his eyes on Qetzi'ah and in a more normal tone: ]
Qetzi'ah is a friend to your kind, Kaevyn. And of everything in the world, I think it's a friend she needs, right now.
[ He keeps the jar for now, however, only moving his hand and little girl her to peer inside if she wants. Waiting for any expression of interest from her. ]
[ Her brows furrow, staring suspiciously at their deceptively boyish guest before her eyes lower to what he has in his hands. She can't quite help it, when he is clearly talking to it. She isn't sure what she expects, but... The tense irritation on her face smooths out into disbelief as she takes in the little faerie's colorful wings.
He's brought her a faerie. What a ridiculous, foolish, wonderful thing to do. ]
You did not find this here.
[ A statement. Kaevyn looks nothing like the sweet twisted little things she spends her time with amongst the sea of wild flowers. ]
[ Kaevyn's wings fold suddenly at Brandon's last urge, finding that he's quite offended by this spell. She looks onto him like a cat to a mouse, and Kaevyn is, once again, frustrated, not afraid. He is determined to show this by letting his wings flourish again, white, green, yellow, making himself look as big as possible. (Within the bottle's limits.) ]
This. This! I have a name, I will have you know. Brandon, what is this? Why must I be inside this bottle, why must she look at me this way? I wish to go home, I wish to be safe, I do not wish to be her friend.
[ Brandon loosens his grasp on the jar, allowing greater access with a relaxing of bis arms, a reluctant child sharing his favorite toy. He watches Qetzi'ah the entire time, even as he addresses Kaevyn. ]
You can be safe with Qetzi'ah, Kaevyn. See, you thought I would be a good friend, and as it turns out, I am not. Now you think she is a bad friend, but I am sure that too is the opposite. I'm sure she will treat you much better handle I have treated you.
[ The note of warning in his voice may not be accessible or understandable to Kaevyn, but it's meant for Qetzi. This gift doesn't just get handed over to be played with and forgotten, like Haran's. It's no trifle, and if it's rejected or mistreated, Brandon will have to make her an enemy too.
Yet he doesn't think that's likely. Still. He's not entirely heartless. ]
[ Her eyes narrow. He's betrayed the little faerie in this. Stolen him from his home in order to turn him over as a collectible to her. Yet he dares to feign some kind of compassion for it all... Such a deceptive little slug. She can see why he was chosen to come here, to play games with what remains of the once proud House. ]
Give it here.
[ She extends her hand. There is no sense in Brandon consoling the fae, not in this state. They will be better served to simply talk to one another. She takes the jar and turns her back on Brandon, holding it in her open palm at eye level to look Kaevyn in the face, ]
Fair visitant, I am known as Qetzi'ah, the golden rain tree. Welcome to the land of my mothers, witchfolk who have served the Mountain and its depths for generations. I am the last of my sisterhood, there are none among mankind I call friend. Let us spend a fortnight in our company, if you dislike my manners still, I will see you safely to your happiness.
[ It slides out of her mouth musically, fluid and without pretense, as if for a moment becoming someone else to whom this was an utterly natural address. The little charm around her neck, a tiny rose in a glass tear drop, glows ever so faintly with a magic unlike what seeps from the black dirt of the Hill. ]
[ Who knew heartbreak could make a small, bug-like creature so expressive. As the words keep pouring out of Brandon, Kaevyn finally realizes that this is no coincidence, that he is not being saved - Brandon fully intends to keep him in this bottle to finish whatever those horrible monsters in the forest started, trapping him, taking him away from a second home.
It's in his body language, too. His antennae droop, his wings lose any flickering life they had in them, until they simply go still, limp on his back. His hands on the glass, he struggles not to start yelling hexes and curses, finding that sadness can, in fact, be a greater force than anger and indignity. Brandon has treated him poorly when Kaevyn had thought a friend would never do such a thing.
Once again, he is being sent away.
She speaks beautifully. Much better than the magus, kinder too, though even a sweet tone and the magic of what she carries around her neck can no longer console him. He lets himself fall to the bottom of the bottle, sitting cross-legged, refusing to look at anyone or anything. His voice is but a mutter. ]
I wish to go now, away from this impostor. He is a sickness to me, Qetzi'ah. Take me to where I will not be able to hear any more of his lies.
[ He gave up the jar easily enough, he remained cordial and quiet throughout their initial exchange, and he doesn't miss a beat when it's time to intercede once more. To remind them both that while they may wish to discard him, turn their backs on his presence and find some succor in each other, this situation is of his making, for his reasons.
That boyish body shouldn't be able to produce the iron-like chill of the words that come next, very much a gust of air from ancient, grass-covered barrows — a harmonic that comes faintly but deeply, from holes just as old as whatever lies beneath the Hill. From within slabs of rough hewn stone floated down rivers that ran when humans cringed beneath the night sky, except for those who ventured out into the darkness with open eyes. ]
Not just yet.
[ Power borrowed, that's all, and it's completely gone from him after the pause in which he makes sure he has Qetzi'ah's attention. ]
You accept my gift, Mistress Morrison.
[ The use of the title is sweetly deliberate, pleasant in the servility resumed from their first encounter in the kitchen. A magus might have been speaking a moment ago, but the apprentice is all that remains to converse now, it seems. To make promises in casual honorifics. ]
I'll be happy to relay that to my masters. I hope you will think kindly of us, in the future.
[ With that, he bows once, to a moderate depth. Still nominally less deferential than he is to Haran, but unmistakably more so than his nod from the kitchen. He turns slightly, in effect dismissing himself before they can tell him to fuck off, only waiting to be sure she has no more interest in saying anything to him. ]
[ She narrows her eyes at him. She knows that she has been played with here and it annoys her. Her anger twists tight like a spring and there is ice in her heart when she calls after him, ]
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no subject
Only later, in his room, does he think to ask it about Qetzi'ah. It is obdurate as always, refusing questions it deems inadequate or imprecise, giving poor answers when backed into a semantic corner. Brandon is familiar with its ways, and clever enough, though he has yet to realize that it's his lack of power, his vulnerable mortality that forces it to answer in a way it wouldn't answer the real necromancers.
And so... an answer, of sorts, to the pressing question of what Qetzi'ah would accept as a gift. This time the skull is the one who laughs.
He doesn't loose another messenger just yet. It is not necessary, given Kaevyn's skills. All he has to do to put this plan into motion is make a call. ]
no subject
There are hooded figures in the forest. Dark creatures, Kaevyn can immediately tell, watching from one of the branches of the tallest trees. With his poor eyesight there isn't a lot of detail he can see, and with the spells they cast all around him he becomes almost blind to their traps. He is still angered by the invasion, he is still reckless, so he throws acorns at their heads and flees to hide between the leaves. Capturing the little fae who has no allies is almost instantaneous after that. He's placed in a container from which he can't escape, isolating his magic so he can't interfere with any machines that cross his path on the way to who-knows-where.
He weeps, threatens, he laments, he curses. It is the longest time of his life and he keeps switching between furious and terrified. Finally, he arrives at a dark forest, where the messenger awaits Brandon's arrival to pick up the bottle. ]
no subject
When the hand insinuates itself among the swirl of feathers, it's like a veil being drawn away: the jar is lifted, and there finally is Brandon, and beyond him the crooked imposition of the Morrison house. ]
Hello, Kaevyn.
[ His voice is a whisper, some tender and uneasy emotion threaded through it, too difficult to pick out of the low volume. ]
Let's get you somewhere safe.
no subject
Brandon! Oh, Brandon, my friend, my very first friend! You do not realize how I am relieved! Strange, villainous creatures came to my forest; they soiled it with their dark magic and took me away from my home. I believed that I was doomed - doomed! But now here you are, and I am saved after all. Quickly, you must release me!
no subject
Oh, not here, Kaevyn. We're surrounded by monsters. But I will. I promise.
[ He cradles the jar to his chest like it's precious, though it is far from delicate, fingers stretched where Kae's tiny hands press against the glass. The messenger departs before them in a disorganized flutter of shadow, scouting to make sure nothing too untoward awaits them on the way to Qetzi's garden. ]
no subject
She turns as she hears Brandon, already frowning as she dusts off her hands. ]
What is it.
[ Honestly, she assumes that Haran has sent him with some frivolous request that it will not amuse her to fulfill. ]
no subject
His quiet comes to an end when they come across Qetzi. Then his panic and indignity begin anew. ]
A witch, a witch! Oh, I can see it, it is in her hair, it is under her nails! Brandon, you must run! Take us from here, take us from the monsters before we are devoured.
no subject
Quiet.
[ With his eyes on Qetzi'ah and in a more normal tone: ]
Qetzi'ah is a friend to your kind, Kaevyn. And of everything in the world, I think it's a friend she needs, right now.
[ He keeps the jar for now, however, only moving his hand and little girl her to peer inside if she wants. Waiting for any expression of interest from her. ]
no subject
He's brought her a faerie. What a ridiculous, foolish, wonderful thing to do. ]
You did not find this here.
[ A statement. Kaevyn looks nothing like the sweet twisted little things she spends her time with amongst the sea of wild flowers. ]
no subject
This. This! I have a name, I will have you know. Brandon, what is this? Why must I be inside this bottle, why must she look at me this way? I wish to go home, I wish to be safe, I do not wish to be her friend.
no subject
You can be safe with Qetzi'ah, Kaevyn. See, you thought I would be a good friend, and as it turns out, I am not. Now you think she is a bad friend, but I am sure that too is the opposite. I'm sure she will treat you much better handle I have treated you.
[ The note of warning in his voice may not be accessible or understandable to Kaevyn, but it's meant for Qetzi. This gift doesn't just get handed over to be played with and forgotten, like Haran's. It's no trifle, and if it's rejected or mistreated, Brandon will have to make her an enemy too.
Yet he doesn't think that's likely. Still. He's not entirely heartless. ]
no subject
Give it here.
[ She extends her hand. There is no sense in Brandon consoling the fae, not in this state. They will be better served to simply talk to one another. She takes the jar and turns her back on Brandon, holding it in her open palm at eye level to look Kaevyn in the face, ]
Fair visitant, I am known as Qetzi'ah, the golden rain tree. Welcome to the land of my mothers, witchfolk who have served the Mountain and its depths for generations. I am the last of my sisterhood, there are none among mankind I call friend. Let us spend a fortnight in our company, if you dislike my manners still, I will see you safely to your happiness.
[ It slides out of her mouth musically, fluid and without pretense, as if for a moment becoming someone else to whom this was an utterly natural address. The little charm around her neck, a tiny rose in a glass tear drop, glows ever so faintly with a magic unlike what seeps from the black dirt of the Hill. ]
no subject
It's in his body language, too. His antennae droop, his wings lose any flickering life they had in them, until they simply go still, limp on his back. His hands on the glass, he struggles not to start yelling hexes and curses, finding that sadness can, in fact, be a greater force than anger and indignity. Brandon has treated him poorly when Kaevyn had thought a friend would never do such a thing.
Once again, he is being sent away.
She speaks beautifully. Much better than the magus, kinder too, though even a sweet tone and the magic of what she carries around her neck can no longer console him. He lets himself fall to the bottom of the bottle, sitting cross-legged, refusing to look at anyone or anything. His voice is but a mutter. ]
I wish to go now, away from this impostor. He is a sickness to me, Qetzi'ah. Take me to where I will not be able to hear any more of his lies.
no subject
That boyish body shouldn't be able to produce the iron-like chill of the words that come next, very much a gust of air from ancient, grass-covered barrows — a harmonic that comes faintly but deeply, from holes just as old as whatever lies beneath the Hill. From within slabs of rough hewn stone floated down rivers that ran when humans cringed beneath the night sky, except for those who ventured out into the darkness with open eyes. ]
Not just yet.
[ Power borrowed, that's all, and it's completely gone from him after the pause in which he makes sure he has Qetzi'ah's attention. ]
You accept my gift, Mistress Morrison.
[ The use of the title is sweetly deliberate, pleasant in the servility resumed from their first encounter in the kitchen. A magus might have been speaking a moment ago, but the apprentice is all that remains to converse now, it seems. To make promises in casual honorifics. ]
I'll be happy to relay that to my masters. I hope you will think kindly of us, in the future.
[ With that, he bows once, to a moderate depth. Still nominally less deferential than he is to Haran, but unmistakably more so than his nod from the kitchen. He turns slightly, in effect dismissing himself before they can tell him to fuck off, only waiting to be sure she has no more interest in saying anything to him. ]
no subject
You're too kind.