[ 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, ]
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
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.