[ Hekate and her brother-consort keep unusual patterns upon the Hill. Almost as if strangers to it. They do not fit, they do not blend into the shadows with their pale hair and blue eyes. They are ethereal, ghostly, but always tipped in blood, crusted into their nails, stained at the hems of their clothing. They keep apart from the others. Hekate clearly does not even particularly mourn the other males left of her litter. She has deemed them weak and unfaithful and left them in Dinah's care. It does not matter, she has realized she only has care enough for Ivor. When she takes the House she wants him at her side, the father of her litters, the soft-hearted adviser at her right hand. It fills her body with certainty and lust, every time she looks at him. And it is not so very different for him, they belong to one another in a way that defies all else.
There is something untapped in them. Something that rings between them, something that comes into focus when they stand at the correct angles to one another. Like two beams of light through separate prisms overlapping to expose something forbidden. Something cryptic, ghostly, which they acquired from their mother's side of the bloodline, just as they did their blonde hair and blue eyes. Their mother was a magical thing, the jackal-hearted girl that should never have been born. Her own mother was a corpse in kind, her father the ghost of a monster, each of them tainted with the infernal. What kind of beastliness could they make, if they could unlock the secret. What kind of demon, what kind of magic...
At night, they dream in tandem of a grey world covered in fog, where all the eyes lurking in the mists are their own. A distant land where it is just they two and the magic of the world. How strange, how unlike the goals that Hekate espouses in waking: her desire to the Hill, her devotion to the black. Has she merely never known any other height to ascend? She never remembers the dreams when she awakens, and if he does Ivor says nothing.
At least not to her.
When she is not looking he takes the golem away, to be alone with it, to try and find the grey country where they run free in the night... ]
[ In their use of the golem that Brandon simply calls a messenger, they might have felt the vague presence of the others. The messenger he kept for his own use was made at the same time as the one he gave to them, and would be easiest to sense; the others, he called to him afterward (not daring to make more himself as long as he's on the grounds), and are are more like the occasional filmy sweep of an ancient curtain in the breeze.
The messengers don't have feelings, exactly, no affection inherent for each other or their masters, past or present. They are easy to dream with, their jittery sharp instincts subsumed to obedience when guided. On their own, however, to and fro on their errands, they must fend for themselves. So they do have strange little reactions from time to time, jolts of something like feelings, too animal or alien for recognition. And they recognize each other, of course.
It's that recognition that sends a restless flutter through the golem in Ivor's hands, concurrent or perhaps just a moment before he himself would be able to pick up on Brandon's presence. The so-called magus has their messenger's kin in his own grasp, eyelids low as if in communion with it. He's tucked into a sort of alcove formed by the eccentric lines of the outside of the House, a little shielded from the wind but otherwise relying on his coat, a line in the dirt at his feet, a dreamy, vulnerable look on his face. He seems to register Ivor's presence slowly, though that is not really the case.
Somewhat languidly, a certain respectful wariness brimming behind the relaxed expression: ]
[ Ivor peers out from beneath dirty silver-blonde hair, his narrow chin set in a determined little frown. His perpetual expression, large blue eyes surprisingly ferocious at close range. He is a wisp of a thing, even smaller than Hekate, but something brims inside of him. Something not quite Hill magic. Not quite.
He keeps his head tucked down between his shoulders, an animal stance, carefully coiled to run or to strike. He licks his lips, as if it takes him effort to prepare for speech. ]
Hello, Magus.
[ He tucks the feathered golem in against his chest, like a child hugging a stuffed bear. An odd little hyena, neither man nor beast. Young nor old. A twilight creature of potential. Ivor tilts his head, isn't what he came to ask. He is not used to acting on his own. ]
[ He can't help smiling when Ivor grants him what nobody else in this place will — the use of that title, sans malice, mockery, or machination. (None that Brandon can detect, anyway, and he is perhaps oversensitive to such matters.) It's one more of those outsider markers that Ivor and Hekate seem to carry around.
Those seem all the more striking when he and Ivor are alone together in unplanned circumstances. In fact, Brandon glances beyond the strange hyena as if expecting Hekate at any moment. His wards don't indicate her presence, but he doesn't hold any arrogant certainty that things to work the way they always have here, to say nothing of any talents Hekate herself might have, as a hyena or otherwise.
Then again, he doesn't plan on comporting himself much differently toward Ivor as he would if Hekate were here, so what does it matter? Brandon extends his arms, showing him the bundle of black feathers he's holding, the way his hands are steady and his thumbs are parting a hidden slit in the messenger. It's difficult to see anything in detail unless one is practically peering inside. Just a glint of metal, dull dark red, the yellowing ivory of old bone. The smell of mineral oil, preserved flesh, and metal. ]
Maintenance. They wear down when used often.
[ Why he's doing such a thing out here is another question. ]
[ His lips compress into a thin line, staring upwards with an expression that can only be called exasperation, ]
Hekate has only trod on it once.
[ This comes from a life time of broken and stolen things to Hekate's name. He loved her, but to call her anything but a bully sometimes would be incorrect. ]
Does this... [ Hmm, a pause fingers tightening unconsciously in its feathers, ] mean it will break, when you leave?
[ In response to the first part, Brandon's lips also compress, only it's from trying not to smile. The brief tension of his not fully hidden amusement ebbs at Ivor's question. It's a good one; he appreciates the insight as much as the fact it's asked at all. Everyone else is so superior, which is the way it's supposed to be given the way he's manufactured this role for himself, but it can get tiresome even for him. ]
No, it will work until it is run down.
[ A pause, the slight twitch of his lowered gaze moving from messenger to messenger, and he performs a complicated little tuck with his fingers and a twist of the wrist. His bundle of feathers is sealed up again, bristling at the indignity. ]
I can take a look at yours, if you'd like.
[ The deferential tone is more than politeness. It's a meekness that wraps around the same soothing resonance he used in their first meeting, an invitation in the way that someone putting their head on a chopping block calls to a blade. A risk, as in all things. He thinks Ivor is very calm for hyena, however, and he responded well last time. ]
[ Ivor is very calm, even when baring his teeth. He had to be, it was something of the balance that was Hekate and he. She could be wildly vicious at the slightest provocation, although their time away from the Hill had seen her grow. She had been wild by necessity, her ferocity had been her only weapon against the rest of the pack in her small body, but things are different now.
For Ivor too. He closes his eyes with a nod at the calmness of Brandon's voice. ]
[ He does wonder about them, as opaque as the hyena's pack dynamics (if that's even the right word; as Kaevyn would bitterly attest, Brandon is not much of a naturalist) are. What is it that produces the uncanny demeanor? Though it seems to be a lower priority than other angles, Hekate and Ivor are also easier to approach than Qetzi'ah.
The trickling, filling feeling of peace his voice can bring does not ebb or increase. You move slow, with animals and people both. Nothing but acquiescence here, such that he seems to consider Ivor's question a given, only a social nicety. Like it's unthinkable he would say no. ]
You could learn to fix it yourself.
[ That too he presents with assurance, an agreement to something Ivor did not explicitly propose. No sign that he considers it a favor or another gift, though it might justifiably be seen as such.
To the messenger he's holding: ]
Go off, then. Rest.
[ Unnecessary vocal commands are more to alert Ivor to the fact he's releasing it, its busy flurry of black wings a soft sound in the air as it takes itself off to less stressful environs. Brandon himself pauses, eyes on Ivor as he takes a step towards him, and then another if things seem well. ]
[ Offered something he didn't ask for, Ivor's eyes glint with excitement. His quiet nature hides a sharp, inquisitive mind that has never truly been challenged to its potential. He wants to learn. He is slow and methodical in his acquisitions, but once they are his he never surrenders them. A life of deprivation has led him there, a careful collection of immaterial things that cannot be taken nor broken.
As Brandon comes closer to him, he holds up the construct of feathers and filth in his hands, agreeing to the lesson. ]
[ If he could see it, if he could be honest with himself on these matters, it is likely the information would not change his behavior, but... he's attracted to that kind of need, whether it's from a lonely faerie or, as now, a curious beast. So many other people need things from him in other, less satisfying capacities, and he is dutiful in answering. This has only a thin veneer of duty. It serves his ego before it serves anything else, and it makes his hand steady and careful as he extends it over Ivor's messenger. ]
It's not so big a secret.
[ His fingers move in a slow and clear sketch of a glyph, making visible lines in the air, lines that have their own gentle illumination without truly glowing. The glyph seems to react with something in the messenger, causing its wings to bunch up and squirm vigorously, shedding the dirt it's accumulated in little oily flakes that slither off and fall to the ground. ]
Not like making one. That would take a long time to teach.
[ Longer, he doesn't have to say, than he probably has, either because he will die in this farce, or if he somehow succeeds, he will go home and never come back. Not for love, money, or power. ]
[ He comes in closer, moving with a care that suggests he half expects to be elbowed away. He is the runt, smallest and least consequential to everyone except for Hekate. He is uncertain of his place with Brandon, whether he holds any sway in the game. There is something he wants, it is like a vibration off of him. He came to Brandon for a reason and has now been swayed out of interest. Or maybe swayed out of uncertainty. What he wants is not quite what Hekate wants, and finding the words is... almost impossible. So instead he watched Brandon's clever fingers, he gives a hoarse little laugh when told this is not so big a secret. ]
The witches... don't share any secrets.
[ He's silent for a very long moment, his eyes intent, ]
What makes you... different. From the witches?
[ There is the smell, undeniable. There is the source, the Hill is unmistakable. But Ivor wonders about these other things, the rules, the loyalties. As he says it he realizes it is a big, broad question, it embarrasses him slightly but he is earnest in his ignorance. ]
[ Hyperaware of Ivor's movements, Brandon takes in all he can from his seemingly focused, lowered gaze. One nice thing about beasts, or so his newly formed hypothesis goes, is that they don't use body language to lie the same way humans do. At least, he would very much like if that were the case.
And on top of this selfish pleasantry that is this private interaction with Ivor, there is some interesting information to go with it. Not big secrets, as Brandon himself admitted of what he's sharing, because of course, it makes sense the witches don't share their knowledge, but useful to hear from an inside perspective. He lets a low hah of his own out at Ivor's question, without derision. ]
Layers and layers to that answer, I think.
[ His fingers move again: one glyph, then another which sits atop it until they settle together, something about it akin to a key clicking in a lock, though nothing opens. ]
Magi are rarely born to magi. So we don't form familial clans, as such. We argue and kill each other and splinter readily. But perhaps that's not so different.
[ The mild irony invites whatever comment or elaboration Ivor might feel inclined to offer, but doesn't press for it. The glyph sinks slowly into the darkness of the newly cleansed messenger, making its wings unfold slowly and go limp. ]
[ He is silent, absorbed in the movements of glyphs and fingers, but neither has he truly forgotten the conversation. He has simply stored his answer away, methodical, divided, until he feels secure he has absorbed what there is to see. He does not split his attention well, hones in like a razor on one thing at a time. ]
It is-- [ The word he wants is 'profane' but it escapes him and he tongues the backs of his teeth for a moment. ] --against the rules, to kill each other. But there's no one to punish him.
[ Master of the House, King of the Hill. Ivor has no emotion about Haran whatsoever, neither hatred nor loyalty nor self-serving intent. Haran is useless to him, uninteresting. ]
[ His hands stay still, poised over the messenger, as if he intuitively understands what Ivor is like, how he thinks. He doesn't really, but it's a pleasant illusion, not unlike the false equivalence of his manipulation of the messenger to his manipulation of Ivor. Safe to indulge in, up to a point. Brandon makes a low sound of acknowledgment when Ivor does respond, fingers finally moving to search out the seam hidden under the feathers — a slight ridge like a scar, which he parts the feathers to show. ]
Magi understand that power is easy to get, but difficult to keep.
[ Quite a bit more straightforward than he would be to anybody else here, no matter how obvious everybody else thinks his purpose here is. Brandon doesn't make anything more out of the statement, though. The messenger opens under the pry of his fingers, revealing its dim interior of preserved flesh and delicate bone structures reinforced with metal and other less identifiable materials. ]
You can touch the insides freely. Things don't usually dislodge without the proper glyphs.
[ The hyena reaches in to the spread of Brandon's hands, wanting to feel the ridge that peels open. He rubs his thumb along the hardened lump of reanimated flesh. An obscene little theater, but Ivor has assuredly seen worse, involved himself in worse with his sadistic monster of a sister, in this land of blood and meat and witches. ]
[ Parts of the inside are sharp, if not sharp enough to cut, jagged and poky and strangely shaped. Though large swathes of the messenger are assuredly dead flesh, it appears to be the medium rather than the means; the magic that powers it resides in mechanisms, to which it owes its mindlessness.
Brandon stays still, gradually aligning his breathing with Ivor's, a sympathetic maneuver so basic he doesn't consider it magic. ]
Is that enough for you both?
[ Failing to acknowledge Hekate even if she is not currently present would be disingenuous, and Brandon is rarely that. ]
[ He had not realized that the ball of feathers was so sharp inside... He had treated it with the affection a dog shows for a toy. A little rough, of course, but always beloved. This new side to the things intrigues him, deepens his interest in it. He lets one of the poky little cogs run past the back of his finger, scratch at his skin before he pulls his hand back. His expression wavers, like he's not sure which one he wants to choose. He purses his lips eventually, neutral.
His voice lowers, whispering where he sits close at Brandon's shoulder. ]
Could be, could not. We've been, and gone. If...
[ There are things that shouldn't be said and Ivor knows that, shoulders hunching up. ]
[ A faint, mischievous impulse briefly courses through Brandon as Ivor feels about inside the messenger, the utterly impossible notion of having it shut on his hand and, in some bizarre sense, capture the hyena.
It's entertaining precisely because it is so nonsensical, a ludicrous extension of the nature of their interactions thus far — from his perspective, of course. From Ivor's, there seems to be a certain gravitas Brandon finds appealing, enough so that only the slightest twitch of buried excitement disturbs his attentive facade, head cocked to receive the whispered secrets that are no less interesting to him in the midst of private amusement. He would ask for clarification — which would they, which would Ivor prefer, to stay and have power or to go and be free — but he is, as ever, so concerned with pushing, when already this whisper seems like more than Ivor should be saying.
The feathers shift slightly in the breeze, brushing his fingers, and Brandon keeps his voice lowered as well. ]
Many things will be possible.
[ Some sort of promise, that's for sure, somewhere between earnest yet meaningless, absolutely unreliable and unexplained, and emptily prophetic. Offered seemingly for no reason and without any observable motive, other than what people always come to the Hill and the House for. ]
[ Not captured physically, but at Brandon's words Ivor's hopes are caught. There is something he wants. Something too outlandish to the world he has always known to believe in. But the thought of it lingers: world where the lines between their witch-brat blood and the royal inheritance of Death will be erased. There's more than this place. Chains to be slipped.
He sits close, exhales audibly. A want he can't speak of, lest the House hear him. It feels dangerous even to think on it with too much longing. ]
Or we rule here.
[ He excludes the alternative from his words, but not from his meaning. ]
[ For the first time in anyone's view since he got here, Brandon lets a little frown form a fleeting divot in his brow, allows some indefinable stress into both the inhale before he speaks and the voice that leaves his throat.
It isn't so much that those things are true or not true, or whether or not his playacting is accepted or rejected or wasted on the people he directs it against; it's that this role is the one he wants to play for Ivor, here and now, and so it is who he is, here and now. ]
I'll do what I can.
[ The voice of someone juggling just one too many balls, knives, and flaming torches. He can't promise anything to anyone here, but least of all to Ivor, as much as he wants to. After a moment he looks back down into the messenger, seemingly chastened by the limitations of his objectives. ]
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[ Hekate and her brother-consort keep unusual patterns upon the Hill. Almost as if strangers to it. They do not fit, they do not blend into the shadows with their pale hair and blue eyes. They are ethereal, ghostly, but always tipped in blood, crusted into their nails, stained at the hems of their clothing. They keep apart from the others. Hekate clearly does not even particularly mourn the other males left of her litter. She has deemed them weak and unfaithful and left them in Dinah's care. It does not matter, she has realized she only has care enough for Ivor. When she takes the House she wants him at her side, the father of her litters, the soft-hearted adviser at her right hand. It fills her body with certainty and lust, every time she looks at him. And it is not so very different for him, they belong to one another in a way that defies all else.
There is something untapped in them. Something that rings between them, something that comes into focus when they stand at the correct angles to one another. Like two beams of light through separate prisms overlapping to expose something forbidden. Something cryptic, ghostly, which they acquired from their mother's side of the bloodline, just as they did their blonde hair and blue eyes. Their mother was a magical thing, the jackal-hearted girl that should never have been born. Her own mother was a corpse in kind, her father the ghost of a monster, each of them tainted with the infernal. What kind of beastliness could they make, if they could unlock the secret. What kind of demon, what kind of magic...
At night, they dream in tandem of a grey world covered in fog, where all the eyes lurking in the mists are their own. A distant land where it is just they two and the magic of the world. How strange, how unlike the goals that Hekate espouses in waking: her desire to the Hill, her devotion to the black. Has she merely never known any other height to ascend? She never remembers the dreams when she awakens, and if he does Ivor says nothing.
At least not to her.
When she is not looking he takes the golem away, to be alone with it, to try and find the grey country where they run free in the night... ]
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The messengers don't have feelings, exactly, no affection inherent for each other or their masters, past or present. They are easy to dream with, their jittery sharp instincts subsumed to obedience when guided. On their own, however, to and fro on their errands, they must fend for themselves. So they do have strange little reactions from time to time, jolts of something like feelings, too animal or alien for recognition. And they recognize each other, of course.
It's that recognition that sends a restless flutter through the golem in Ivor's hands, concurrent or perhaps just a moment before he himself would be able to pick up on Brandon's presence. The so-called magus has their messenger's kin in his own grasp, eyelids low as if in communion with it. He's tucked into a sort of alcove formed by the eccentric lines of the outside of the House, a little shielded from the wind but otherwise relying on his coat, a line in the dirt at his feet, a dreamy, vulnerable look on his face. He seems to register Ivor's presence slowly, though that is not really the case.
Somewhat languidly, a certain respectful wariness brimming behind the relaxed expression: ]
Hello.
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He keeps his head tucked down between his shoulders, an animal stance, carefully coiled to run or to strike. He licks his lips, as if it takes him effort to prepare for speech. ]
Hello, Magus.
[ He tucks the feathered golem in against his chest, like a child hugging a stuffed bear. An odd little hyena, neither man nor beast. Young nor old. A twilight creature of potential. Ivor tilts his head, isn't what he came to ask. He is not used to acting on his own. ]
What... are you doing?
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Those seem all the more striking when he and Ivor are alone together in unplanned circumstances. In fact, Brandon glances beyond the strange hyena as if expecting Hekate at any moment. His wards don't indicate her presence, but he doesn't hold any arrogant certainty that things to work the way they always have here, to say nothing of any talents Hekate herself might have, as a hyena or otherwise.
Then again, he doesn't plan on comporting himself much differently toward Ivor as he would if Hekate were here, so what does it matter? Brandon extends his arms, showing him the bundle of black feathers he's holding, the way his hands are steady and his thumbs are parting a hidden slit in the messenger. It's difficult to see anything in detail unless one is practically peering inside. Just a glint of metal, dull dark red, the yellowing ivory of old bone. The smell of mineral oil, preserved flesh, and metal. ]
Maintenance. They wear down when used often.
[ Why he's doing such a thing out here is another question. ]
How does yours fare.
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Hekate has only trod on it once.
[ This comes from a life time of broken and stolen things to Hekate's name. He loved her, but to call her anything but a bully sometimes would be incorrect. ]
Does this... [ Hmm, a pause fingers tightening unconsciously in its feathers, ] mean it will break, when you leave?
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No, it will work until it is run down.
[ A pause, the slight twitch of his lowered gaze moving from messenger to messenger, and he performs a complicated little tuck with his fingers and a twist of the wrist. His bundle of feathers is sealed up again, bristling at the indignity. ]
I can take a look at yours, if you'd like.
[ The deferential tone is more than politeness. It's a meekness that wraps around the same soothing resonance he used in their first meeting, an invitation in the way that someone putting their head on a chopping block calls to a blade. A risk, as in all things. He thinks Ivor is very calm for hyena, however, and he responded well last time. ]
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For Ivor too. He closes his eyes with a nod at the calmness of Brandon's voice. ]
Can I watch?
[ The whole process from start to finish. ]
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The trickling, filling feeling of peace his voice can bring does not ebb or increase. You move slow, with animals and people both. Nothing but acquiescence here, such that he seems to consider Ivor's question a given, only a social nicety. Like it's unthinkable he would say no. ]
You could learn to fix it yourself.
[ That too he presents with assurance, an agreement to something Ivor did not explicitly propose. No sign that he considers it a favor or another gift, though it might justifiably be seen as such.
To the messenger he's holding: ]
Go off, then. Rest.
[ Unnecessary vocal commands are more to alert Ivor to the fact he's releasing it, its busy flurry of black wings a soft sound in the air as it takes itself off to less stressful environs. Brandon himself pauses, eyes on Ivor as he takes a step towards him, and then another if things seem well. ]
i wanted real icons
As Brandon comes closer to him, he holds up the construct of feathers and filth in his hands, agreeing to the lesson. ]
You don't mind, sharing your secret?
[ He's not used to that either. ]
he's a delicate buttercup
It's not so big a secret.
[ His fingers move in a slow and clear sketch of a glyph, making visible lines in the air, lines that have their own gentle illumination without truly glowing. The glyph seems to react with something in the messenger, causing its wings to bunch up and squirm vigorously, shedding the dirt it's accumulated in little oily flakes that slither off and fall to the ground. ]
Not like making one. That would take a long time to teach.
[ Longer, he doesn't have to say, than he probably has, either because he will die in this farce, or if he somehow succeeds, he will go home and never come back. Not for love, money, or power. ]
But no, I don't mind.
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The witches... don't share any secrets.
[ He's silent for a very long moment, his eyes intent, ]
What makes you... different. From the witches?
[ There is the smell, undeniable. There is the source, the Hill is unmistakable. But Ivor wonders about these other things, the rules, the loyalties. As he says it he realizes it is a big, broad question, it embarrasses him slightly but he is earnest in his ignorance. ]
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And on top of this selfish pleasantry that is this private interaction with Ivor, there is some interesting information to go with it. Not big secrets, as Brandon himself admitted of what he's sharing, because of course, it makes sense the witches don't share their knowledge, but useful to hear from an inside perspective. He lets a low hah of his own out at Ivor's question, without derision. ]
Layers and layers to that answer, I think.
[ His fingers move again: one glyph, then another which sits atop it until they settle together, something about it akin to a key clicking in a lock, though nothing opens. ]
Magi are rarely born to magi. So we don't form familial clans, as such. We argue and kill each other and splinter readily. But perhaps that's not so different.
[ The mild irony invites whatever comment or elaboration Ivor might feel inclined to offer, but doesn't press for it. The glyph sinks slowly into the darkness of the newly cleansed messenger, making its wings unfold slowly and go limp. ]
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It is-- [ The word he wants is 'profane' but it escapes him and he tongues the backs of his teeth for a moment. ] --against the rules, to kill each other. But there's no one to punish him.
[ Master of the House, King of the Hill. Ivor has no emotion about Haran whatsoever, neither hatred nor loyalty nor self-serving intent. Haran is useless to him, uninteresting. ]
More like magi. Maybe.
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Magi understand that power is easy to get, but difficult to keep.
[ Quite a bit more straightforward than he would be to anybody else here, no matter how obvious everybody else thinks his purpose here is. Brandon doesn't make anything more out of the statement, though. The messenger opens under the pry of his fingers, revealing its dim interior of preserved flesh and delicate bone structures reinforced with metal and other less identifiable materials. ]
You can touch the insides freely. Things don't usually dislodge without the proper glyphs.
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The Hill is always ours, one way or another.
[ He murmurs it as his fingers wiggle inwards. ]
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Brandon stays still, gradually aligning his breathing with Ivor's, a sympathetic maneuver so basic he doesn't consider it magic. ]
Is that enough for you both?
[ Failing to acknowledge Hekate even if she is not currently present would be disingenuous, and Brandon is rarely that. ]
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His voice lowers, whispering where he sits close at Brandon's shoulder. ]
Could be, could not. We've been, and gone. If...
[ There are things that shouldn't be said and Ivor knows that, shoulders hunching up. ]
If it let us.
[ The Hill. The House. ]
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It's entertaining precisely because it is so nonsensical, a ludicrous extension of the nature of their interactions thus far — from his perspective, of course. From Ivor's, there seems to be a certain gravitas Brandon finds appealing, enough so that only the slightest twitch of buried excitement disturbs his attentive facade, head cocked to receive the whispered secrets that are no less interesting to him in the midst of private amusement. He would ask for clarification — which would they, which would Ivor prefer, to stay and have power or to go and be free — but he is, as ever, so concerned with pushing, when already this whisper seems like more than Ivor should be saying.
The feathers shift slightly in the breeze, brushing his fingers, and Brandon keeps his voice lowered as well. ]
Many things will be possible.
[ Some sort of promise, that's for sure, somewhere between earnest yet meaningless, absolutely unreliable and unexplained, and emptily prophetic. Offered seemingly for no reason and without any observable motive, other than what people always come to the Hill and the House for. ]
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He sits close, exhales audibly. A want he can't speak of, lest the House hear him. It feels dangerous even to think on it with too much longing. ]
Or we rule here.
[ He excludes the alternative from his words, but not from his meaning. ]
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It isn't so much that those things are true or not true, or whether or not his playacting is accepted or rejected or wasted on the people he directs it against; it's that this role is the one he wants to play for Ivor, here and now, and so it is who he is, here and now. ]
I'll do what I can.
[ The voice of someone juggling just one too many balls, knives, and flaming torches. He can't promise anything to anyone here, but least of all to Ivor, as much as he wants to. After a moment he looks back down into the messenger, seemingly chastened by the limitations of his objectives. ]
This may be the extent of it.