[ 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. ]
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
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.
no subject
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. ]
no subject
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. ]
no subject
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.
no subject
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.
no subject
The Hill is always ours, one way or another.
[ He murmurs it as his fingers wiggle inwards. ]
no subject
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. ]
no subject
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. ]
no subject
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. ]
no subject
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. ]
no subject
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.