000 🌑 IC Inbox

[ladyfrownsalot]

✓✓ Read 10:35 PM

 

[ Audio / Video / Spam ]

Comments

[epistemological]

“A ritual to bring-“ He pauses as he realizes he hasn’t really explained things from the top to the bottom just sort of, thrown things at her as he goes. They’ll get there. “The place we were was called the Lonely. The patron of that particular bit of nonsense is what’s known as the Stranger. My patron is considered diametrically opposed to theirs and they thought it would be a nice little compliment to their plans to have the skin of an Archivist on hand.”

Beat.

“Lemon or sugar is available.”

[ladyfrownsalot]

"...Lemon. Thanks. So they were trying to bring their god or whatever into your world?"

This, she seems to be on solid ground with.

[epistemological]

He’ll slice up a lemon and put it on a plate for adding. After a moment, he even puts a bit of cheesecloth over it. Fancy.

He’ll pour the near-boiling water in the teapot now.

“Essentially. It’s not- well, they’d say it was a god. But I generally call them ‘entities’. The classification of them, the names and the boundaries, it’s all sort of… ‘arbitrary’ isn’t really accurate, but they’re technically all interconnected.”

[ladyfrownsalot]

"Right. But you've still got skin, so I'm guessing it didn't go to plan," she deadpans.

[epistemological]

“Yes, well,” he says as he watches the tea steep, “it seems I had friends in strange places and one of them decided to save me. Mostly because it amused him.”

[ladyfrownsalot]

"Was this a friend from one of your other crazy-person ritual clubs?"

Does he have other kinds of friends?

[epistemological]

"...you're catching on. Everyone is... affiliated with something. Myself, Martin... the other two on board from my world. Anyone who gets involved is usually- well, they're claimed or marked or- or find what fits for them. It's the closest thing to magic we have."

[ladyfrownsalot]

"...Okay. And you're sure that your spooky patrons haven't sent you to a ship full of trapped, desperate people with every other screw loose so they can...recruit?"

[epistemological]

He looks back over his shoulder and shakes his head.

“Given that I completely undid the work of centuries coming here, I doubt it.” He’s got everything on a small tray and he brings it over. It settles on the kitchen table as Jon settles into his chair.

He looks back at her then.

“They can’t really reach here, not properly. I can feel the difference.”

[ladyfrownsalot]

"Well, that's reassuring. Kinda."

She reaches for the teacup.

"So, I know it's basically the same question I asked last month but I do actually kinda care about the answer now. If you're not going to read my file, how does this...go?"

[epistemological]

“…I’m curious why you seem to think that reading that file or not reading that file determines how we ‘go’.”

He reaches for his own, already filled with milk and tea, and adds a bit of sugar. The man is far too apt to use tea as a meal, so he at least fills it with as many calories as he can.

“But the answer remains the same: we decide what we’re doing together. I’m not your babysitter or your teacher. I won’t pretend to be some lofty moral type sprinkling self-improvement aphorisms like breadcrumbs for you towards some bullshit ‘better you’ that might as well be someone else.”

He looks over at her.

“There’s a conflict inside of you. Possibly several. We need to figure out what it is and work towards resolving it.” He sips his tea. “I have ideas, obviously, but again. You are the subject matter expert on you. I’m here to give you something to bounce off of. And, apparently, to keep you armed, going by most of this boat.”

[ladyfrownsalot]

Cassandra twitches a grim smile.

"I can take care of myself. I mean, if I still had the Moonstone it wouldn't be an issue, but I guess that's the Admiral's prerogative."

[epistemological]

“…I don’t suppose you’d mind explaining about the moonstone.”

He gestures to himself.

“I can’t guarantee anything, but it might be something I could ask about.”

[ladyfrownsalot]

Cassandra shrugs. This is at least fifty per cent of why she just wants him to just read her file already, but - whatever, she can tell him.

"The Moonstone Opal is a stone that fell to Earth as a drop of pure moonlight," she explains briskly. "When someone claims it, they meld with it and gain its power. Its armor made me...pretty much invulnerable."

[epistemological]

He nods. He’d figured it was something like that. But, all the same-

“I need to know if it has offensive capabilities. Could you kill someone with it.”

[ladyfrownsalot]

"...Yes. But I...killed somebody with a billiards cue on my first day here. Accidentally," she adds.

She doesn't really need the help, is what she's saying.

[epistemological]

That’s not what he hears, though.

“…what I’m hearing is that you can barely be trusted with the furniture. I hope you realize that.”

[ladyfrownsalot]

Cassandra rolls her eyes.

"I don't know what you want me to say. I'd just been pulled out of a fight to the death against the person who used to be my best friend, and then I was suddenly in this crazy prison barge in space, and I cannot tell you I was thinking rationally."

[epistemological]

Jon spreads his hands.

“Things I didn’t know until now. Though my point remains: you’re focused on how well you can kill. Whereas I’m trying to figure out if you need to have this thing to make anything we’re doing make any real sense in your real life.”

[ladyfrownsalot]

"I'm focused on - what?  Nnno.  I hadn't killed anybody before, and given how she could talk to me about it afterward I'd say I have a good argument that my record is still zero," Cassandra snaps. "I called it a fight to the death because me being here means that it was a fight to my death. You are really jumping to conclusions here, pal."

[epistemological]

Jon listens, though he thinks some wires have clearly been crossed. He’s not the best at unraveling them; of his many skills (does he have many skills? Sometimes he thinks he’s kind of useless mostly) that is not one of them.

“I haven’t jumped to anything. I’m trying to say that you misunderstood why I was asking something, which to be fair… is my fault.”

He folds his hands.

“I don’t think that your actions when you came here are your baseline. Hell, mine wasn’t either and I came as a warden, as prepared as any of them are. And while we can debate if death is death, which I happen to think it is, but doesn’t actually have anything to do with our discussion at the moment, I’m not worried about how well you can defend yourself, at least not yet. Clearly you can, and if that was the concern, I’d just get you a weapon.”

He sighs.

“Being able to kill someone on a whim is part of you. It shapes who you are and how you think. If that’s something you usually have, it’s something we have to consider. If it’s not, less so. Just as being invulnerable would shape how someone thinks as well.”

[ladyfrownsalot]

"...Look. I'm not planning to start any fights, but I'm not going to turn around and run from them either. I've been trained for it. Just because I can kill someone doesn't mean it's a hobby. Having a weapon to defend myself would be useful but it's not necessary, and the Moonstone isn't either. Are we done with this conversation?"

[epistemological]

“I don’t believe I tied you to the chair so the conversation is done when you say it’s done.”

He sighs and rubs at his temple. Then he lets out a huff.

“I’m not- lovely, I don’t put things well, but I sincerely want to help you. I don’t think you want to be dead. I don’t think you want to be trapped. If I’m wrong, please, tell me.”

[ladyfrownsalot]

"No. You're not wrong. And trust me, I don't want 'lovely'."

She sips her tea.

"But every time I ask you to even have an opinion on how I'm going to get out of here, you just turn it around on me and say that I'm the one who's going to do all the work and I'm the expert on me. Which, okay, I don't disagree. I just don't get how you're going to help if you're not going to do anything."

[epistemological]

“…because I don’t know anything about you. And this-“ he points at the folder, “will tell me facts. But it won’t tell me that either.”

He spreads one hand. “A piece of paper can tell you the town I’m from and that I was raised by my grandmother. I’m sure it’s evoked a certain image even now. But that image becomes something else when I tell you that I ran away constantly, that I wanted nothing more than to get away from her because I knew she didn’t want me there. That I was a burden to her, not someone to love. And children feel those things keenly.”

He folds his hands.

“I never said you’ll do all the work. I said you’re a part of figuring out what we’re doing. And that I won’t force you to do it. I barely know you. Any goal or idea I’d put forth would be patronizing at best and useless at worst. If you want my theories, I’ll give them but I wanted to give you a chance to come forward with something first.”