nysalogs | cancelling your apocalypse subscription.

(( prompt: JUMP INTO THE DEEP END ))

[ Quite frankly, Taryon shouldn't be as confident as he's acting right now. As interesting as the technology was up here on the moon base, and as exciting as it is to have an opportunity to view it up close, that's really all he should be doing. Viewing.

Instead, he's strapping himself into the robotic machine, when he's never piloted anything in his life, has absolutely no hand-eye coordination to speak of, and lacks the connections necessary for a meaningful partnership. His copilot is a moustachioed gentleman who he owes a few silver (much to his mid-marathon outrage) and while the man's surely nice enough, it's not like Taryon really knows him.

And yet. ]

Ready?

[ He's obnoxiously cheerful, clearly optimistic about their chances. And hey, maybe that will actually be kind of helpful, given how these things run. But... maybe not that helpful, since after carefully considering the buttons available to him he just sort of picks one at random. ]

[Taryon was certainly charming enough that Dorian would seek his company out again, but... Well, he hadn't imagined these particular circumstances. He would have preferred a much calmer atmosphere, with the warmth of a wood seat and not cold steel, where he had room to be smug about the coin he's owed.

Maker, he shouldn't be doing this sober. He's already on edge from the amount technology before them. His companion's cheerfulness, though sweet, was positively naive! He's going to die here.]

Not particularly, but there are worse ways to go.

Don't be ridiculous. They'd hardly let us do it if it were really dangerous.

[ And the possibility that it might be, well, that's just part of the fun. Taryon isn't actually particularly brave, but he is adventurous, and he hasn't seen anything to frighten him yet.

And then he hits some buttons and the ship stalls like a car coughing through a grinding gear change, lurches unpleasantly. Some equivalent of windscreen wipers turns on, making a whooshing air noise above and behind them. But third time's the charm and! They're away like a, well, rocket.

That's when the power of their emotions is supposed to kick in, and what Dorian gets isn't blithe idiocy but absolute terror at the speed they're traveling. ]

I take it back!!

[ They're absolotely going to die. ]

(( prompt: NATURE VS NURTURE. ))

You there!

[ Where is that pompous voice coming from? Look up, and there he is: enfolded in the grip of the Cutpurse Willow, hanging several feet in the air, is a man dressed in full plate mail burnished a beautiful rose gold. Any noble elegance is somewhat ruined, however, by the fact that he's splayed and flailing, the plant's vine-like branches wrapping his limbs tight. He can't reach his sword, doesn't have the hand movements he needs to do any particularly useful spell, and the more he thrashes the tighter the tree gets. Merlin is the first person who's happened along in a while, so of course he's going to be incredibly solicitous. ]

Yes, you there! Boy!

[ Orrrr he could revert to being an arse in his panic. Fantastic. ]

[How many people are going to need his rescue from these ridiculous trees today, Merlin wonders. He's gifted with not wearing anything worth grabbing and excessive clumsiness that keeps him tripping away from the foliage that might lift him like it does, apparently, eveyrone else. And yet he's still wandering around in the jungle, looking for people who might need help.

And lo, he finds another!! Who immediately starts calling him boy, and he can feel in his bones exactly how that's going to turn out. So he stops and looks up, squinting, not making any move to do anything. His brain says let this guy sweat but his heart knows he's back on his helpful bullshit and it will be a few minutes at best.]

What? [then,] Are you wearing armor in the jungle? That's just ridiculous.

Well, what else am I going to do, not wear armor? Oh, no no no—

[ At this point, he slips a little in the vines, stomach lurching at the drop, but the Willow's got him good. It hitches him higher like a heavy toddler, leaving him awkwardly mashing his butt chin into his breastplate.

Wheeze. ]

Don't just — don't just stand there!

In the jungle? Well... [Wearing armor has done him so many favors, hasn't it? Merlin chews his lip to keep from laughing at this... display, when the tree hefts Taryon up and down like a child throwing a toy. Amazing.]

What do you want me to do? Go and get myself stuck up there like you? I don't really fancy it.

You must be able to think of something!

[ A slight twinge of audible desperation in his voice now, like he's worried Merlin is going to leave him here. His lower lip trembles, the facade of bossiness cracking a little. ]

At least go get help?

[Oh, that's better. If he's pathetic, Merlin feels a little more obligated to stay and help.]

I don't need help. How good are you at landing on your feet?

[This is barely a question, since he raises his hand purely for effect as he wordlessly casts his magic at the tree, aiming to wither most of those vines enough so that they can't hold the weight of a big whiny child in full armor.]

I'm not a cat—

[ Which he abruptly demonstrates by falling out of the tree flat on his face. Taryon is pretty resilient, and he's wearing armor, but no helmet, so when he starts to pick himself up he has a bloody nose and his blue eyes are watering. ]

Ow!

[ He doesn't actually stand, rubbing his nose and sniveling a little. After a moment of feeling sorry for himself he remembers he also has magic and casts a quick healing word on himself. It's not much, but once he speaks in the strange tongue he does feel minutely better, the pounding in his head fading. ]

You could have been a bit gentler.

You could've stayed out of the trees with all that armor.

[Seriously, armor in the jungle? A bit much. He shuffles over to hold his hand out anyway, after that suspiciously magical muttering. The offered hand stays, but he looks critical again. Besides the, uh, blood, he looks like he's doing fine...]

Are you a sorcerer? And you still couldn't get down from there?

I'm an Artificer.

[ Thanks, Dungeons and Dragons, and your stupidly specific magical skill classes. He does clap a hand into Merlin's, though, uses it to heave himself upwards. ]

I didn't know any spells that would work.

[ Like, literally doesn't know them. Fire magic, who is she. We can't all be deus ex machina powerhouses, Merlin.

Anyway, he still sounds a bit sooky but he begins to sort of brush himself off, maybe get out some of the dead leaves and dirt that have gotten stuck in his armor's crevasses. He misses his attentive robot servant. ]

[Sad... Merlin reaches over despite himself to pluck a few of those leaves out. Habit.]

I'd say that makes you a less practiced sorcerer. [merlin,] What's the difference?

Well, a sorcerer has an innate talent. They can draw inspiration from what others have written, but their magic comes from within. A lot of power, a lot of mayhem... but I'm nothing like that , of course!

[ He turns a little so Merlin can help him with some of the leaf-litter on his back, where he can't reach. ]

I have a little magical power, but mostly I act as a conduit, pouring spells into items and objects I've made.

That sounds like a sorcerer to me. A warlock, now, that's more like what you're talking about.

[Ahem hem... anyway. He brushes off a few more leaves, then—] Why am I doing this for you? You haven't even asked my name, calling me boy...

You looked a lot younger from a distance.

[ Taryon says, like that's any sort of defense. Though his sulkiness is more about the name thing — why are names always so important to people? ]

But all right. I'm Taryon Darrington. And you are?

You look like a great, shiny beetle from a distance, but I wasn't going to say anything.

[But OKAY... okay. He's past it! It's done, he's over it. For right now.]

I'm Merlin, anyway. Just Merlin.

[ A name which elicits absolutely no reaction or recognition. ]

You may need to get your eyesight checked, Merlin. Not to be a braggart at all, but I'm far too handsome to be a beetle of any sort.

[ Yes, what an incredibly modest statement, especially when he's still picking leaves from his hair. ]

[Rich boys....]

I've seen better. You missed one, a little higher.

[Gesturing helpfully! He's not sinking as low as hair-grooming, sorry buddy.]

[ Taryon just kind of fingercombs through until he finds it, flicks it away after. And voila, he's — well, he's presentable. It will probably be a lot better once he gets back to his brush and comb. And can take his armor off.

To that end, he starts to continue down the path the way he was going, though expectantly, as though they're going to walk together, turning to Merlin with a friendly smile. ]

So, how did you learn magic? Not a pact with a demon, I hope.

(( prompt: JUMP INTO THE DEEP END ))

[ "Practise with a lot of different people", they'd said. And certainly it doesn't get any more different than this. Taryon regards the tall, imposing figure of the Death Knight with no little unease: he's had good experiences with elves but poor experiences with demons, and once a drow kidnapped him but they ended up friends, so honestly he doesn't really know what to expect.

Still. This isn't his first time out the pod bay doors, so to speak, so he at least knows what to expect from the marvelous machinery giving them the gift of space flight: while he still has his Learners Provisional on these things, he won't be wildly mashing buttons just to start moving forward, anymore. If he was rashly optimistic last time, now he's cautiously so. And he isn't surprised when he straps himself in as the machine begins to sync the two of them—

And then he's hit with a wave of Koltira, and it feels like the breath has been knocked out of him. ]

No— no, that's all wrong. You've got to think — happy thoughts.

[ Koltira's emotional landscape is a wasteland. A phantasmagoria of rage and hatred and despair, of pain that spikes in his blood and hisses in his ear and never, ever stops. He grits his teeth as Tary's distress pushes up against him, the force of his energy, his vitality. ]

I cannot.

[ It's not merely a bitter man's question of what he has to be happy about. Peace eludes all death knights; its thread was frayed and severed upon their resurrection, and its gentle cousins fared even less well. Koltira's head throbs as the ship jerks this way and that, its path just as erratic and miserable as the two people inside of it. ]

[ Taryon whiteknuckles his armrest, holding on for dear life, trying to keep himself in place amidst the ship's dizzy pitching. Thank all the gods they don't have passengers. He's flying at a slight curve, just holding down the lever that makes the ship Go, not really bothering with steering as he's far too focused on the horrible connection that's sprung up between them. ]

You must!

[ A little despairing, perhaps not even his own despair. But just as Koltira buffets him with loneliness, Taryon blazes sunlight. He thinks his own happy thoughts: a young man's first kiss, nervous and exuberant between shelves of books, anxious not to be caught for half a dozen reasons. The first time he defeated an enemy in battle unassisted, the ring of the ram knocking away the sea monster — and the kickback knocking Taryon off the boat. The salt water had tasted like victory. Percy placing a crown of flowers and seashells atop his head. His pride in Keyleth as she was made leader of her people. Tiny Pike sitting on the counter dabbing frosting on his nose so they matched. It's radiant with gladness for the people in his life and the good things he has experiences and above all optimistic hope that this will help somehow. ]

[ Koltira groans. How can he explain, how can he make this stranger understand? He braces himself against the ship's controls, his armored fingers digging into the metal. Even as his own wild agitation flares, he feels the press of Taryon's warmth, the goodness of his life and his experiences. He exhales air, but it's only a gust rattling through a broken window, only an expression of shock at the heady heat of it. Something in Taryon's life calls to what remains of Koltira's, to a time of autumn banquets and crisp apples and days and days spent doing not much of anything at all. Laughter with his brother. Training in the temple yard. A girl smiling shyly as his brother tried to ask her to dance.

Koltira can never grasp these memories for long, nor the feelings that come with them. The images are gossamer, shredded by the lightest touch. He shuts his eyes, grits his teeth, bites his lower lip. Black blood wells beneath the points of his canines. ]

Go--now!

[ Go while it lasts. Go while he can keep the chains loose. ]

[ Taryon can hear the sharp, commanding urgency in that tone, enough to make him almost want to bolt from the controls themselves. But lacking anywhere particularly to go, he floors it instead, heart leaping quite pleasantly in his chest at the machine's smooth burst of acceleration beneath him.

He might even be a little smug — however strained the man, or, elf, or-- however strained he may seem, they have found some kind of sympatico where at first it seemed there was none. He sends Koltira some of that triumph, renewed confidence, certain it must be mutual. ]

(( prompt: WELCOME TO WYVER - east end training grounds ))

[ It doesn't surprise him that Vox Machina wants to make this place their home over Olympia: there's something very comforting about the wild city, especially here, where the clash of weapon and weapon rings out. Taryon is dressed in full armor, but his rod is still just a rod as he meanders looking for a competitor that takes his interest. He half expects to see Grog stepping off the dirt of the wrestler's ring, sweaty and bruised, and the archer's range makes him think of Vex.

When he spots the young man working alone with the axes, however, he stops, drawn somehow by a brooding charisma he would be too embarrassed to try and put to words. ]

You there! Hello! Fancy a bit of a match?

[ He doesn't really know shit about axes but when he tells his rod — ]

Axe!

[ It turns into quite a good one. ]

[Fitz is not in full armor, because he was barely trained with a jerkin, let alone anything approaching armor. But here he is, having found a pair of axes and is finally feeling his footing. After the entire - well, everything - that was the past year, it makes him feel like maybe he can be himself again, eventually.

Well.

Maybe not. Chade's boy is well and truly dead.

He looks up when he's addressed, and his lips tip a little, suggesting a smile.]

All right.

[He says it but then-]

You ought to give a warning when you do that.

[But he sounds more interested than anything.]

Do— oh, the rod.

[ He gives a slightly prideful little smirk, since he's grown used to people admiring it, both here and back home, and to his credit he did make it himself. But still. Probably he knew exactly what Fitz was referring to. ]

Terribly sorry. I suppose I'm simply used to it.

[ A slight shrug, and he goes on. ]

It's a useful feature — but only if I keep training in multiple weapons. No point making it an axe if I can't use one.

Can you use one?

[He hefts his own axe. This isn't the one he had at home, but that one was left behind, abandoned. The truth is the only weapon Fitz ever cared about is Verity's sword, and that's with him, and so he's not bothered by whichever axe he has to use to get his point across.

But he wants to get an idea of what level of expertise he's working with, here.]

[ All told, it had been a busy week, shepherding people from the station to the planet, escorting by land and by water, and shooting a number of sea serpents to boot! Making a small profit out of some of the inconvenience has soothed some of Vex's ruffled feathers, in addition to proving a most helpful distraction from her thoughts (and, more importantly, her feelings).

They're still seeking better lodgings as a group, with Vax making mention of an extra room for 'a friend'. Evidently not one she knew, or he might have divulged more - or he wanted to do it whenever said person showed up.

Who ever they were, they'd need food as much as the party did, hence why she's walking away from The Forged and off towards the market, mental list prepared, and attention only partially on her surroundings as she rounds one of the street corners, intent on beelining via one of the backstreets. ]

[ Taryon very nearly collides with her — but ultimately they're both too nimble for that, even he in his clunking great armor. Still, it's a near thing. But rather than apologize, or give the shared grimace of the awkward sidewalk dance, Taryon's eyes light up, and warmth rushes through his chest at the sight of one of his very favorite people. ]

You there!

[ It will be a throwback, he thinks, bearing. Friendly cameraderie to reflect how they first met. ]

Little elf girl!

[ Only he remembers belatedly that Vax had told him people remembered different things, that Vex may not know him, and falters suddenly, stymied. ]

[ There's an almost audible mental records scratch as that imperious tone filters three words into Vex's hearing, the brightening of his expression boding ill for him as that throwback for him is indeed the very first time for her.

Oh dear. Oh dear oh dear. ]

I beg your pardon.

[ The frost filtering through her voice is echoed in the recoil of her body away from his, expression writ perfectly to match a comment he once made regarding 'bone structure and contempt'. ]

[ It's funny, the last time she gave him that look he was cheerfully pretty oblivious to it. This time he feels the ice, the cold in his own belly as his stomach drops. ]

No, I mean— I was only joking.

[ A poor joke. He can feel his foot jamming itself further and further between his teeth. ]

It's Taryon?

[ Perhaps hoping that she will remember him after all. ]

You make a point of unfunny jokes with strangers, do you?

[ she is most certainly not laughing, but there’s something about his sudden backpedal that seems far too genuine - maybe he mistook her for someone else? ]

..sorry, I don’t know the name. [smaller, less severe frown] have we met?

Edited 2017-12-29 23:50 (UTC)

cancelling your apocalypse subscription.

for dorian.

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for merlin.

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for koltira.

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for fitzchivalry.

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Welcome to Wyver, Taryon!

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i'm so sorry tary :( she'll love you again......eventually

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