Open Post: This Is Where The Magic Happens

[rememberettersberg]

A new notice has appeared on the welcome table and at several well-traversed locations around the mansion and its grounds. It invites residents to stop by a certain summer house (which has recently sprung into existence on the shore of the lake) if they are interested in the discussion and/or instruction of magic.

Should anyone's curiosity take them in that direction, they'll find Nightingale there with a pot of tea always on the go and a rotating selection of snacks and nibbles. He's started to cultivate (heh) a small library of his own - important texts in the history of his magical tradition, textbooks for the study of a number of dead/archaic languages, and a growing pile of his own notes.

He'll be delighted to catalogue the differences (and similarities) in the way various worlds practice magic, conduct experiments to see if they can use each other's traditions, and (in the case of Laertes and anyone else that seems like they might be a fit candidate) begin some basic magical instruction.

Closed.

Comments

[lightbearinglord]

Lan Wangji's frown deepens, only a little. "I will think of them as well." There is essentially nothing he can do for them, but a small amount of additional hope can't do any harm.

[onthewillowsthere]

A nod. "I've done that too."

[rememberettersberg]

"You're a good man, Hanguang-jun. Thank you for coming to visit me today." Nightingale looks vaguely embarrassed by his own bald sincerity, but it needed to be said.

[lightbearinglord]

The sincerity of it does touch him, and Lan Wangji's eyes do soften a little in answer to that. "Thank you," he counters evenly. He sips his tea again, determined not to waste a second cup.

[sagramore]

Sagramore is still sober, and he's still not enjoying it very much, but he has an errand. He stops by the summer house, rapping lightly at the door before he enters.

"Nightingale?"

[rememberettersberg]

He's staring at the typewriter on his desk, a piece of paper wound into it and headed Third Event: Pernicious Truths but otherwise empty.

"Sagramore, do come in. Tea?"

[sagramore]

"No, no, thank you. I apologize -- I've come to ask you a favor, actually."

[rememberettersberg]

"By all means, ask away."

[sagramore]

"There's a man here who is a magician, like you. He has a great deal of power, I want to be upfront about that so you know. I don't know whether he's dangerous, though I know I was in no danger from him."

Sagramore is trying not to pace, but the urge is there -- he's restless, anxious, in spite of how certain he is of his purpose. He wishes, for approximately the thousandth time today, that he had a drink.

"He was my lover. I still love him, Christ, I love him tremendously, but he told me something about himself that I can't overlook, as much as I want to. I left him. But the thing is -- he's so guarded. He shields himself against other people. I don't think he'd let anyone know him before me, not for centuries, and certainly not love him. I don't know whether he even has friends here, but I don't think so. And I'm worried about him. I-- Christ, I hurt him but I'm afraid for him to be hurt--" He rakes his hands back through the mess of curls that's become shaggy and started to fall into his eyes at times. "I want to ask you to look in on him. I just want to know he's-- I love him. I want someone to care whether he's all right. And because you're a magician, I think he's less of a danger to you, if he's a danger to anyone any more. I trust you."

[rememberettersberg]

Nightingale's brow has furrowed at the description, but his eyes are soft and understanding. He's touched by the easy admission of trust; it makes his voice warm.

"Of course.. Who should I be looking for?" His first thought was Aleksander? but that doesn't seem quite right. How many powerful magicians with dark secrets can one mansion hold?

[rememberettersberg]

"What were you looking for?" He's genuinely interested in the answer.

[sagramore]

"Jasin Natael. He'll have told you he's a bard, if you've spoken. He's my height, dark hair to his shoulders, he looks forty or fifty. He plays anything, but most of all the harp." It hurts even to think of that.

[rememberettersberg]

"Jasin. Our paths haven't crossed just yet, but I'll endeavour to seek him out." He jots down a note of the name and description, though he'll remember it anyway.

"Sagramore... are you all right?" He's very aware that Sagramore has a support system, but wonders if they even know to check in with him.

[sagramore]

"Thank you. I can't thank you enough, truly."

At the second part he does begin pacing. "I'll be fine. I haven't told Laertes yet, but I'll be fine. I will tell him, I mean to, but-- I've already been trouble enough to him today. More than trouble. I want to give him some time first. Some space to breathe."

[rememberettersberg]

"Understandable." Nightingale hesitates a little. They don't know each other well and he's not terribly good at this sort of thing, but--

"If you'd like to talk, I'm not doing anything that can't wait."

[sagramore]

"I appreciate that, but no. I'll be fine. I'm grateful for your help, I'm truly grateful."

[onthewillowsthere]

"I made a gift for Claudius."

[rememberettersberg]

"Go well, Sagramore. I'll be sure to keep an eye on your Jasin."

[sagramore]

"Thank you." Then he goes.

[rememberettersberg]

Nightingale smiles, endeared, and manfully doesn't think about the last time he and Claudius talked. "What did you make?"

[onthewillowsthere]

"A scarf." He fingerspells love against the sketchbook. "Because his clothes are always beautiful. I knew it was something he cares about-- I wanted to give him something beautiful to wear."

[rememberettersberg]

"That's a kind and wonderful thought." He's quiet for a time, pondering the strange mechanics of this place, how it gives and takes away. "What would you make for yourself?"

[onthewillowsthere]

That seems to catch him by surprise. "For myself?" He looks at Nightingale for a long moment, with that intensity he doesn't even know he has. "I want a watch," he admits, finally.

[rememberettersberg]

"That should be quite easy to achieve. What sort of watch takes your fancy?" Nightingale wears a vintage mechanical watch with a window showing the intricate, beautiful workings beneath the hands, though he has no idea what time to set it to here. He takes it off to show Galahad. "Something like this perhaps? Or a pocket watch maybe?"

[onthewillowsthere]

His eyes widen slightly as he looks at Nightingale's watch -- from Magnus' drawing, he had expected something a bit more functional and less beautiful. This one, with all of its mechanics showing, is breath-taking. When he looks at it, he feels as if he's looking at time, and he wants to know more about it; it can't be as simple as Magnus said, it has to be like a miracle or a magic. Who decided the pattern of hours and minutes and seconds? It wasn't God, surely, or He would have already told. Is it like the turn of seasons, an inevitable part of the world? Does it ever change or are the rules a constant? If he had a watch like Nightingale's, will he always be in some kind of brotherhood with everyone else who has one, because they'll all be able to look and see the same time?

"Like that," he says.