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rainbowfic2014-03-22 06:26 pm
auguris) wrote in rainbowfic2014-03-22 06:26 pm
Blood Red 8, Transparent 13, Dove Grey 7
Name: auguris
'verse: Ghost Sight
Story: Talents
Colors: Blood Red 8. poisoning, Transparent 13. Sanguine, Dove Grey 7. And he will make the face of heav'n so fine
Supplies and Styles: Acrylic (the gift), Brush (knackered), Oils (in pain), Pastels (talent/skill)
Word Count: 1350
Rating: R
Warnings: A bit of death and murder.
Summary: Snapshot of several different wizards who practice the most widely, if not officially, recognized Talents in the world of Ghost Sight. There's some visual tomfoolery in the last section.
Harbinger
She's cheating, a little bit -- storm clouds line the horizon, bringing rain across the valley within their own time. But sunlight streams down on her yet and she squints at it, smirking before settling into herself.
She was born for this.
She understands barometric pressure and jet streams and their science, she understands metaphysical connection to the underlying structure of the universe and thinks maybe there's something to the phrase "quantum phasing"; but that's all cold fact and theory and does little to explain the euphoria of her own power rising inside of her, the glow sliding across her skin, the relief that comes when her magic reaches out into the world and fits. There is a storm raging inside of her and the air responds to her call, shifting and altering, matching reality to her will.
Wind whips up fiercely, tossing her hair. She spreads her arms in an embrace as the sky darkens. Trees groan in the sudden shift; grass whispers against her boots. Fat, heavy drops of rain pelt her forehead, a few turning into a dozen turning into sheets of rain, soaking through her clothes and flooding the ground beneath her. Thunder and lightning strike as one and the land before her scatters and she laughs.
She is Harbinger, descendent of the gods.
*
Formator
The black blob of fur refuses to shift further; his magic spirals out of control, seeping into the dirt and digging aimless furrows until it tapers off. He falls to his knees, gasping for air and struggling to pull his power back into himself, away from the earth and the thing he has created, deep inside his body where it can't hurt anyone.
Little Emy chirrups, one amber eye blinking up at him from the mass; gods no she's alive and he can't hold back a horrified cry as he strokes her, her muscles twitching in recognition or pain or gods knew. What has he done? He wanted to give her wings, little black leathery wings; she likes high places, she's always climbing higher, up into trees she can't get out of or onto the neighbors' roofs. She deserves to fly and look what he's done, oh gods look what he's done.
He cradles her to his chest. He can fix her. He can undo the damage. He is not a monster.
*
Firestarter
It doesn't matter how the fire started; an unattended candle, bad wiring, a kid playing with matches. There are people trapped inside, there are people dying, and she can stop it.
She walks past the firefighters, men and women in heavy uniforms shouting orders at each other, shouting at her, putting hands on her and pulling back quick. She doesn't wish to hurt them but she will not be stopped.
She moves to the center of the ground floor, the heat insufferable even here, the flames licking through the roof directly overhead. She breaths in smoke, licks ash from her lips. She spreads her arms, not quite able to touch each wall.
It's a small matter, little more than a trick; invite the heat to her. Pull the flame inside. She has done it a thousand times, snuffing candlelight and campfires, sucking heat from too hot tea before it scalds tongues. This is the same thing, only more so.
So much more so.
The heat flows inside of her, a torrent of flame and how funny to think of it as a river; it is too much, too soon, but she will not stop there are lives above her, young lives who still have so much left and she can do this, she can end it, she can save them.
She collapses, realizing that the horrible screams are hers, realizing she can't spread it out she can only take it and she is no longer in control of the fire she is the fire, and she has but a moment to know, in every inch of her, that she has become ash.
*
Healer
Officially all wizards have been chased from the country or burned if they didn't run fast enough; he quietly runs the refugee medical center, taking the worst cases into a private tent and doing his work. He is their loudest secret; no one is going to tell the inquisition about the wizard who saved them.
He is exhausted but unable to sleep. His human lover lays beside him, arm wrapped around his middle, snoring softly. It takes him a moment to recognize the sound as shuffling footsteps, another moment to realize the shadows are moving, another moment to sit up.
One moment too many; the knife slides inside him, sharp and quick and he can feel the enchantment seep into his bones, paralyzing his magic and ensuring he cannot heal himself.
He looks into the eyes of his killer; he knows her, or once did, and tears stream down her cheek as she whispers, traitor.
*
Gardener
They smile when they see her roses. Her little side project. This grouping is sunset orange. Lipstick pink. True red. Purple as an iris. A red so dark it is effectively black. Watch the thorns, she tells them, and they laugh.
She sets the bouquets personally. A half dozen true red at every setting. A human party save one; the kernan boy smiles nervously through his glamour. She touches his wrist. Watch the thorns, she tells him, and he nods. He is the only guest alive at the end of the night.
She is gone in the morning, and so are her roses.
*
Enchanter
They want jewelry that changes color to match their outfits. Trinkets that will make them more attractive, decorations that make the room smell nice, good luck charms.
Sometimes they want protection; they want to walk in the dark without fear. To find their way home no matter where they are. To know where their children are. They want a shield, a way out, a last resort.
This one wants to be invisible. He says no. This one wants to fly. He says no. This one wants a way to instill fear; this one wants to lie more effectively; this one wants to make her rival sick. Just sick. As a joke.
He says no; he knows if he says yes they will ask for more. For worse. He will not be responsible for such madness. Not again.
*
Warden
She is a shield, the first defense against danger and treachery, the first to suffer, the first to die. She is a safety-net, her spells holding you up if you fall, keeping you from the edge. She is a warning in case of fire or storm or ill-intentions.
She is overlooked. Each ward is a complex intertwining of actively worked magic that measures every whisper of air, that washes over you in a moment you barely notice. She stands to the side working tirelessly, weaving and reweaving and holding each strand in place, a webbed network that never sleeps. Wards fall apart on their own. She ensures this does not happen.
If you enter without permission, with ill-intention, her wards will wrap around you, hold you still. You cannot struggle. You cannot escape. You cannot move. You overlooked her, you didn't recognize the expertly weaved workings; you forgot they were there. You forgot she was there, and now it's too late. Now she has you.
*
Deathlord
There is no such thing as rebirth, no afterlife. You are born and you die. The inbetween is your business. The before and after belong to me. Souls are a finite resource, easily corruptible. You must return from whence you came or
Necromancer
Of course the dead can interact with the living. Death is not the final step. Yes I can step between Here and There, as a matter of fact the dead do not disappear, I see them when I
Ghost Seer
This ghost is not dangerous, only confused, and sending her Beyond takes only a brief conversation. He can see something, when she leaves, a glimpse into the Deadlands. He shouldn't look, he knows a Seer can lose themselves if they look, but he can't help but wonder that he's missing something. That there's something more to his gift, something else he's meant to do.
auguris'verse: Ghost Sight
Story: Talents
Colors: Blood Red 8. poisoning, Transparent 13. Sanguine, Dove Grey 7. And he will make the face of heav'n so fine
Supplies and Styles: Acrylic (the gift), Brush (knackered), Oils (in pain), Pastels (talent/skill)
Word Count: 1350
Rating: R
Warnings: A bit of death and murder.
Summary: Snapshot of several different wizards who practice the most widely, if not officially, recognized Talents in the world of Ghost Sight. There's some visual tomfoolery in the last section.
Harbinger
She's cheating, a little bit -- storm clouds line the horizon, bringing rain across the valley within their own time. But sunlight streams down on her yet and she squints at it, smirking before settling into herself.
She was born for this.
She understands barometric pressure and jet streams and their science, she understands metaphysical connection to the underlying structure of the universe and thinks maybe there's something to the phrase "quantum phasing"; but that's all cold fact and theory and does little to explain the euphoria of her own power rising inside of her, the glow sliding across her skin, the relief that comes when her magic reaches out into the world and fits. There is a storm raging inside of her and the air responds to her call, shifting and altering, matching reality to her will.
Wind whips up fiercely, tossing her hair. She spreads her arms in an embrace as the sky darkens. Trees groan in the sudden shift; grass whispers against her boots. Fat, heavy drops of rain pelt her forehead, a few turning into a dozen turning into sheets of rain, soaking through her clothes and flooding the ground beneath her. Thunder and lightning strike as one and the land before her scatters and she laughs.
She is Harbinger, descendent of the gods.
*
Formator
The black blob of fur refuses to shift further; his magic spirals out of control, seeping into the dirt and digging aimless furrows until it tapers off. He falls to his knees, gasping for air and struggling to pull his power back into himself, away from the earth and the thing he has created, deep inside his body where it can't hurt anyone.
Little Emy chirrups, one amber eye blinking up at him from the mass; gods no she's alive and he can't hold back a horrified cry as he strokes her, her muscles twitching in recognition or pain or gods knew. What has he done? He wanted to give her wings, little black leathery wings; she likes high places, she's always climbing higher, up into trees she can't get out of or onto the neighbors' roofs. She deserves to fly and look what he's done, oh gods look what he's done.
He cradles her to his chest. He can fix her. He can undo the damage. He is not a monster.
*
Firestarter
It doesn't matter how the fire started; an unattended candle, bad wiring, a kid playing with matches. There are people trapped inside, there are people dying, and she can stop it.
She walks past the firefighters, men and women in heavy uniforms shouting orders at each other, shouting at her, putting hands on her and pulling back quick. She doesn't wish to hurt them but she will not be stopped.
She moves to the center of the ground floor, the heat insufferable even here, the flames licking through the roof directly overhead. She breaths in smoke, licks ash from her lips. She spreads her arms, not quite able to touch each wall.
It's a small matter, little more than a trick; invite the heat to her. Pull the flame inside. She has done it a thousand times, snuffing candlelight and campfires, sucking heat from too hot tea before it scalds tongues. This is the same thing, only more so.
So much more so.
The heat flows inside of her, a torrent of flame and how funny to think of it as a river; it is too much, too soon, but she will not stop there are lives above her, young lives who still have so much left and she can do this, she can end it, she can save them.
She collapses, realizing that the horrible screams are hers, realizing she can't spread it out she can only take it and she is no longer in control of the fire she is the fire, and she has but a moment to know, in every inch of her, that she has become ash.
*
Healer
Officially all wizards have been chased from the country or burned if they didn't run fast enough; he quietly runs the refugee medical center, taking the worst cases into a private tent and doing his work. He is their loudest secret; no one is going to tell the inquisition about the wizard who saved them.
He is exhausted but unable to sleep. His human lover lays beside him, arm wrapped around his middle, snoring softly. It takes him a moment to recognize the sound as shuffling footsteps, another moment to realize the shadows are moving, another moment to sit up.
One moment too many; the knife slides inside him, sharp and quick and he can feel the enchantment seep into his bones, paralyzing his magic and ensuring he cannot heal himself.
He looks into the eyes of his killer; he knows her, or once did, and tears stream down her cheek as she whispers, traitor.
*
Gardener
They smile when they see her roses. Her little side project. This grouping is sunset orange. Lipstick pink. True red. Purple as an iris. A red so dark it is effectively black. Watch the thorns, she tells them, and they laugh.
She sets the bouquets personally. A half dozen true red at every setting. A human party save one; the kernan boy smiles nervously through his glamour. She touches his wrist. Watch the thorns, she tells him, and he nods. He is the only guest alive at the end of the night.
She is gone in the morning, and so are her roses.
*
Enchanter
They want jewelry that changes color to match their outfits. Trinkets that will make them more attractive, decorations that make the room smell nice, good luck charms.
Sometimes they want protection; they want to walk in the dark without fear. To find their way home no matter where they are. To know where their children are. They want a shield, a way out, a last resort.
This one wants to be invisible. He says no. This one wants to fly. He says no. This one wants a way to instill fear; this one wants to lie more effectively; this one wants to make her rival sick. Just sick. As a joke.
He says no; he knows if he says yes they will ask for more. For worse. He will not be responsible for such madness. Not again.
*
Warden
She is a shield, the first defense against danger and treachery, the first to suffer, the first to die. She is a safety-net, her spells holding you up if you fall, keeping you from the edge. She is a warning in case of fire or storm or ill-intentions.
She is overlooked. Each ward is a complex intertwining of actively worked magic that measures every whisper of air, that washes over you in a moment you barely notice. She stands to the side working tirelessly, weaving and reweaving and holding each strand in place, a webbed network that never sleeps. Wards fall apart on their own. She ensures this does not happen.
If you enter without permission, with ill-intention, her wards will wrap around you, hold you still. You cannot struggle. You cannot escape. You cannot move. You overlooked her, you didn't recognize the expertly weaved workings; you forgot they were there. You forgot she was there, and now it's too late. Now she has you.
*
There is no such thing as rebirth, no afterlife. You are born and you die. The inbetween is your business. The before and after belong to me. Souls are a finite resource, easily corruptible. You must return from whence you came or
Necromancer
Of course the dead can interact with the living. Death is not the final step. Yes I can step between Here and There, as a matter of fact the dead do not disappear, I see them when I
Ghost Seer
This ghost is not dangerous, only confused, and sending her Beyond takes only a brief conversation. He can see something, when she leaves, a glimpse into the Deadlands. He shouldn't look, he knows a Seer can lose themselves if they look, but he can't help but wonder that he's missing something. That there's something more to his gift, something else he's meant to do.
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I mean, overall? This is really great. I like the continuum of responses from horror to pride, and I like the... mm, strength, I guess, in each one. This is really well done!
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