asgardmeridiem | BURNING BRIDGES, PART ONE

Entry tags:

BURNING BRIDGES, PART ONE

Who: EVERYONE
What: The The BURNING BRIDGES Mingle Log (Part One of Two)
When: Days 421-422 (March 21-24)
Where: All over the city.
Rating: PG-13. Anything higher than that should be taken to a private log, please!

Day 421 ( Mar. 21/22 ): All throughout the day, the inhabitants of the Holy City will occasionally hear low rumbling sounds not unlike the beginnings of an earthquake, but nothing shakes or stirs beyond the quiet trickle of rain for most of the day. However, as the rain picks up and blots out the sunset, the rumbling grows louder just before a rift opens in the ground. Though it's not terribly deep, the split is two feet across at its widest and travels several hundred yards, starting from beneath the city wall at the corner of the Thor district and moving quickly into Loki's district. The ground nearby shifts somewhat with it and any buildings unfortunate to be affected will start to sink into the gap.

Any shouts of surprise or cries for help from this tear in the earth will be short lived, however, as large shards of ice begin to rip through the wall in various places throughout Sigyn and Hel's districts, piercing holes into anything - and anyone - in their path before shattering or melting. These are not directed or precise by any means; they fly in random places at random times. It may very well seem like the least coordinated attack ever and the Giants have really lost their game, but as the rumbling reaches its loudest peak, a burst of flame far outside the city wall may hint that it is not an attack at all. At least, not one intended for the Travellers.

To the east of the city, not nearly far enough from the thick wall that separates Asgard from the rest of Yggdrasil, a massive battle between the Frost Giants and the Fire Giants is being waged. What splinters off and reaches the city is purely by accident; collateral damage, as it were.

The shattering of rock and the splintering ice as well as bursts of flame and cracking of trees can be heard all throughout the night as more debris and stray projectiles find their way over the city wall. This can be anything from more needles of ice and much smaller cracks in the ground to flaming stones and sheets of hail. For now, these will remain small things that come over the wall rather than through it, but feel free to play around with what exactly comes your way.
Day 422 ( Mar. 23/24 ): The battle continues on into the next day, and by early morning, the city guard will ride through the city to alert everyone as to what's happening beyond the gates. From what they can see, Thiazi's army is pushing Surt's back and away as the Fire Giants attempt to encroach forward. They know of little else, but the battle is coming closer and closer to the city, which means the collateral damage will continue to worsen.

This is where the decision whether or not to fight will come in! The decision will be left to the Travellers in whether they ride out to force the Giants out of Asgard's land or simply bunker down and wait out the war. All action and inaction comes with a list of pros and cons, so consider it carefully before settling on your decision today.

[ OOC NOTES: This is the mingle log for the first half of the Burning Bridges event, leading up to the decision on how the Travelers will react to the battle. The poll, though closed, is located HERE for reference! The mingle log for the second half of this event will be going up soon, and a link will be provided here when it is.

A Special Note: As of the beginning of this event, god-given powers will now work outside of the Asgard. More information on this OOCly is forthcoming, and characters involved in the plot please be on the lookout for contact from us! Please feel free to assume that all Travelers have been made ICly aware of the fact that they can now use their powers outside of the city now.

Please put [OPEN/CLOSED] in the title of your comment, along with the time and location. Let us know if you have any questions! ]

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

Well, that's what they say about giants. You're in far less danger if they're actually aiming at you.

[This is probably more true of the giants in children's books that he's fond of, but all the same.]

Quentin, by the way.

I f-fear I'm no authority on, er, giants, either. This is all rather out of my j-jurisdiction. [My resume doesn't say anything about giants! Kyle Murchison Booth: Actual Human.]

[He shoots his companion a surprised look, before his expression softens into the pensive flatness of thought.] Er. Booth. O-obliged. [He'll hardly give his full name to someone who might share his particular... well, best not think on that. Quentin Murchison. Quentin Murchison Oglyvy. Why didn't he ask for a family tree when he saw those horrid people last?]

I've never done giants before, I will give you that.

[Though it does sort of give the place a feeling of hominess about it. This is a little like something out of Fillory.]

Thanks for your help, anyways. What were you doing out? Aren't people, uh- congregating, or anything? I feel like we should all have somewhere to gather when we're under siege.

[Never mind that Quentin has no idea if this is true or not, or where it would be if it were.]

[Not that Booth has had much experience with the wounded, but he was under the impression injuries were supposed to make one quiet and sullen. How disappointing.]

G-getting supplies. My, er, impression of a siege was to... stay put. [Until the mass hysteria and cannibalism starts, naturally. Booth's view of the world is very informed by books.] I c-can't say the idea of, er, gathering would be wise, would it? E-easy target.

[But Oh, Lord does Booth not want to get into an argument with this man. He cringes and turns away, hurrying him down another back alley as the walls shudder and shake around them. Far off, something explodes.]

Fuck. The hospital is probably totally overloaded-

[Pressing back against the edge of one wall out of instinct.]

Let's get to the nearest welcome hall instead. Those places are fortresses, and if I can get to clean water and some towels, I can take care of this pretty well.

[Everything has pretty much stopped bleeding, which in Quentin's estimation means that he isn't dying.]

[Booth just lingers toward the wall because he prefers not being seen. It's nothing sinister, but talking leads to confrontation, invariably. He'd argue, but he'd never argue. He just nods his head, acquiescing to the request of a younger man who may or may not be an insane relative. No questions asked.]

Er, yes. This way, then. Hel is, um. Well. My apartment is there. [He cringes, awaiting judgement, and his strides adopt a swifter pace. They're nearer to Hel than to the hospital, anyway, and he certainly has clean water and towels.]

Thanks, yeah, I'd really appreciate it.

[And if he keeps up a soft stream of profanity under his breath, it's all clearly directed at his cuts and the situation rather than at Booth, who he allows to lead the way.

He only grabs at his sleeve once, when another crash hits precariously close to them.]

[And Booth nearly jumps out of his skin. He's skittish to begin with, but when the explosion combines with the near physical contact- Booth gasps, and falls back against the wall. They're almost there. Just get home.]

[Home, ruled after a goddess of death. It's almost disappointing this fellow doesn't react with horror. He's a good little Murchison, if he is one.]

[Finally, they arrive. Booth scurries in the front hall, scrambling toward his apartment. He hates this place, and the only thing worse than being in it is the possibility of being caught by another inhabitant. He opens the door and is quick to slip inside, leaving it open for Quentin and shutting it quickly behind him.]

[Booth's apartment is painfully neat, as though uninhabited entirely. The only thing that sets it apart as incontrovertibly Booth's are all the books. Books, scattered everywhere, on nearly every surface, litter the apartment. Along them several notes and notebooks are scattered, some in Latin and Greek, others clearly encoded, and some in the lingua franca of Asgard.. The books themselves range on various subjects, but most center around runic magic, spiritualism, death magic, ancient history, and the occult.]

[So, he wasn't expecting company.]

Er- I'll get the, ah, the towels, if you would- that- that is, I'm sorry about the mess... [He dithers for a few more moments before going to, as he said, retrieve said towels.]

[Booth.

Booth you are amazing.]

That's fine-

[Protesting his apology, already sounding very distracted, reading over a particularly promising little bit of Greek that frankly he could spend a full afternoon philosophizing about comfortably.

Quentin is transfixed, will probably stand here bleeding on Booth's carpet if he isn't prompted to move, but this is... this is as close to the magic from home as he's felt in months. This looks like any one of the professor's offices in Brakebills. This looks like his own research notes, from the time he was perfecting the reverse-entropy spell. This looks like Alice's work on the big old Renaissance spells, or even Josh's work on magnetic leylines and portal algebra.

But the death magic, Jesus;]

D'you have any- uh- scissors?

[Quentin has seen a lot, and he's never seen anything like it. Classically trained magicians don't tend to dabble down those lines where he's from.]

[Booth sees Quentin studying his notes, and internally, he cringes. What will be his judgement? Invariably, Booth expects derision and disappointment, if not disgust outright. He shakes his head, and hands the fellow a towel. This is what he gets for a moment of fleeting kindness and empathy, isn't it. A possible cousin getting blood on his carpet.]

[At least he's not a werewolf. Probably.] Shears? I, er. I have a penknife. [Semper imparatus.]

Edited (wow its 1am did u kno) 2014-03-26 06:04 (UTC)

This is actually some of the best work I've ever seen.

[He says, totally failing to respond to the bit about the pen knife, because... because magic.]

I mean, from what I can see. It's pretty obvious that Circumstances work very differently where you're from, but- or actually, is this all for Asgard? I've been trying every spell I know in every possible permutation for weeks, and I haven't gotten any purchase with anything that wasn't purely runic. Which is fine, I mean, they're a classic for a reason, but they're also pretty limiting.

[This is how his terrible social awkwardness finds its' way to the surface; a tendency to prattle about things that set his mind going.]

[Yes, a possible cousin, bleeding on his carpet and complimenting a work with possible necromantic concepts. Booth represses an internal shudder, but... well, magic. It's, at least, a subject he feels comfortable discussing. Even if effusive praise is alien-- Booth isn't sure how to respond.]

Er. [...It's a start.] The, er, precepts of this place are clearly alien entirely to my experience, that is, o-only runic magic seems to have any, er, effect. A blessing, I suppose, for- for safety's sake. [You can't bring people back from the dead with runes ...Booth is pretty sure you can't bring people back with runes.]

[He feels dirty, now.] Er, the- the towel. Here. [He hands it to Quentin.]

Right. Thanks.

[Taking it from him, and then moving to sit down on the nearest part of the floor that is tiled. His tshirt is all glued down one side of his body by the blood.]

That penknife?

[Working at cautiously unsticking it, obviously intending to cut the thing off.]

I guess this place could definitely be a powder keg, if we could all use magic. Don't you miss it, though?

Oh- yes. [Booth reaches forward, groping blindly for the coffee table, so he can retrieve... an unabridged edition of Clarissa by Richardson. Opening it reveals that more than half of the interior pages have been scooped out like a pumpkin. The interior cavern is a secret compartment, mostly filled with folded pocket handkerchiefs and a feather. Booth retrieves the lone penknife from the pile, and closes the book, putting it back down on the coffee table. He hands it to Quentin.]

I- I surely don't. Magic, that is. It's- it's magic. [As though that explains the entire problem.]

Edited 2014-03-26 16:54 (UTC)

Exactly. Going without it is like- is like having a limb amputated.

[Which isn't consciously related to what Booth is about to learn when Quentin cuts his shirt off, but certainly makes a fairly good conversation starter. One of his shoulders is basically gone. Above a ragged semi-circle that looks suspiciously like the gaping maw of a beast, his shoulder is no longer flesh.

Part of his body is replaced with wood. The wood is smooth and organic and rippling, bunching like muscle would when he reaches and twists. His arm begins again about halfway down the bicep, though how it gets bloodflow is a bit of a mystery. As luck would have it, the ice caught him on the other side. He's more than a little glad about this; skin heals, but the shoulder already has a nasty deep chip on it, and he doesn't think it would be receptive to modern techniques of furniture repair.]

[Booth sees that he's been misunderstood, but he's too milquetoast to correct his companion. Magic is danger and death, darkness and terror. A shambling monster in the night, it is the watcher in the corners. It cannot make life, only imitate it, and its imitations are invariably satire, a mockery: a modern Prometheus.]

[Booth gapes at Quentin's shoulder in transparent horror.] I- m-my condolences. [To think what the burden of that wooden flesh must weigh. For a moment, Booth forgets to be disgusted, and is left quietly mournful, almost sympathetic. This is the emotion that caused Booth to reach out in the first place, to try to help. He summons the true opposite of magic: human sympathy.] I'll- I'll get m-more water. And soap? Er. I may have some steel wool.

[Things Booth has never had to worry about: blood stains on wood.]

It's fine. It doesn't hurt at all. Centaur magic; they're powerfully good at healing.

[Promising him, flexing and rolling the wood to show him. He has no real shame about his shoulder, though remembering the battle where his chest was crushed is far from pleasant.]

I could use clean cloth, if you have any- I'd tear my tshirt into strips otherwise, but if there's any sort of first aid kit around that might be better. I might have bandages at my place, but...

That- that isn't healing. It's replacement. [All things must have their proper classification, after all, and healing magic simply isn't possible. He'd laugh at the mention of centaurs, but then, hasn't he met goblins? Doesn't he miss them?]

[He shakes his head.] Er. That is, yes. I have towels, I'll- I hardly mind if you have to tear them. S-surely they're more absorbent than... [Whatever strange clothes people wear around here that are clearly not suitable for company. Booth is, after all, wearing a suit reminiscent of the cut fashionable in the late 20s. Like a gentleman.]

[So he scurries off to retrieve more towels and dishcloths, like a gentleman ought.]

This one needs to be bandaged, though.

[Gingerly looking down at the deepest one on his forearm.]

I say like I'm any good at this. I'm really not, but as long as it doesn't get infected, right?

[Asgard has antibiotics.]

[Booth grimaces.] I, er, have some Merbromin. [Asgard also has antiseptics, of all kinds. Of course, the stuff's only for minor cuts, and Booth wonders if it will even be effective, now. Only one way to find out, though. Conveniently, he has some on the coffee table. Paper cuts, you see. He hands it to Quentin.]

Er, you can sit down, if you... [Booth moves some books off the sofa, so there's more room to sit.]

Thanks. Seriously, I owe you.

[Collapsing onto his couch, starting to gently clean out the cut. Luckily the ice is melted so there's no need to pick anything out.]

So how did you get into magic?

[Booth grimaces, though, considering how often that's true, it hardly rates as an exciting development. He thinks about Blaine, and Helena's shambling smile. He thinks about cleaning up after them. He... he shakes his head.] A friend. He, er... needed some help with something. [Booth just about collapses into a chair facing Quentin. This is all very stressful.] Y-you?

After high school I was whisked off to a magical boarding school after I flagged in their system for accidentally triggering something during a mundane bit of sleight of hand.

[Beginning the delicate process of daubing the blood away.]

It was all very storybook. Or New York Times Bestseller, maybe. So are you a hedgewitch- er- mostly self-taught?

[This, at least, is a relief. Nothing remotely like that exists in Booth's recollection, and he's confident he'd know of such a twisted institution. The mortality rate must be obscene. Regardless of Quentin's survival, they are not, and never were, related. It's a weight lifted from Booth's shoulders, relaxing him enough to speak clearly.]

Self-taught. Where I am from, are no such... schools as you describe. Wh-what on Earth is a hedge-witch?

It's someone who learns outside of a conventional institution. They've got this weird thing going on where they tend to be either total mediocrities- and that's most of them- or incredibly powerful.

[Explaining as he works.]

I think it's because they learn without safety protocols. Anyone who is smart enough to get good without a professor walking them through the basics also has no one there to teach them any of the safety protocols. So you end up with this sort of raw, totally unfettered talent. Classically trained magicians work like scalpels, hedgewitches of power work like battle axes, but burn themselves into husks or fuck up something big with depressing frequency.

Edited (musician, magician, same thing, right?) 2014-03-31 23:59 (UTC)

BURNING BRIDGES, PART ONE

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