come_sailaway | Anyone can learn to fight. Hardly anyone learns to think. [Open + Closed]

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Anyone can learn to fight. Hardly anyone learns to think. [Open + Closed]

Who: Palamedes and you! (closed prompt for Clarke)
What: Pre-Setepmber 16 catch all, feat. necromancy research + moral arguments.
Where: Sand Dollars, Cabin 105, out and about
When: late August/early September
Warnings ETA: Gideon the Ninth spoilers within, particularly in any threads regarding Pal's notes!

1. Truth unvarnished, and truth unclean [Closed: for Clarke]

As Palamedes walks to Clarke’s cabin, he can feel his adrenaline spike and his body reduce its blood flow to his digestive track.

In other words, he has butterflies in his stomach.

Pal tells himself that this silly physiological reaction is merely a result of concern over his friend’s wellbeing. A few days have passed since their near-death experience at the hands of a zombie horde, and Pal has spent much of that time dead asleep from exhaustion. Now that he has fully returned to the waking world, he sets about doing his doctorly duty to check on his friends injuries. He starts with Clarke because he hadn’t had the chance to examine her before they had parted. She’d brushed him off, and he’d let her, and he needs to make sure that that was the right call.

Are there other reasons he is going to see her? Sure, yes, maybe. But he would much rather stick to the practicalities for now. After all, Palamedes has far more experience with those than he does with matters of the heart.

2. Hold on to that edge, and keep holding. [Semi-open: for anyone who has expressed interest in necromancy or figuring out the Captain's Whole Deal]

Each carefully-wrapped gift appears innocent enough, but Palamedes knows by now not to be placated. He had picked them up from Sundries the day before, and now they each sit on his desk in his cabin while he stares at them, trying to guess what wonder or horror might wait inside. Four are clearly books; another is a jar; the last an annoyingly nondescript box.

Merely looking at them reveals nothing, of course—x-ray vision is not among Pal’s many skills—and he finally gives up on hypothesizing and tears the wrapping off the damn things. The first package he opens is one of the books, Applied Spirit Microchemistry, and he smiles with wary relief. Well, that will be useful. His relief only grows: each book is a primer on some aspect of necromancy, and the jar contains a conductive gel known to improve psychometric abilities.

But the last box is where things get really interesting. Pal unwraps it, lifts the lid, and murmurs, “Hot damn.”

Immediately, he takes out his phone and sends a text to a handful of select friends.

Good morning! Yesterday I received a box of notes related to a pre- Serena Eterna research project of mine. I believe they may be relevant to our current predicament, and I would greatly appreciate a consultation. If interested, please stop by Cabin 105 at your earliest convenience. PS

[ooc: have you had a conversation with Pal about either necromancy or the Captain? You're getting a text!]

3. An afterlife subscription to Palamedes Sextus’ Top Nerd Facts [Open to all]

The packages are useful for reasons that go beyond his search to learn more about the Captain and free the ship’s passengers from bondage—they have a more immediate application as well. Over the past few weeks, Palamedes has spoken to a number of people who have expressed interest in learning necromantic theory. Each request thrills him, for the only non-necromancer he has ever known to show such interest is Camilla Hect.

He has begun to share the basics with a select group of people already, but now he has the textbooks to help him along. Camped out at Sand Dollars, the books laid open on the table, he busily sketches lesson plans in his notebook, periodically looking up to refer to one of the texts or turn a page.

His box of notes—photographs, in fact, showing the walls of a small room covered in necromantic theorems—also sits on the table. While not exactly basic necromancy, his research on lyctorhood is now rarely far from his mind.

4. Use that big, muscular brain of yours [Wildcard]

[Got another prompt you want to throw into the mix? Go for it!]

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

If Clarke ever tries to explain the logic of her own lack of self-preservation, Palamedes will most certainly have words. Those words are likely to be kinder than those they are sharing now, but no less exasperated. What good does it do anyone if you’re hurt? Why should you make a grand gesture and leave the rest of us to pick up the pieces? We need you alive and whole, Clarke.

That would have been an interesting sentiment coming from someone who once made a grand gesture of his own and left his best friend to literally pick up the pieces. But that’s not the argument they’re having right now, in any case.

This argument deals with something significantly more immediate. Pal hadn’t planned to bring it up; he’s still angry with her, but it’s an anger that doesn’t negate the fact that he admires the way she did get so many of them back safe. It’s a lingering frustration that reminds him that, yes, someday they will need to have a serious discussion about triage and rescue strategies, while being tempered by his immediate concern over her well-being.

So much for that.

“Well, at least you’ll concede that point,” says Pal dryly, still smarting over her retort that his opinion wasn’t important. “I know that point exists. But it changes based on one’s own position, does it not? I warded the rover; that gave us an edge, and we should have used that edge to help those who were far less lucky than us.”

"It did give us an edge. Same as Jade's Meteor Storm, and Natsuno with the flamethrower, and whatever Rita was doing —" Look, they're not close nor think incredibly highly of each other, but Clarke still trusts the other girl had pulled her weight.

It's only just the beginning, and thus far she wouldn't class this as a full-scale argument yet. They're not going in screaming, no one's throwing absolutely horrible accusations in the others face, voices still at even measure, hands more twitching nervously than gesturing wildly or prodding vehemently at each others chests. It's just... a mild disagreement. A give take of concessions and acknowledgements without moving an inch from the position one stood.

And thus Clarke's tone is still gentle, inviting. See it my way.

"And we needed every inch of that edge just to get back to the diner. It wasn't a smooth ride, we could have really lost people if not for that other car showing up when it did. I wasn't about to spend more time out in that hoard than we had to."

It’s true—for now, the two of them remain relatively calm. They are irritated, perhaps. Tired. Frustrated. But they are still two people who think that they can convince one another if they can just find the correct tactic. Clarke’s gentle appeal doesn’t shake Pal’s resolve, but her tone is enough to make him listen respectfully.

“No doubt. And I commend you for getting us to safety even under such perilous circumstances.” See, Pal has even got compliments! “But it wasn’t a straightforward race to a finish line, and it never could have been. We could have gotten more people safe inside the car—the margins were slim, but it was possible. I did the math.”

Now just to see how long that lasts...

Because the cracks in Clarke's patience have been established long before this conversation; they're tired and weathered grooves in her self restraint. And while she could follow conversational norms and matches the complimentary cadence Pal sets forth (almost says something to the effect of math in the middle of the zombie apocalypse is admirable), it's a bit of a big ask over the frustration (who does math in the middle of a mad dash for our lives? that's the time for action and instinct, not equations.)

"We had nine. And I wasn't about to gamble those nine on slim-to-none margins and a possibility. Nine — so that's everyone I dragged out there in the first place, plus one. All the rest had their own mode of transportation, they could get themselves out."

“The trouble is, Clarke, that you seem awfully certain about those slim-to-none odds with no data to back it up.” Remaining calm doesn’t stop Palamedes from being irritating as hell; he’s the heir to the House of the Sixth and, yes, the kind of person who did math in the middle of a zombie war zone, and that means that condescension comes easy to him. Perhaps too easy, from time to time. “Look,” he holds up his hands, “it was a decision that necessarily needed to be made in haste. What is done is done. But next time something dreadful happens, it’s worth considering all the tools at our disposal and doing what we can to keep as many people as possible safe.”

Oh, but that condescension grates, right down to the petty bone and — yeah, that's it ladies and gentlemen, that's exactly how long the diplomatic, calm approach holds out on Clarke's end.

The guise of amenable and receptive is still in place, there's even the hint of a forced smile around her mouth when she snaps — "Or next time, you can just drive and be the one actually in charge of the lives of everyone on board."

It's an easier seat, the passenger side. A lot more time to do math and think about heroics when someone else is driving.

Palamedes has always been more comfortable with the do math and think side of things than the action side of things; on the one hand, he is at least aware of the fact, but on the other, he sometimes forgets that it means he misses certain perspectives. “If I was driving, we would have crashed within five minutes and been swarmed by zombies,” he deadpans. “You know that as well as I do.”

This might have been Clarke’s snapping point, but her response actually makes Pal deflate a little. He sits in one of the cabin’s chairs and runs his hand through his hair. “That’s precisely why I told you to turn back, Clarke. I was trying to offer guidance. You had a massive task ahead of you in merely steering the damn rover, whereas I had the capacity to focus on the bigger picture. That’s what I do. That’s what Cam and I—“

He cuts off, shaking his head. That’s what Cam and I would have done, he nearly says, but something catches in his throat. And maybe, here, is the real source of his frustration, his disappointment. If Camilla were here, she would have been in the driver’s seat. He would have warded the car, and told her to turn around, and she would have done it. What he feels for Clarke isn’t what he feels for Camilla Hect, but the connection the two of them have built on the Serena Eterna has been real, and deep, and important. And when she had ignored him it had surprised him. It had stung, not only from disappointment, but from the reminder of how far he is from home.

She throws down vitriol tainted fighting words and expects the same back in kind. It's telling to Clarke's internal meter for fights, this still feels like the buildup to something more explosive — condemnations of her character, cruel dismissal of his ideals. Call her horrible, tell him he's like a child still believing in the notion of good guys from storybooks. Every inch of her is braced for this conversation to spiral in that direction, but then Palamedes seemingly deflates. Sits heavily in a chair, cards his fingers through his hair while she's left unsure of what to do with her hands.

But he lays bare the truth of the matter. Intentionally or not. Cut off or not. The urge to unglue her feet from the tacky Serena Eterna carpet and flood towards him in this moment of emotion is strong. It'd be so easy to bridge that distance between them and sink to her knees in front of his chair, reach out a hand, wrap her arms around his torso and squeeze, offer anything more tangibly comforting than space. But she's rigid.

"...I'm not your Cavalier, Pal."

Can't be. Won't be. Wouldn't ever want to encroach on the bond he shares with the infamous Camilla Hect the same as she hopes he'd never stand between her and Bellamy Blake if he ever returned. The two of them, they'd friends first. And friends don't do that to each other. Whatever purposefully unnamed addition had been sprinkled in somewhere between laughing in the dust at the base of a cliff face and laughing over scars in the passenger seat of the rover isn't supposed to change that. For whatever it's worth, Clarke's tone struggles but ultimately drops; dips into something gentler, understanding. The grief is genuine when she says —

"And I'm sorry for that."

Well and truly. For all the existential harm it did her, conversing with Gal Friday had really hammered home what it would mean to be separated from the person who holds the largest part of your soul in their hands.

"But small picture first. I won't apologize for doing what I felt I had to in order to get all of us — and you, especially — out of there alive."

“Oh, believe me, I know,” says Palamedes, his words sharper and harsher than he intends. He hadn’t expected to tear off that particular scab, though, and now that he has, it hurts, and he just wants it to stop hurting, and that means briefly blaming his friend for not being who he wants her to be.

But Pal is rational and fair to a fault, and throwing accusations at Clarke is neither fair nor rational. He takes off his glasses and presses his thumb and forefinger against his closed eyes. “I know,” he says, quieter now. “And I don’t expect you to be. I swear it.” He swallows and opens his eyes to look at her. “And I do apologize for implying otherwise.”

He huffs, the sound a laugh, if a weary one. “Oh, I’d never expect you to apologize for that. You made a calculation and acted accordingly. I still say you were wrong, and I won’t apologize for telling you as much, but I don’t expect you to say sorry for disagreeing in good faith.”

Sharp words don't cut, and the apology isn't necessary. This is just a different shade of their conversation in the Rover, isn't it? Only this time there's no beating sunlight, no dust, and they don't inch forward running on the fumes of human desire to ease lonliness. This time it festers, in long silences and the physical space between them.

But Clarke does get it. Doesn't want to think too hard on who she'd inadvertently chosen to fill the void Bellamy Blake left; her other hand, arguably a part of her soul, her support beam and the poor soul that has to bear the weight of every heavy subject she spits out. The heart to her head — though maybe it was the other way around this time. Still, projection only gets you so far. Ghosts don't fill the space nearly as easily as the very real people in front of you, no matter how hard that is to swallow.

Pal looks at her, and Clarke would still very much like to crowd forward and ease those lines on his face — the ache in his chest — with the distraction of touch. Just a hand on his shoulder, a solid and reassuring squeeze. But as of yet, she makes no move.

"So does that mean we're at an impasse? And is it one we can still coexist in?"

Clarke will listen, but not take blind orders. And never at the expense of following what her gut tells her is the right course of action. This feels a lot like a peace talk, and contingent on both sides making concessions that detract from their sole ideals.

Elbows resting on his knees, Palamedes turns his glasses over in his hands. “It means we negotiate. Not about the past, which is always a fool’s errand, but about the future. We’re a good team, Clarke,” he meets her gaze then, and his cheeks go just a little bit pink, “but we can’t read each other’s minds, and we don’t have a full grasp of one another’s capabilities. You don’t know the strength of a good blood ward, and I don’t know what it takes to plow an ancient, petroleum-powered vehicle through an army of poorly preserved constructs. Emperor almighty, every Seventh House adept alive would throw themselves off Mount Ishtar if they got one look at that shoddy workmanship.” Pal gives a long-suffering sigh, only just managing to suppress a tangent regarding his opinion on the beguiled corpse vis a vis the horde of the undead they had so recently encountered. “My point is, no wonder we disagreed in the moment. Neither of us understood all of the variables involved.”

He puts his glasses back on his face and clasps his hands together. Suddenly shy, his gaze flickers away from her. “Thankfully, learning from one another is something I’m quite certain we can do.”

Unsure if she was expecting argument or acquiescence, but it was one of the two. The first gave leave to slip off the handle and continue biting at each other with carefully measured jaw pressure, but fighting all the same — which had been familiar before, and become oddly comfortable in her time on the ship. The former more like permission, because once they were in agreement, she could crowd forward and maybe hug his head to her stomach; he looks as tired as she feels, and the gap between them is not a pleasant one — morally and physically. Instead she gets the friend/ally version of a peace-talk proposal. It's the most constructive route, yet still catches by surprise when her spine's still ramrod straight and teeth still set like one braces for a blow to the face.

The best Clarke can immediately give is... a small correction.

"It's also solar powered." In regard to the Rover and gasoline. There'd been solar panels along the siding, and last she'd seen they'd been splattered in gore and cracked from zombie impact, but it's a sticking point. Not everyone can resist dipping their toes in tangents, but like beguiled corpse she reigns in the renewable energy discussion. Neither mattered in the grand scheme. No, instead Pal's offering what feels like a level ground, carved out flat amidst a series of what could have been deep crevasses that swallow people and their high horses whole. A better and easier place to meet, an offer to learn — and maybe to agree.

And that's decidedly enough. He won't look at her for long, and the best way to fix that is take the few steps it takes to crowd into his space, and sink onto both knees between his feet at the wheels of the desk chair.

"Okay." Clarke will concede first, then. Though every concession she gives comes with fragile, break in case of emergency strings attached. Both her elbows take up his own recently vacated spots on this thighs. And she dips her head, trying to get under his gaze and drag stone grey eyes back to her face by sheer force of (beseeching) will. Look at me, in unspoken terms. Palamedes Sextus clasps his hands together in composure, and in opposition Clarke Griffin holds both of hers palm up and open in the small space between them.

Let's do that.

"Then let's discuss variables."

Let's learn.

Edited 2022-09-24 10:05 (UTC)

“See? What the hell do I know about terrestrial vehicles?” Pal doesn’t smile, but his eyes twinkle with warmth, with a self-deprecating kind of joke. Even geniuses can’t know everything.

She comes close to him then, close enough that he can either turn away or look at her, and the last thing he wants to do is turn away. Purposeful or not, Clarke’s posture is one of supplication without being surrender, and that makes his heart clench in a way he can’t quite parse. He cups her cheek, then slides his hand down slightly to find her pulse. It’s a relief to feel it beat under his fingers, for beneath all that stiff, Sixth House logic, he has been worried about Clarke’s well-being since they turned away from each other after their mad dash back through the portal a few days before. Despite her stubbornness, and aching ribs, and the soles of her feet ripped to ribbons, she is all right.

Lightly, he places his palms against her upturned ones. “And since you said you wanted to learn more about wards, anyway, we can start there. D’you have some paper I can use?”

It's purposeful. And practiced not once, not twice, but thrice before — at the very least. But never without the earnest and honest intent behind kneeling in front of someone she wants to build bridges with, instead of burn them to ashes. It's different here; she's not begging Bellamy not to go to war, she's not in a throne room hoping this gesture is enough to save everyone she loves, and she's not offering to act as a failed god's war hammer. It's the same flurry of measured attrition, but still on uneven footing and not knowing how it'll end. Handcuffs, rebellion, winged regrets...

But Pal just presses his palm to her cheek, slides down to feel the rhythmic thumpwoosh of blood thrumming through her jugular vein. And that'd be weird from a lot of people, but eeks out the ghost of a smile because it's him, and that just fits. It isn't... a happy smile; not bright and unencumbered like the last time he'd had her heartbeat beneath fingertips, but it's something. An attempt, a start, at the very least a sign of agreement.

Then down to take her hands in turn, and at least with palm against palm and her fingers curling to squeeze his, Palamedes can't properly feel the way her pulse spikes at the mention of wards drawn out for her.

"Yeah." The closest paper is still the notebook on the coffee table, already half-full of rendered sigils she'd stolen. Clarke purposefully doesn't acknowledge it, and nods her chin towards the desk behind them instead. "I've got pens and notebooks in the drawers. Help yourself."

A gesture can be both calculated and true, and Palamedes is enough of a realist to recognize the fact. Matters between Pal and Clarke never have been and never will be pure and simple; their connection is built on both the fact that they like each other and they need each other’s skills to survive this place. So let Clarke have her ulterior motive. It’s enough that this time she means it, and enough that under most circumstances, Pal would barely blink at the sight of a pretty blond puddled at his feet.

Pal kisses her temple—quickly, briefly, before he can decide that the gesture is just to sentimental to be tolerated—and stands to retrieve a notebook from the desk. Don’t think he hasn’t noticed the state of the coffee table, though. Pointedly, he returns there with paper and pen, casting a brief but pointed glance at the other sigils before he begins to draw.

His lesson picks up where they had left off at camp, showing that this kind of ward would merely warn the creator if someone crossed it, while this one would fully bar them from entering. He sketches another that’s particularly for revenants, and explains that he had layered this one on top of the one for people when warding the rover against the zombies.

And that’s when he finally references the other notes spread out on the table. “But it looks like you’re already investigating layered wards. It’s a good instinct, but keep in mind, we have no idea how the different systems interact with one another. We'll need to test them carefully.”

(Hey Pal, how does it feel to be stronger than a god?)

Sometimes moments play at a tortoise speed, and sometimes it's a blink of an eye and done. The brush of a kiss at her temple is the latter, almost akin to being shot in the same spot for how brief a touch it is, how unexpected it is in the wake of an argument, and for how effectively it roots her in place. Clarke can't even think to strain her neck and try to chase that brief spell of gentle affection into a carnal corner, and hasn't managed to move off her knees by the time Palamedes returns with pen and paper. Just settles her hands in her lap and ignores the jarringly dark (you don't flush normally when every drop of your body is pitch black) coloration that stains up her throat, around her jaw, and to the base of her ears.

Weird. Grossly intimate. Do it again.

Any verbal response is arrested in her throat though, and they're quickly moving on to lessons in blood sigils and wards. And that's what she'd wanted, right? So smother any additional distraction, lean in to look at his sketches on lined notebook paper, and banish the thought. By this point, Clarke's been staring so long and hard at the sigils she'd amassed through (theft) research, that lines and whorls and circles and arrows start reading like a second language. Watching Pal draw out dimensional shapes instantly clicks with their foundational meaning — a line here meant to symbolize a barrier, this one more like a tripwire trap, and where she can't quite parse out the difference between living human and beguiling corpse in his artistry, she's intent on learning.

There's not a lot of questions on Clarke's side until the end. She's opening her mouth to ask — "How many layers can you put on a ward?"

But Pal's casting a sidelong glance at the coffee table and — oh god dammit. Where she'd previously thought the pages immaculately obscured and the covered closed, from this side of the table she can see a few stray, untethered pages sticking out. Most notably the one with a detailed recreation of the charm/curse Rita Mordio had gotten from beneath the bridge door in their very first month on board. That, at least, isn't the most incriminating evidence. And it's actually the only one she's yet to crack, so — upon recognition, Clarke reaches over to gently tug the piece of paper loose.

"This is one of the Captain's. Actually, the only one I know he uses, so we at least know it works here. Or should — I still haven't figured out what it means. So how do we go about testing it?"

"As many as you want, I suppose. But at a certain point you're just, I don't know, stacking furniture in front of a locked door. The added protection is minimal."

Clarke explains the drawing, and Pal all but snatches it up, bringing it close to his face to scrutinize every line and whorl. After a moment he takes off his glasses and sets them down, squinting at the paper while he reaches blindly for his pencil and paper. Somehow or another he manages to grab what he needs, and he begins to draw.

"We replicate it. We should try blood and bone, as well as a combination of the two. I can create a construct to test the effects." He looks at Clarke with a sly sort of smile. "And we should both try it--I'm curious to see if and how necromatic ability changes the results."

A slight chill of apprehension crawls up her spine, an anxiety beast with talons at the end of it's feet that dig between each vertebrae and almost set her to shivering. It has been a tightly held secret that Clarke's been experimenting with sigil magic at all, thus far only Skulduggery Pleasant being privy to the fact seeing as he'd walked in on her. She fears reprimand and lecture at best, and at worst someone trying to strongarm her into stopping when it feels like the best possible thing to attempt, in a vain effort of leveling the playing field. Looking at every person she's called friend, and all the others she'd consider an enemy, it feels like a distinct disadvantage to be painfully, utterly human on this ship. Waterproofing a notebook all those weeks back had felt like a lifeline in a sea of inadequacy, and losing that...

But before Clarke can get too far ahead of herself in that regard, it better registers that Pal's suggesting they try this together, meaning he can't disprove too much to the idea... And also doesn't know about the other sigils, or her past attempts. Doesn't need to know about how much time she's spent poring over geometrical rough drafts of sigils that took the building blocks of Ebalons, meshed them with a mirror surface like Skulduggery's, and would be drawn in blood like Pal's once she felt more confident.

So after a bite of hesitation, she offers:

"I've tried it before. But I think I keep messing up the little symbols in the outer ring. Will you help me make sure I get it right this time?"

“Gladly.” As far as necromantic magic goes, wards are fairly innocent in Palamedes’ book, and so he has fewer concerns about Clarke’s investigation into this topic than he might in others. He isn’t entirely convinced that she can make one that actually works, anyway—not because he doubts her intelligence or her determination, but because the idea that someone without aptitude execute a workable ward still sounds ridiculous to him.

Someday he may regret both of these assumptions, but not yet.

For now, he offers the tiniest grin. Palamedes Sextus would like to think he was above being thrilled to have a girl he likes ask him will you help me? but he is, after all, only human. “We can try a few more straightforward ones as well, just to help you get the hang of it. As Scholar Hatodik used to remind us ad infinitum: wards are about intention as much as they are about precision.”

A girl he likes who's still on her knees asking for help with steady, prolonged eye contact — though it's fair to register that the clouding of her eyes constantly shifts from guarded to curious, to eager, to something hard and indeterminant, then back to guarded, and finally settled on intrigued and committed. Asking for help is hard, and another extension of trust as much as it's instructional means to an end.

Also, a girl very ready to do blood magic with him.

Intention rings true to past teachings, but Clarke's glossing over that with a simple, steadfast nod.

"Let's start with this one." The big one, the one that's had her stumped and him taking off his glasses to squint at in fascination. "Then there's scalpels and gauze in the bottom drawer."

Leave it to Clarke to completely reject Pal’s suggestion that they start with something simple. Pal rolls his eyes, but he’s also suppressing a smile. That’s exactly what he would do, after all.

He nods, returning his glasses to his face, and gets up to fetch the supplies. “Clear a space on the table and lay out some paper. You’ll want a small stack of it to avoid us seeping through all the way to the wood. The last thing we want is some half-constructed ward permanently stained into your furniture. We’ll need a dish, too, to collect the blood. Do you have disinfectant?”

Is it deeply weird just how prepared Palamedes is to finger paint with human blood? Yes, yes it is. But such is the life of a necromancer.

Smaller wards are great, and very informative, especially coming with her own personal teacher to explain what each and every single one of them meant. But that does detract some of the mystery, and as much as Pal gravitates towards deducing answers, Clarke leans towards surmounting the previous impossible — all in the name of science and knowledge, of course.

He gives his list, and it serves as a starting pistol cap in a horse race. Suddenly, finally, she's up off the ground and digging through the contents of her room like one only can when intimately familiar with the chaotic landscape they've cultivated themselves. Over to her stores of necessities by the window and back with a bottle of antiseptic, into the bathroom to collect two errand teacup saucers that have just been living in there (giving each a rinse in the sink before hand, of course) and a towel just in case. These are unceremoniously dumped into Pal's hands so he can appraise and approve. Then to her desk, pulling out three brand new, capped scalpels and a fresh notebook.

At the coffee table proper, she's clearing things off with haste (the notebook with all her other sigils is placed on the floor and covertly shoved beneath the couch) before ripping piece after piece of paper from the composition book and layering them over top of each other across the entire length.

Let's do blood art, baby~

With a murmured perfect, Palamedes lays out the supplies on the coffee table, neatly lining up the scalpels next to the cups and the gauze, the towel folded nearby. He straightens the pile of papers and sets the mysterious ward propped on an upright book.

Before reaching for the sharps, though, Pal takes his pencil out from behind his ear and begins to copy the strange design, just to get the feel of the shape of it. Before long, he’s urging Clarke to do the same. While she may have attempted the sigil before, she clearly needs more practice to make it work. He shows her how to break down the whorls and shapes into sections and take each one separately; he notes the pieces that look familiar to him, and those he hasn’t seen before; he admonishes her more than once to relax and let her drawing flow more freely.

Only when they have both perfected the sigil in graphite does he hand Clarke a cup and a scalpel. “Archivist Zeta would be devastated if she knew she was missing this,” Pal says cheerfully as he slices into the webbing between his thumb and forefinger with barely a wince. Blood wells up, and he lets a few drops run into the cup. “An absolute maniac for wards, that woman.”

Clarke follows the direction to pick up a pencil and sketch the ward well enough. It's actually a fabulous idea, and contrary to her quiet thought that the sigils had to be pure blood with nothing like graphite intervening. Here she'd been spending careful hours glancing between her notebooks and the bloodied masterpieces in front of her, hunched with concentration on every minor detail until her back ached. This? Right here? Is going to be so much easier going forward...

There's a brief — I am relaxed — rebuke in return to those admonishments, and her hand cramps by the end because that'd been an absolute lie. But then they're there, with two mysterious magic symbols sketched out on paper and ready to wet them with lifeblood and intent. Clarke goes for the back of her hand again, cutting a thin two-inch rivet from between two knuckles and down towards her wrist, and instantly rewarded with a welling pool of black dripping across the back of her hand.

Super casually and conversationally, like they're not holding their hands above coffee mugs and simultaneously bleeding two steady, very different colored streams of hemoglobin.

"That's your mother, right? Do you always call her by title and name?"

Would you believe that this is a perfectly normal classroom experience for a young necromancer? It’s time to work on wards, scholars, get out your scalpels and your crucibles! Their set-up may be a bit more catch-as-catch-can than the average Sixth House teaching laboratory, but it’s similar enough, and that includes the idle chatter while they wait for enough blood to pool in their chosen receptacles.

“Not always--well, not when she’s being particularly irritating. Then she’s ‘mum.’ “ He smiles wistfully. Even if he finds his way home, Pal is keenly aware that he might never see his mother again. Fuck, but he misses her. “We don’t place a lot of emphasis on nuclear family units on the Sixth, and Zeta isn’t particularly maternal. She likes titles, too.” He makes a face. “No, that makes her sound like a snob, and that isn’t it. She likes to acknowledge when people have earned something, and expects the same in return.”

Pal eyes the puddle of blood in his cup and glances at Clarke’s. “Mm, that should be enough for the first trial. Here—“ He cuts off a strip of gauze for himself and wraps it around his hand, and then cuts another strip for Clarke.

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