Palamedes Sextus (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
hellonspectacles) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
come_sailaway2022-09-03 02:27 pm
hellonspectacles) wrote in come_sailaway2022-09-03 02:27 pm
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!]
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!]
no subject
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.
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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?”
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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."
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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.”
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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?"
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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."
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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?"
no subject
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.”
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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."
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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.
no subject
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~
no subject
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.”
no subject
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?"
no subject
“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.
no subject
Un-cut hand out to accept the strip of gauze, and busying herself winding it into a general sort of pressure bandage around her palm, the casual conversation continues to be laced with an idle sort of curiosity. The familial structure of the Ark is a pretty strict, cut and dry nuclear (apocalypse) family archetype, and in imagining a space-bound society functioning any other way... well, there's always follow up questions.
"So... how does that work? Who raises you?"
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But his world had 10,000 years to reach this acceptable stasis, right? The Ark barely managed 97. Still, it doesn't strike her as a bad way to live.
In concert with Palamedes dipping his finger into his blood, Clarke does so too. Just a little, like wetting the very tips of a paintbrush and certain she could always go back for more. And she starts to trace the pencil outlines on the paper when he shares that anecdote about his father and she has to stop and gape at him. One person Clarke loves more than her mom was her dad. And that story has her heart swelling in her chest. She can picture it, and in her minds eye paints his father to look a lot like he does, one hand soothing a baby in its bed and the other with a laser pointed directed at a dropdown screen, and —
"That's so, so cute, Pal."
Like, can't stand how cute that is. Like every ounce of her capacity to appreciate nice things is pushed into those so's. Like, bites her lip to resist making stupid, squealing aw sounds, then quickly looks back down at her paper, diligent student and not at all hot for teacher. Back to drawing shapes in her own blood.
"And she must have been right, you're not a bad instructor at all."
no subject
Some people might say they’re merely ignoring the tension between them. Others would call it building trust. Both perspectives are probably right in one way or another.
“Now focus. Remember what I said about intention. This ward doesn't look like any I've seen before, but this here," he traces a section of symbols without touching the paper, "reminds me of symbols I've seen that have something to do with sound. Hm." His finger stills as he thinks it through. “It may be about quiet. Stealth. Hiding from threats. So think about that.”
no subject
Later this month, when she's standing on a beach talking to Diana Abel about I like a boy, but we fight a lot and the other woman counters with something to the effect of but you get over those fights and make up, right? it's going to be exceptionally difficult not to look back on this entire last hour and think: oh shit, yeah we do.
But that's later. Right now is blood sigil time, and she takes his instruction under heavy advisement. Intent — it always seems to come back to intent, and pain for those not naturally equipped with magical prowess. So as Clarke traces her pre-drawn sigil she hones in on the slight burn of the cut on the back of her hand, and considers sound in all it's form. As vibrations spinning through the air, as silence, as amplification; as a detriment, and a benefit; as loud, as in deafening. As a torment, as a blessing; as music, as a factor of everyday human life.
And more concisely once Palamedes mentions it, about the lack there of. Quiet is so seldomly comfortable, but it's not a bad thing either.
Steadfastly bent over the coffee table until she finishes the last line of bloody fingerpainting. It probably takes her longer to complete than him, unpracticed and hyper fixated on getting every part right this time. But eventually Clarke sits back on her heels and looks at Pal expectantly for next direction. Do they press their palms into the middle of the drying sigil now? Speak some incantation? Close their eyes and hope this doesn't blow up in their faces?
no subject
And at the end of the day, that’s what Palamedes wants more than anything: not consensus, but trust.
When Clarke sits back, her sigil complete, Pal looks over it and gives a small nod—the understated approval of a difficult-to-impress teacher. Then he takes out a handkerchief out of his pocket and wipes the blood off his fingers. “Right. You stand over there,” Pal gestures across the room, “and I’ll stand over here. Then we walk towards each other. If we’ve done this right, and if I’m correct about the methodology, we should each meet sort of barrier—sonic, physical, or otherwise—when we try to cross the other’s ward.”
no subject
And walk.
And walk.
And encounter absolutely no barrier, to the point Clarke's over by the door at the end, and looking down at the paper in her hands, distinctly unimpressed. "So, did I do something wrong?"
If Palamedes responds, she can't hear him.
no subject
But it doesn’t. Palamedes hits no invisible wall and feels no tingle in his bones. The ship’s numerous ambient sounds continue to hum in the background. Oblivious to Clarke’s question, he turns round to face her. “Did you notice anything? I didn’t, which is terribly odd.”
no subject
"Should we try again?"
That's what she says. And hears echoing in the space between her ears. But ultimately what comes out for others to hear is: nothing.
no subject
And no sound comes out.
Palamedes goes very still. He stares at her, a look of shock, perhaps even fear, coloring his features. Why can’t he hear her? Can she hear him? Slowly, he lifts his sigil to look at it, lightly tracing dried-blood design with his pinky finger. Sound. Quiet. Stealth. Emperor Above, has he been thinking about this all wrong? It sounds impossible, and yet…
He lowers the paper. “Clarke, can you hear me? Say yes if you can.”
no subject
Clarke tilts her head rather severely, confused and on the brink of a mild panic because this was not what she'd expected. "What did you say? Hello? Pal?" She shouts his name. It's loud inside her head, she'd taken a full breath to expel it.
But again, resounding silence.
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