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

[hellonspectacles]

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!]

Comments

[hellonspectacles]

It’s remarkable, really, just how comfortable it feels—they disagree, they argue, they trade barbs. They don’t given an inch, and yet what they come to is not an impasse, but an understanding. At the end of the day, they both want to keep their people safe. Their tactics may be different, and they might even come into conflict again. But they’re a team, all the same.

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.”

[skaikru]

This seems overly complicated when previously she'd just had to dump a glass of water on her notebook and swear at her sigil, but — a diligent student who realizes they shouldn't have any reason to argue, Clarke stands when bid and walks the few steps to stand near the porthole window of her room. She waits for Pal to collect himself and be ready by the door, and at his cue they walk.

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.

[hellonspectacles]

Palamedes would like to think that he can be open-minded about the various kinds of magic aboard the ship, but the truth is that he has some innate expectations that he can’t shake. A sigil is just a ward by another name, and a ward is a barrier. Thus, crossing the barrier should cause some kind of reaction.

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.”

[skaikru]

She hasn't turned around yet, and isn't summoned to by the sound of his voice because she can't hear it. Now dutifully squinting at her own sigil, Clarke's in hypercritical mode, inspecting each whorl and line for a faint wobble or misplaced symbol along the edge of the whole. But, hadn't he just given her that stern nod of approval; a good job, and leave to attempt it? She's confused, and finally turns to look at Pal with that confusion evident.

"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.

[hellonspectacles]

Clarke turns around, looking just as confused as him, and the two of them squint at their sigils, and then back at each other. Then Clarke opens her mouth—

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.”

[skaikru]

Tragically, comedically, she can't hear enough of the given instruction to proceed in the given fashion. She's squinting at Pal exceptionally hard right now, and watching his mouth instead of his eyes. Thinks she can parse out that he is, indeed talking; tongue moving behind teeth, mouth forming all the correct forms to make real words. She can pick out what looks like her name, and enough to know this isn't some sort of joke, but that's about it.

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.

[hellonspectacles]

“I’ll take that as a no...Oh, this is fascinating!” Any normal person would probably find the situation frightening, or at least a little unsettling, but Palamedes is suddenly grinning from ear to ear. He holds up his hand in a universal gesture of wait right there, and then he goes back to the table, pulling out another blank sheet of paper and a slightly blood-smeared pencil.

In his spidery handwriting he writes, I knew it had something to do with sound! The sigil must repress sound somehow, though I can’t tell if it’s our hearing being affected or our vocal cords.

Let’s see what happens when we break the ward. Try tearing yours. Or better yet, burn it.

Then he bounds up and hands the paper to Clarke, still beaming.

[skaikru]

It's true, the more normal of the two of them is standing on the precipice of a mild panic, and every part of her revolts at the idea of being told to wait right there while Pal leans over the table to scribble a note. It's not even a panic that's immediately quelled by the plan set to paper, though Clarke can logic enough to know that burning isn't really an option. Sprinkler systems in the cabin, or else Gal Friday showing up with a fire extinguisher. Decidedly, she does not like being on the receiving end of magic she does not know how to control.

He's smiling when she looks up from reading, but her mouth is set in a grim and determined line when immediately descending upon her sigil and ripping it into absolute bits. Flakes of paper litter the floor, most are stuffed between clammy fingers. And when it's done, she looks warily back to meet Pal's gaze and asks: "Can you hear me now?"

He still can't quite hear her, but Clarke will at least be able to hear his eventual response.

[hellonspectacles]

Palamedes cocks his head to the side, face scrunching up slightly as he strains to hear (for the record, it’s a ridiculously cute look for him). Still, Clarke’s mouth moves, and no sound seems to come out.

“Nothing.” He taps his finger on his chin. “What about me, Clarke? Can you hear me?”

[skaikru]

"...oh thank god," she says, and visible relief washes across her features. In fact, Clarke's crowding in close. She looks at his mouth, then flicks blue eyes up to meet grey with a beseeching sort of desperation. It's mild, but it's there, and she's reaching for the paper he's holding that bears the blood sigil. Bright red, darkening as it dries, but unless Palamedes fights her — Clarke's ripping that thing straight through.

"I hated that."

Will this truly be a learning moment, though? Where she hereby swears to never dabble in magic she doesn't understand? Absolutely not.

[hellonspectacles]

At first, Palamedes still can’t hear Clarke, of course, but her expression is enough to tip him off to the fact that he was right. He brightens and even laughs a little when she snatches the paper from him, tearing it to shreds that fall to the floor. All at once, it’s as though cotton has been pulled from his ears.

“Well, that will certainly teach you to practice with sigils you know nothing about,” he says wryly, fully aware that the experience will do nothing of the kind. “It was an odd sensation, wasn’t it? Absolutely fascinating. I'll have to deconstruct the design to see if I can understand the component parts.”

[skaikru]

Again, and it literally cannot be stressed enough — nothing is going to stop her from dabbling in sigil magic she doesn't completely understand.

But for the moment, Clarke gives a vague little nod. Poorly suppresses a shiver now that the spell is lifted and the world seems to have righted itself. Sudden sensory deprivation is a jarring feeling, but this bout is relatively quick to shake off. (The same will not be said for her November hangover from The Nothing.) There's an idle gesture towards the original sketch of the sigil that's sitting somewhere off to the side, as if to say: all yours, deconstruct at will.

"Odd, unsettling..."

She hated that, but beneath that experience is an absolutely thrumming heartbeat that thrived anew on successfully having managed another blood sigil. Shake off the disquiet and the quiet, Clarke, and realize what else this means in the long term. It's a path already committed to months ago, and any real progress on it should be celebrated. Any forward motion pursued. Any discomfort repeated until it no longer phased her, right? Because how else does one get better at this.

"...should we try it again?"

[hellonspectacles]

Palamedes can’t hold back his grin. There is nothing in the world that he would like more than to try again. “Naturally. One trial does not an experiment make. Come on, I want to find out if there’s a spacial component as well, or if the effects can only be directed towards the caster—“ Already, he’s spinning out a dozen other different experiments, but before he dives in headfirst, he stops and holds out his hand to Clarke.

“You’ve cast your first ward, Clarke. Congratulations on doing the impossible.”

[skaikru]

Clarke can't quite help it, mildly unnerved or not, Pal's enthusiastic grin coaxes out a smaller smile across her mouth. She shakes his hand when proffered, allowing slight indulgence in the congratulatory praise because she had, hadn't she? Accomplished what months ago would have been an impossible pipe dream, not even considered in her own world. It's exhilarating, it stoked the flame of hope in her chest, it's one of the only developments here that doesn't leave her feeling doomed and powerless.

...she doesn't tell him this is, like, her eighth time casting a successful blood sigil.