i want it all ;

@senatusstarters location: Lupercal notes: open to all

Fighting monsters was his first love and perhaps his greatest passion. The young witch had slayed a hell beast for his coven and spent every year since learning what he could about the universe's creature horrors. This was child's play, or at least it might have been had it not been for the years of missed practice within a cell and the immortals that now surrounded him. He had always seen himself as quick, sure-footed and strong but the Aspects triumphed as though killing was easier than breathing while a mortal man such as himself had to exercise strategy, energy and focus. One day he'd prove himself at their level, or at least close to it. For now, Tristan worked to regain that confidence, leaving behind another carcass of a beast to follow the sound of ominous wings and cawing. Stymfalídes Órnithes was the word that came to mind, the vivid memory of pages in his head depicting bronze-beaked birds. The largest swarm recorded in mortal history defeated by Heracles...

"Conjuring." In all honesty, Rowan hadn't realized summoning Sybella was that big of a deal. He'd needed someone on his side to sort of guide him through all this, he liked demons, it'd seemed like a good first step. What'd been harder for him was the delicate hand meant to heal when Ciro had taught him about reforming that grape. But Rowan looks up at Tristan with casual curiosity, he doesn't quite get the guy's attitude, thinks he's maybe a bit stuffy, but he's not really one to judge. It's not like the guy is outright an ass, if anything he seems a little hesitant when it came to change or having someone like him in his space and he figured he'd be a little offput by some guy who just got magic out of the blue, too. "I just think it'd come in handy." And it was interesting, summoning was conjuring, right? So he'd managed something bigger in that department once already.

Tristan managed to hide the disappointment in his eyes. Conjuration? It wasn't one of the magic schools that he'd ever tried to focus on so he hadn't the practice nor the interest. However, his memory retained his the books word-from-word and he supposed it would be in the coven's best interest if Rowan got a firm grasp on something besides household spells.

Grayson rolled his eyes, but what else could he say to Tristan? He'd apologized once, but he didn't want to anymore. He had been tired of doing something like that. He'd been ambitious, once. Kicked out by the Crown, only for the Tower to welcome him back in. Change. The Dahlia were the ones that kept their hands clean, the Amaranthus some strange middle ground between the healers of Dahlia and the cunning of the Narcissus. Yet they had a chance to make things right, to change what the old could not, and Tris was here as living proof of that. As was Grayson.

Tristan was taken off guard at Grayson's words, his gaze faltering as his mind tried to grapple with the heaviness and conjure up a response. It was daunting how much his nerves just seemed to jump in Grayson's presense, more so if he said anything like this. It was almost like a panic rose up in his chest, a weird fear that Tristan hadn't got to analyze yet. "We were kids," he managed, finally looking back. "Or the closest thing. We thought we had everything figured out and that night- the night I kissed you before your spell... it was thinking that it was us against the world. But it wasn't. And I don't know what else we were fucking up in those days but it's clear neither of us are the same men we were back then. I figured you'd want to leave your past behind... seeing how well you're doing now." Much better than Tristan anyway - at least that's the way it looked to him from afar.

who: @releasedtristan where: Amaranthus Estate

It would make sense the boy with the eidetic memory and thirsty ambition would cling to the budding and future Archivist of his coven. However, he never expected her to be his savior. Tristan didn't love keeping books, scrolls, tomes and all those dusty things; the job would have frustrated him. But how often would be sit at the floor of the archives, nose buried in some new research of mythical beings? Should Hazal ever have second guessed her own memory, chances were that Tristan remembered the exact section, shelf, book, page and line she needed. So if he wasn't making trouble or having fun with Grayson, it was Hazal who he clung to. The sweet, kind, intelligent woman who not once made him feel like the outsider that he made himself out to be, even before his imprisonment. He hadn't even gotten to probably say goodbye to his best friend before the Senate took him away - a position he'd put himself into, sure, but that Hazal got him out of. If it was their friendship or her own compassion that made that decision, Tristan still couldn't tell. He kept their conversations short and uncertain, closed off as he tried to adjust to being back and the fact she was his Sovereign now. But no matter, he could tell some of the other new witches he didn't know didn't trust him at all. Hazal couldn't keep saving him if he didn't save himself by proving himself.

"That's what I get for shortcuts, I guess." When he's not spending time at the shop he's now at the Amaranthus house in the library or some nook or cranny trying to find useful spells. Stuff to clean his apartment, to keep drawings pinned up at his station, things that just made life easier. The first thing he'd done was sit down with that spell to get ink to stick to immortal skin, he could cut out the middle man there now. Closing the book in his hands, Rowan looks to Tristan and he likes all of the Amaranthus witches, he's a bit nervous to be around them, but they're alright. "What would you say is the most useful spell?"

Tristan was annoyed for .5 seconds at being asked a question before realizing he actually wanted to answer. He remembered how fun it was being a know-it-all as a young witch learning in class. There was no classes for old ass Rowan now. Maybe it was a little sad he had to miss the chaos of 11 year olds trying to levitate their tamagotchi's, and maybe Tristan really did want to help. Shaking off his broody post-prison attitude was something that he badly needed to work on.

It was very Tristan to get in his face. Grayson wasn't going to move; he was always ready for a game of chicken. There was always some kind of cocksure attitude he was going to get from Tris, but Grayson rolled his eyes now, looking away. He was always the first to break, despite his stubborn streak that was legendary. "Fuck off with that. Of course you did." How could he not? It had been Grayson's spell, his idea to tamper with the one mark that kept them safe from a very real Pythia. Grayson didn't want to think about what would have happened if he wasn't protected and she was able to get in his head after she'd returned from way off wherever.

Of course you did. Tristan wouldn't say he didn't consider the logic of just blaming the man who made it easier to commit his own crime; Tris' own anger and desperation getting the better of him in the misery behind a prison cell. But days would pass and weeks and months and than years and the whisper of blame was nothing but a foggy memory by then. In the end, Tristan couldn't have blamed Grayson even if he'd wanted to. He looked at Grayson and he wasn't all too sure that was anything his fellow broody, moody, witch wanted to hear. Grayson had always been the livelier and kinder one between the two but it seemed that even his old friend had changed a lot since their youth. The one thing that they held in common now was a dark cloud hanging over their heads.