#aedremor

“You ought not be here.”

"I would venture a guess that neither are you. Most of the living aught not to wander in the aetherial sea, wouldn't you agree?"

Or; A study in how my magic-aligned characters never get a moment of peace, ever.

Ah, peace and quiet. Wasn’t this just lovely?

A smile takes to Aedremor’s lips. In his age, as an archmage and experienced soul both, there were few things he enjoyed better than the saccharine sound of nothing at all. No students running amok, causing havoc; no disrupted spells or malfunctioning runes; no people being absolute dolts and giving him headaches. Such bliss. 

Of course, the fact that his magics let him make a space between space certainly helped. In a place like this, he could avail himself of the simpler comforts. His study, dim in lighting save for the burning fire in the hearth, was filled to the brim with books- books that he had read over and over again. It was so full of those shelves of tomes that...there was no physical exit. Teleportation magics were the only way to get in and out, and not having a particular location for most to attune themselves to made it all the easier.

Reaching to the side, a bottle is taken up. Ah, an ancient vintage. Perfect. Wine from a time long-gone, lost even to memory...or, rather, the memory of most. Not him, of course, nor the world. The ruins yet existed. But he remembered, nonetheless. He was of the few who were able to remember. And he could definitely remember the taste of this wine! A flick of a finger sees the cork eject itself from the neck of the bottle, and he lifts a glass to pour out a full cup. Leaning back into his chair, a content sigh issues forth, and he brings the glass to his lips-

“Knock knock!” a female voice calls out.

Immediately, the contentment on Aedremor’s face falls. The glass is paused halfway to his lips, a single gentle wave of deep-red wine lapping against his lips. Eyes fall half-lidded; shoulders faintly slump. “Should’ve known better than to think that I’d have a moment of peace,” he mutters into the glass, before placing it down with a sigh.

In the same motion, his other hand lifts, twirling at the wrist in both beckoning and dismissal. A casual flicking-off, as if to brush the source of the voice away. “Yes, avail yourself of my comforts, why don’t you, Aoife?” comes his voice again, louder this time. Sarcasm drips like poison from an assassin’s blade- though a huff of a laugh follows after.

“Don’t mind if I do.” Across the study, the woman moves; graceful steps, self-confidence in every stride, carry her to the second chair before the fire, and she settles herself down in a smooth motion. One leg folds over the other as black, raven-feather-adorned robes are smoothed down; her hands fold on her lap following this. “What, no glass set out for me? Really, Aedremor, quite rude of you.”

“You know where the glasses are,” he quips back in return, straightening himself to sip properly at his wine. “But tell me, to what do I owe the pleasure of your most radiant company, hm?” His smirk rises again, hand flicked out to her.