#booktorn

The building is old. Older than both him and the master, Ivan figures. The product of another era, before either of them were born. A blocky, multistory structure that had been part of a government-sponsored housing effort, an apartment building so bland and practical that one’s eyes nearly glazed over at the sight of it.

But it was in relatively good condition when they found it, and it has a good foundation. Good bones. It was suitable for their purposes, and between Ivan’s efforts at clearing out what useless debris belonged to the previous tenants (long gone, this neighborhood is hardly populated now) and a few additions at Fyodor’s request, the building proved to be a presentable base of operations—if you could look past the ugly facade of the thing.

Nearly as soon as preparations were complete, however, Fyodor was off again, chasing after some new information from one of his many sources. And Ivan stayed behind, as he should, as is his duty, presiding over the building and all within it (which was no one, besides himself).

And some days later, the master returned, bringing with him a silent, androgynous figure; their hair split perfectly in half between silver and something darker (indigo?—lazuli tinged with violet?).

Ivan flits around Fyodor, rambling amicably about largely nothing, as they move from the entrance to what would’ve been one of the first floor apartments. The trail soon stops in the kitchen, one of Ivan’s usual haunts, a space with walls painted a faded, buttery yellow. What it lacks in size (it’s small, as the design requires), it makes up for in warmth.

Fyodor sees himself out, and he retreats back to the entryway, to the stairwell, leaving the other two behind.

“I apologize,” Ivan says, addressing the stranger for the first time, speaking in the crisp, proper English of the intelligentsia. “The master often prefers to be alone. But! He leaves you in my very capable hands.”

At this, he gestures toward the rickety kitchen table (paired with two mismatched chairs, of course). “Please, make yourself comfortable. I am the chamberlain, Goncharov. Although you may call be Ivan, if that pleases you.”

He’s quiet for a moment, head cocked ever-so-slightly, as if listening to something distant. 

they set a plate beside him without warning — fruit sandwiches (the ones with fruit and whipped cream), cut into neat, crustless triangles. they'd made them on a whim and only thought of bringing him some after the fact, their mind wandering to the demon who so often forgets to care for himself. "i decided not to take a chance by making tea." that's ivan's job, and they won't let their unpracticed hands do something so particular (according to the fussy man in question, at least.)

     a perfect order of symbols — a string that pierces through every space you input; it all adheres to the logic only you know of: for others, it is nothing but gibberish, and to you, a valuable information to store. it is a nice way to end your day — when you manage to end them on your own volition, that is; to cleanse the palate of your brain so ideas can bloom undisturbed. calling it a ritual would be too generous, you figure, but even your memory — so perfect, faultless, impeccable — you cannot trust: it is a subject to change over time.

     (... seems like you have heard something: is it your door opening? could it be footsteps? a visitor, how unusual — they dare to disturb your work? although, you do not care in the slightest as long as it does not result in losing too much time) in the peripheral, you notice movement: you have only gazed upon stillness for hours and hours, and..? it is a plate with food — food, out of all possible things. you cannot help but widen your eyes a bit (now, what possible motive could they have? nothing is done out of selfless generosity), although, a mild smile graces your lips as you close your eyes for a second (you, as always, feel nothing: no content, no confusion — instead, interest wanders in your mind: why fruit sandwiches exactly? was there not general consensus that you need to—) before redirecting your gaze towards the visitor (ah, Sigma, what a rare face to see down here) and uttering a single sentence:

     “You find it acceptable to serve a meal without a beverage, then?” scolding or annoyance absent in voice — perhaps, it is a simple curiosity you decide to exhibit; this is no restaurant and there are no strict rules of conduct (mayhap, some impose them on themselves as all people are wont to do; these habits never need to make sense or easen the individual’s life — in fact, even burden others, a reality you find both pitiful and piquing interest. allowing others to command your being, in thoughts or actions, is rather unfortunate — you wonder, shall you—?), so you see little issue with Sigma not accompanying their generous treat with tea — my, you can almost guess the reason for this decision; truly, just what (or rather — who) can it be?

     that is of no matter, though; were it not for a half-empty (—or half-full? yet you have never filled it, only emptied over the course of the day, so, surely, half-empty it is) bottle of mineral water resting to the left of your laptop: cap unscrewed, lying three centimeters away — all carbonation must have perished from it (ah, that is unfortunate. you should have kept the cap on), leaving it to be nothing but normal water with a distinct taste. not the best companion for something so sweet (you suppose, you can only judge it by its presentation and nature — smell too?), yet it bothers you not — and will not even when you decide to taste it.

INSPIRATION: The Big Chill - Lore

It had been sometime since he had been given reason to venture to North America, or at least more accurately the far north. Yet his sources had given them hints that maybe there was something helpful to both himself and Sigma.

That being said while very little fazed him anymore even he had to admit there was something strange about the lighthouse that he found himself put off by. He blamed it on the old furniture that dated back to a time even his oldest living kin were to young to have experienced or the fact the only light came from candles strategically placed around the building.

Settling down in preparation of a long night of looking through the journals and documents his sources had left them to sort through he almost got lost in his work before recalling a little warning he had been given before meeting up with Sigma, “by the way I would avoid anyone finding you wondering in the woods, I am told that there is a local legend of a band of sailors that crashed into the shore and haunt the woods.”

“Sometimes our strengths lie beneath the surface.” // finally sends you something......

moana sentence starters || accepting

       As a magus, the Lord could not help to agree. Magecraft could be easily seen and observed, dissected by the naked eye if one knew where to look. Physical strength would always be able to be something on the surface, but other strengths, ones buried far deeper that not even the wielder knew they could possess, were something entirely different. Cigar resting upon his lips, he inhaled from it and slowly exhaled, smoke rolling out from his mouth. “For most, you could say that is how it is. Just by looking at a person, you cannot tell where they are most gifted. They might have the appearance of someone that could be talented at public speaking, but they might not have the confidence to stand before a crowd. In the sense of magi, such strengths take time to discover...” 

@booktorn​ / continued from x

" Open your heart and you'll arrive where the dream is to start. To pull the world together out of the parts and turn this war into a hopeful work of art. ".

“I suppose you’re correct,” he concedes. Shibusawa is no stranger to suffering—bearing it or being the one to mete it out. Some pain has purpose, some is random. That’s simply the nature of being alive. But from the weight dragging Sigma down, it doesn’t seem as if they’re well-prepared to handle it. 

He’s been told he’s cold. Uncaring. Which is true, he supposes. That doesn’t, however, prevent him from lending Sigma a (somewhat) sympathetic ear. 

He held his smile as he watched the portly man he had just done business with walk away. Standing beside Sigma he held back laughter as he noticed how carelessly the man seemed to be holding the file under his arm. 

The second that Fyodor was out of hearing range he whispered just loudly enough that Sigma could hear, “I do wonder if he will learn that just because I have the information does not mean it is entirely true?”