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Unlike much of the generations before his, Meyer is well-accustomed to magic. Set had, a few times before, spoken of the time before he was a magician, when traits and special powers did not permeate Beqanna, but to young Meyer it all seems like a distant fairytale or a dream. A fairytale because this life is a nightmare; a dream because sometimes, when he was feeling exceedingly nostalgic, Set’s would cast the Chamber of old around them and walk his adopted son (read: pawn) through the paths of his younger years. A naïve Meyer had once thought that it meant the wild-eyed mage wanted to share his life with him, bring him into the inner circle. The bitter taste ever-present on the back of his tongue bespeaks of the reality of such yearnings.
Magic is why he scorns the seemingly innocent squirrel and he regards the thought-projector with glaring suspicion. Growing up with a magician and a demon – and the blank-faced mare that slunk mechanically along, speaking only when spoken to – had taught him to keep his guard about him. His mental hackles have been up for so long that he does not know how to relax them, and he eyes the red-gold girl with suspicion.
Ears pinned, tail still wringing against his hindquarters now and again, he tracks the curve of her smile and wonders why she says nothing in the quiet that stretches between them. He wonders if she is mute by choice – as he had concluded was Salomea’s decision, and he could not blame her – or if she is incapable of speaking. His brow creases in a thoughtful frown, tail falling still at his hocks as he unconsciously draws closer, the mimic in his bones sniffing and hungry for the magic it can sense in her. When she glances up and then back to him, a hint of amusement settles into his mind and he snorts violently, recoiling. Missing the bit that comes after, he mistakes her humor for mocking (a sentiment he knows too well and is perhaps a bit sensitive to).
In the past, he has wielded such great power that it had threatened to tear his every fiber apart. Set is not here, though, only a mute lass with laughter in her wild gaze, and when he snatches at her traits, it is she that might feel the black hurt run through with the red anger. No particular memory surfaces in the riotous mess, and this initial exchange could be a much different experience were he not so broken and unstable and lost in himself. “Why are you even here?” he seethes, skin trembling as he retreats again, bleeding emotion as he goes. “This is where you come only when you have nowhere else to go,” he says quietly to himself, squeezing his eyes tightly closed before opening them again.
Magic is why he scorns the seemingly innocent squirrel and he regards the thought-projector with glaring suspicion. Growing up with a magician and a demon – and the blank-faced mare that slunk mechanically along, speaking only when spoken to – had taught him to keep his guard about him. His mental hackles have been up for so long that he does not know how to relax them, and he eyes the red-gold girl with suspicion.
Ears pinned, tail still wringing against his hindquarters now and again, he tracks the curve of her smile and wonders why she says nothing in the quiet that stretches between them. He wonders if she is mute by choice – as he had concluded was Salomea’s decision, and he could not blame her – or if she is incapable of speaking. His brow creases in a thoughtful frown, tail falling still at his hocks as he unconsciously draws closer, the mimic in his bones sniffing and hungry for the magic it can sense in her. When she glances up and then back to him, a hint of amusement settles into his mind and he snorts violently, recoiling. Missing the bit that comes after, he mistakes her humor for mocking (a sentiment he knows too well and is perhaps a bit sensitive to).
In the past, he has wielded such great power that it had threatened to tear his every fiber apart. Set is not here, though, only a mute lass with laughter in her wild gaze, and when he snatches at her traits, it is she that might feel the black hurt run through with the red anger. No particular memory surfaces in the riotous mess, and this initial exchange could be a much different experience were he not so broken and unstable and lost in himself. “Why are you even here?” he seethes, skin trembling as he retreats again, bleeding emotion as he goes. “This is where you come only when you have nowhere else to go,” he says quietly to himself, squeezing his eyes tightly closed before opening them again.
@[Aela]