06-09-2015, 08:39 PM
so you wanna play with magic?
She likes this one, she decides. Sloene may be naieve, yes, but she's got…a certain innocence, a certain moldability, and yet a core of iron. It's not every mare who would immediately open up to some random stranger armed with nothing but age to recommend her as trustworthy. Not that Camrynn is trustworthy; she is and she isn't depending on her mood.
Stasis, Sloene says, and ancient-crone Camrynn nods along. "Mmm." she agrees wordlessly, still cracked and broken with age. She can almost feel the way the girl disregards herself, playing down her features in her own mind. A stasis indeed. "Never comfortable, dearie." she offers at length. "Nasty business, knowing who you are. Very complicated." That much, at least, is true. No matter who you are, knowing who you truly are comes only after a lot of very hard work.
Camrynn admires the way that Sloene turns the question onto her. Crone-Camrynn looks the girl up and down with her muddy brown eyes as Sloene speaks, as though carefully mulling over her question. She doesn't even begin to know what she's asking, of that Camrynn is sure. It's a dangerous thing to ask a magician to define themselves, because it's rather like trying to nail water to a fence: it's just impossible to pin her down, or to contain her. Perhaps the other magicians could; Carnage almost certainly could nail her in a moment, pin her down and make her squirm. Perhaps some of the other elder magicians could too. Or perhaps not. Certainly nothing shy of a magician ever could.
And so how does she define herself? What is she truly? "Why dearie, I'm the essence of magic." the crone says, but already the crone's mask is melting away. The wrinkled, decrepit skin crawls away, taking the muddy bay color with it. The bony legs grow thick and ripple with perfect conditioning. The swayback disappears, replaced with perfect conformation. Where once stood an old, swaybacked bay now stands a proud and undeniably beautiful white-grey mare, with a coat the color of shining metal in the sunlight. Her form is nothing like the slim black thoroughbred body that belongs (properly) to Camrynn; she's a heavier build here, a sleek and muscular warmblood. Her eyes are a strange shade of silver, oddly radiant as though lit from within, perhaps molten.
"I'm no fan of stasis." she keeps the crone's voice for the first few words, but then drops it in favor of a voice that is distinctly feminine, but sounds like many voices speaking all at once. "And, I think, neither are you." she is asking, but she already knows the answer. There's so little she doesn't know the answer to. Her silver gaze is fixed on her companion, the mousy mare.
"So, then, the question is this: what are you going to do about it?"
Stasis, Sloene says, and ancient-crone Camrynn nods along. "Mmm." she agrees wordlessly, still cracked and broken with age. She can almost feel the way the girl disregards herself, playing down her features in her own mind. A stasis indeed. "Never comfortable, dearie." she offers at length. "Nasty business, knowing who you are. Very complicated." That much, at least, is true. No matter who you are, knowing who you truly are comes only after a lot of very hard work.
Camrynn admires the way that Sloene turns the question onto her. Crone-Camrynn looks the girl up and down with her muddy brown eyes as Sloene speaks, as though carefully mulling over her question. She doesn't even begin to know what she's asking, of that Camrynn is sure. It's a dangerous thing to ask a magician to define themselves, because it's rather like trying to nail water to a fence: it's just impossible to pin her down, or to contain her. Perhaps the other magicians could; Carnage almost certainly could nail her in a moment, pin her down and make her squirm. Perhaps some of the other elder magicians could too. Or perhaps not. Certainly nothing shy of a magician ever could.
And so how does she define herself? What is she truly? "Why dearie, I'm the essence of magic." the crone says, but already the crone's mask is melting away. The wrinkled, decrepit skin crawls away, taking the muddy bay color with it. The bony legs grow thick and ripple with perfect conditioning. The swayback disappears, replaced with perfect conformation. Where once stood an old, swaybacked bay now stands a proud and undeniably beautiful white-grey mare, with a coat the color of shining metal in the sunlight. Her form is nothing like the slim black thoroughbred body that belongs (properly) to Camrynn; she's a heavier build here, a sleek and muscular warmblood. Her eyes are a strange shade of silver, oddly radiant as though lit from within, perhaps molten.
"I'm no fan of stasis." she keeps the crone's voice for the first few words, but then drops it in favor of a voice that is distinctly feminine, but sounds like many voices speaking all at once. "And, I think, neither are you." she is asking, but she already knows the answer. There's so little she doesn't know the answer to. Her silver gaze is fixed on her companion, the mousy mare.
"So, then, the question is this: what are you going to do about it?"
CAMRYNN
co-queen of the deserts, magical, mother of badassery