Portraits

[Quinn]

Aaaand at the word 'intercourse' he was about ready to shove his fingers in his ears and start yelling la-la-la-la-la at the top of his lungs as thinking of that and Etain in the same thought process was the sort of thing that lead to his face turning extremely red and Wisp either going upside his head (which hurt) or making wry comments on the subject matter (which didn't help). Fortunately for all concerned she shifted tracks fast enough that steam didn't start coming out of his ears, and he could approach her commentary on the world with far better equilibrium.

 

"Media has a certain number of standbys they enjoy sticking to, and for the most part it's also a product of several hundred years of cultural mores and adaptations and tweaks and changes that actually trying to understand it is tanamount to trying to climb Mount Everest. I mean, things can be funny, but overexam-..." A beat. Yeah, hindsight, not the best word. "...though, you've got a point there - thinking about why it's funny does lead to a lot of really curious questions. And yeah, characters on screen frequently seem to forget that they have smartphones. But that'd mean it'd be a much shorter movie...remind me to show you a certain webcomic's take on the zombie apocalypse genre at one point."

[Aoiroo]

"I guess I am somewhat estranged from the aim of most of this cultures take on comedy as a whole. Some things are amusing to me, but not to most people. As for films, I prefer ones where most of the characters know what the problem is, but have reasons why they cannot solve it immediately that is not simply technology that is readily available to everyone."

She was about to put a finger on her face and stopped, cause it was covered in paint,

"Oh,"
She looked at her hands,

"Huh, I do not think my rag will survice. If you would excuse me, I need to go wash my hands before I continue, I do not wish to get paint on my clothes, hair or face."
Getting up, she set the paintbrush down and headed into the house, moving at a sedate walking pace in her nice white dress which had strangely not a dot of paint on it.

Edited August 16, 2013 by Aoiroo

[Quinn]

Morgan nodded agreeably as she meandered off, relaxing from his leaning stance and stretching his arms. One arm up, one arm down, other arm up, other arm down - lean left, lean right, stretch the spine...all of which distracted him from the argument currently raging in his head over if he was the sneaky sort of fellow who would try to creep around an easel to get a peek at his portrait. Granted, he was a rather sneaky fellow, almost a devious fellow - at least when halting crime or catching villains was the occupation of the day - but he did try and keep that from creeping into his daily life.

 

Not very successfully. Oh, be quiet. Come on, go take a look, you know you wanna! And draw a moustache on it! ...just a minute ago you wanted to do something horrid to her eyes, and now you just want to draw a moustache on it? Can't we do both? ...I'm sorry I asked. Bah, boring.

 

He balanced on the balls of his feet, looking back and forth from the door Etain had vanished through, to the easel, back to the door, back to the easel. Back to the door. Back to the easel. Back to the door. Back to the ea-oh, hang it. Morgan carefully tiptoed around, peering around the easel to look at the unfinished portrait, a curious look on his face.

 

Please don't be another evil clone. Yeah, we wouldn't want that... Shut up!

[Aoiroo]

What Morgan saw on the easel wasn't what he expected. Not even close. Since who he saw in the frame was not himself, but Victoria, lounging on a couch, in complete black and white contrast. Though this wasn't the strangest thing, the strangest thing was that she was clad on said couch, in, absolutely nothing. Though stylized in detail, there was, detail, and she lay there smirking up at him. As he peered at the easel, no shadow fell or grass ruffled, but he still heard,

"I am not sure how much you know about my abilities Morgan,"
He felt a hand on his back, but if he turned, he saw nothing,

"But you should know, they are not limited to line of sight."

And with that, the canvas went completely blank.

[Quinn]

...

 

...

 

...!

 

Oh dear God could that boy blush. A mix of emotions, some good, some bad, colored his face a vivid red, and he promptly ducked his head low enough for the hood to fly over it - concealing the whole kit and kaboodle from view. He stuffed his hands into his pockets and promptly stepped back to his position, hiding the fact that the hands themselves were actually shaking for less than a second. It still took a good few seconds to regain himself, but Morgan still didn't actually say a word - trusting his voice was something rather beyond him at the moment.

 

And what galled him worst of all was that he'd basically asked for it.

 

Sneaky devil, isn't she. ...yes. Mmm...I like her. She made you look like a fool, hee. ...be silent. Why? I'm only speaking the truth. You know it, I know it. Why not admit it? ...because giving you an inch lets you take a mile. Maybe so. But still, poor Morgan. Can't even see through the simplest of illusions. Now, if I'd been th-GET THEE BEHIND ME. NOW.

[Aoiroo]

Etain didn't actually reappear until a few minutes later, she had a wet towel that she set next to her chair as she looked at Morgan. She looked at him for a few seconds as she sat before she aid,

"Would you be so kind as to remove your hood, I am certain you have returned to your natural complexion by this point."

Picking up her brush, she dipped it into the paint and started again regardless of whether he complied. While she did so she said,

"If you are curious, I do not actually know if the picture was accurate, I simply guessed based on how she appears when in swim wear."
She moved the brush over the easel,

"And no, you are not the only person to have looked. Millie tried to do so earlier, and nearly fainted from what she saw. Given, I had assumed she already knew about it."

Stopping, she switched brushes, and dipped this one in white,

"I think Custos is the only one who did not succumb to curiousity, but he is not human, so it is not unexpected. Though, I think it is because he is still weary from the time I asked him not to watch television late at night because it disturbed the other housemates, and he saw that pale girl step out of the screen. I do not believe I have ever seen a more startled expression etched into stone."

[Quinn]

"...Etain, I would like to make something perfectly clear."

 

Morgan let his shoulders settle a bit, and flipped back his hood - and gave Etain as frank a look as he could manage. Straightforward, no-nonsense, as open an expression as was humanly possible. His tone was the same - as sincere and honest as she'd ever heard him - perhaps even a little wavering, given the subject matter. Because given his next sentence, he had to ensure it was absolutely clear.

 

"Of the Irregulars...hell, sorry - of every Claremonter...no. Etain Maher, you are without question the single most frightening individual I have ever met." He shook his head from side to side. "Sorry, I had to say that. And I'm really hoping you take that as a compliment."

 

His hand came up to rub between his eyes, and he settled back into the position of his pose before - save now perhaps he wished he had something to cover his eyes. The mask, maybe. Feh.

 

I can't say I disagree with you. Will you please stop talking? What? I'm agreeing with you! Yeah, I know - and you know I hate that. So? More satisfying for me.

[Aoiroo]

"I would take that as a compliment if you were being completely honest."
Etain swirled the brush on the canvas,

"You are afraid of what I am capable of, but you are not afraid of me."
She looked around the canvas,

"Which is very wise, and somewhat strange because of how very little you know about me. But trust has always been a strange concept to me."
She set the brush down and picked up a cloth,

"I am weary of others, I did not trust you to not look, so I set aside an illusion so you may not spoil it for yourself. I do not trust magic I do not understand, and that has put me at odds with one or two magic users. But I have been conditioned not to trust I suppose."

She started to smudge the canvas with it,

"But I do trust, I am not the person from Claremont who frightens you the most."

[Quinn]

Yes, yes you are.

 

He didn't voice that aloud, instead just shifting his weight slightly as she asked her next question; several of her statements were such that he could not answer easily, or willingly. To not trust magic you didn't understand was a wise thing, at least from his perspective - it was indeed a very wise thing not to trust something unless you'd built it yourself, or took it apart with your own hands to see it tick. Hells, he didn't even trust his own coat, now did he.

 

Or me. Be silent.

 

"Trust is...something that should be valued. And it's rarity gives it that value." A moment of consideration, and given the subject matter of their conversation, and their friendship...he elected for honesty. "You are...a friend. Someone I would back to Fomoria and worse. But I am never sure if I trust, to be brutally honest - your magic smacks of things close to home, as is your...I suppose nature. That is more my fault than yours; to be honest, you use yours a helluva lot better than most I know with similar or the same."

 

Sigh. "...but I still can't trust it easily. Should I ask for your pardon or forgiveness?"

[Aoiroo]

"I do not require either."
She looked at him,

"How can I expect to be wholey trusted by someone who does not trust himself."

She let the statement hang int he air as she painted. There were things to be considered, but it was just simply, true. He was second guessing himself, she could tell by the way he moved, by the way he answered her question. He was acting like John, who always held back because he was greatly afraid of what he was capable of, of what he was trained to be capable of. She understood John, a soldier doesn't simply stop being a soldier. But he was much younger, had lots of time to at least slowly, trust that when the time came, he wasn't the monster he was made to be. It was reverse for Morgan, he started out normal, trusting in himself at least on a subconcious level, but now. Now he simply didn't, and she knew why, and yet she didn't. She didn't talk to Morgan as much as she did John, he tried to be secretive, mysterious, a lot of the time he literately had to be dragged from his study. But now, she just needed to listen, because she wanted to hear it from him.

[Quinn]

That evoked a laugh - a short, bitter thing; not the sort she'd heard when she'd first met him. Then, at that snowball fight on the quad, it had been a high, cheerful thing - youthful and happy. This was as close to opposite as you could get before being ridiculous; and he likely knew that fact. He still held his position, save now his fingers twitched slightly - like he wanted to be gripping something in them. Some sort of ball, perhaps.

 

"Hah, good one, E. No, I don't trust myself. And isn't that a damn fine admission for a person to have about themselves, hm? That I can't actually trust my own self - if it wouldn't be so outrageously stupid, I might bemoan my fate or curse the universe or blame something ephemeral. Though I admit, I've got a perfect excuse." The gripping hand squeezed into a fist, and his tone turned...apologetic?

 

The voice behind it was silent, at least for a time.

 

"Bah. I made my bed, Etain - I'll lie in it. I am sorry that trust is...well, for lack of a better term, shot thanks to that."

[Aoiroo]

She looked at him quietly, and painted, waited for him to stop talking. She moved her brush with purpose as she sat in silence. Absolute silence, there was no sound around them. No birds chirping, no grass, no roar of laughter that would of been heard coming from Custos in his dicussion with Crow, nor the giggles of excitement from Josephine. Etain moved her brush, and it's stroke were the only sound excluding Morgans own voice,

"You mean,"
She looked at him, her eyes locking his,

"The Eye of Balor."

She had stopped moving her brush, so that her voice was the only sound. If Crow had paid attention, he'd of notice it as the presence of a very strong masking shield to prevent the others from hearing.

[Quinn]

"..."

 

Morgan didn't reply, but his face was enough to tell the story. At the three words, his expression changed - even if it was only for a moment; traveling through a mix of emotions. Hunger. Desperation. Disgust. Resignation. Then back to the stone flatness that characterized Crow, rather than the teenager. His hands slid into his pockets again, and when he talked she could easily tell it was the hero who spoke from behind the iron mask - even if the mask wasn't on his face.

 

...and maybe it was the arcane in the air, or the oppressive silence - or maybe just the strangeness of all wrought into now; but his next words just weren't...right.

 

"It vexes us." Terse. But explaining much. "But whether it is more or less than other things...we don't know. Insufficient data." In truth, it was insufficient - enough for Crow to proceed, at any rate. "For now, it is contained. From others. And from us. That is enough."

Edited August 21, 2013 by Quinn

[Aoiroo]

"Magic vexes all."
She set down the paintbrush,

"It is often pushed aside because of this. Because people do not understand it, they ignore it, because in truth they do not want to admit it is not like science."
Standing up she started to take off the apron,

"Its results cannot be measured, nor quantified, because they are ever changing, each time something or someone is touched by magic, they are changed, whether they know it or not and that change is left on them, like a stain on fabric."
She placed a hand on the easel,

"On humans, this stain fades, not because the magic fades, but because of the force of human will reasserts its dominance about how the person thinks who they are, who they should be. I believe this is one of many reasons why it is hard for most humans to use magic. In contrast those who do, who let the forces stain them, and accept it as part of themselves, well,"
She grabbed the canvas and pulled it up,
"They are vunerable,"
She flipped the picture,

"And sometimes, there is a stain, they cannot easily rid themselves of."
The image she showed Morgan was that of him, from the waist up in start black in white profile. The left half of the profile, was Morgan Crowe, out of costume, a smile on his face, not a care in the world, dark hair mussed, the right, was Crow, cowl lifted, runes glowing down the side of his hood, his eyes were hidden but he wore the stoic expression of the nightime hero. The middle, between the halves, was blurred, swirled between them, the blurs starting at the only color on the page, a dot of purple at it's epicenter.

Edited August 21, 2013 by Aoiroo

[Quinn]

Morgan didn't have any words. Neither did Crow. Even the Eye had dropped silent - a practical miracle, if one believed in those things. For some time he simply stared at it - appraising, debating, just plain cogitating. So many thoughts whirled about in that head - questions, statements; it was a perfect likeness, in a metaphorical sense. Two halves of the same coin, with a blot at the centre that just could not be rubbed out, no matter how hard they tried. Two directions pulled, two thoughts in one - sometimes in accord, sometimes not, but always looking at different sides.

 

It strengthened him. It frightened him. It was so much more than he'd initially thought, when he took the moniker on. Perhaps that point hadn't been driven home as strong as it had been when Etain had turned that portrait. Now...he simply wasn't sure where he stood.

 

He tried to push the feeling away - at least for a time. Just simply croaked - "And what if the person doesn't know who they are? Or who they should be?"

[Aoiroo]

"Nothing, it just means they are young."
She looked at the young man, hands folded in front of her,

"Morgan, I asked you about abstractions, there is a reason for that. What you saw on the canvas were not abstractions, it was just a view of the subjects from my perspective."

She let out a sigh,

"I am taking my time on them, which is why they are not finished, but also because the image of the two of them do not change. But that is because neither of the subjects are human. But you Morgan, what I see in you, just like what I see in every mortal magic user, changes. Mostly, little by little, a new skill, or a new idea not previously acquired changes. There are very few exceptions to that. No, a human who uses magic must actively resist it to not change, but it will likely happen anyway."
Walking forward she reached out and grabbed his hand,

"Your change, while more rapid then most, it is not forever, eventually, you will change again, and it will be your choice."

[Quinn]

It was an odd thing.

 

When she approached, he recoiled slightly - like he didn't want her taking his hand. It was only a moment, and she could see him forcing himself forward; but he did, ultimately, let her grab the gloved hand. It was just a short, odd thing - and he ducked his head slightly when he did.

 

"...I want to believe that. We want to believe that."

 

Oh, cry me a river. You knew exactly what you wanted when you picked up that stone, boy.

 

...

 

Oh, no 'shut up'? No 'silence'? Fah. I repeat- you know exactly what you stood to gain, child - power, and lots of it. More than you could ever dream; enough to do more than you ever could now. The wench is right, you will change again, and it will be your choice when you do - and you know exactly what choice that will be.

 

Morgan kept his face impassive, trying his level best to blot out that purple dot. If that was what she saw in him, then so much the better - it was tiny, and the two were greater than it by far, no matter how else you cared to slice it. All the voice recieved was just cool, black, silence. He drew on another subject, filling the air with more than just invectives.

 

"So what you see on that painting is your...perspective? Is it what you see every time you look, or is it just...switched on and off?" Mild desperation may have been there. Probably not.

[Aoiroo]

"It is not what I see every time, as I said, it changes."
She held up her wrists,

"For example,"
They glowed somewhat, showing a pair of circles on each one glowing like a spectral bracelets,

"I used to see these, every time I looked at my hands. These were bindings on my powers I received when I was at Claremont."
The rings disappeared,

"They were removed when I graduated. Then, there's when you work, when you craft, your aura changes, I have seen it once or twice,"

She held up his arm, and it changed, runes moved down his arms. They looked a bit like cogs, interlocking, mechanical, and they hummed and spun, like rhymnic clockwork,

"You do not seem to notice, because you focus so much on them, but they are a part of you, the things you make, and it shows. Do you trust your runes Morgan?"

Edited August 30, 2013 by Aoiroo

[Quinn]

"..."

 

Morgan dwelled on that question for a moment - Crow as well. Did he trust his own runes? The gift of his mother started him on the path, but he'd have been hard pressed to say he trusted her; or what her gift was capable of. Gods above, he'd seen enough magic misused, tools misused, and what happened when he screwed up on a rune. But then, what he'd built on his ownself from it was...it was his own sweat, blood, and tears what made the gloves. Made the Iron Mask.

 

And he damn sure trusted his own work.

 

"I've never had the chance to see my own aura." Morgan said, almost idly; looking down on his arms - at the rhythmic clockwork she'd made from the aether. "My sight isn't quite as...acute...as yours - even with the mask over my face. Would that it was, I might see more before it bites me in the arse."

[Aoiroo]

"Most people do not, a lot of people, may not wish too. It is, very difficult to look in the mirror, one of the reasons why my bathroom has none."

She let out a sigh, her eyes not lingering on her own arm,

"But that is different."
Walking over to the painting, she looked at it,

"There is a trouble with pictures, they are static, an instance of one person at one particular moment. They cannot possibly contain all the things a human is."
She started to gather up her paint supplies,

"You Morgan Crowe, are no exception to this, and a remnant of energy from a far away artifact cannot change that."
She picked up the stool, and started to head inside with what she had, but she left the picture on the stand to dry in the sun.

Edited September 3, 2013 by Aoiroo

[Quinn]

Morgan watched her go in a pensive silence, then turned to look at the portrait again; his arms folded over each other. The cookie hung from his hand, crumbs tumbling from the bite mark; slowly eroding as he held it in stasis; waiting to either be eaten, or collapse apart. He shook his head - not the best metaphor to concern himself with.

 

Her words echoed in his head for a goodly time as he stared at that portrait; eyes looking at either side, but always drawn back to the purple point in the centre. It almost seemed to grow slightly as he stared at it; the paint soaking into the canvas, more like. The voice remained silent at that thought; save perhaps a darkling chuckle from the deeper recesses of his mind. He didn't shake his head again. It would do no good, anyway.

 

"It would help," Morgan murmured to himself - "if one of those things wasn't ambition."

 

The crunch of a cookie. A whisper of wind. And the lawn found itself devoid of heroes - at least for the nonce.