Seed

[Alistair]

79 Searing, Year 4622

The man pressed his lips together, withholding his words, withholding a breath. The entire situation felt dubious; like he was being lured away from a public place by someone who evidently did not enjoy his company, only to enter a venue with unknown risks and rules. Vivian did not elaborate much on what they would be doing, only that it was potentially disgusting. Alistair did not trust him -- the likelihood that he might make an attempt at his life, or some other unfortunate thing, was considerably higher than his typical risk assessment would allow.

And yet...

"Fine," he said, barely, the words shuffled beneath his breath. "I will do whatever it is that you ask, even though I do not need to prove myself to you." He didn't really understand why he was becoming involved; Vivian did not live here, and neither did Alistair. He lived in Genteven, up north, and the other appeared to be from Daravin's far-south. They were worlds apart, enough so that even having the other as an enemy posed little risk. At this point, he wondered if he was only marching forward as a drawback of his own pride. It didn't really matter, though, in the end.

Alistair brought his cup of tea to the counter along the back of the cafe, collecting himself and straightening his posture. The man brought his hands to clasp together behind his glutes, his head craning down slightly so that he wasn't looking past and above the Sil'Norai male.

And then, he walked past him, exiting the building so that he stood on the tiled streets of Bardona, surrounded by storefronts as Ciseperant's wealthier inhabitants shuffled about, moving from place-to-place in their thick gowns. He could see criers of the Omen preaching on the street near the fountain, cloaked in thick black robes that surely made the heat unbearable; a further sign of their unyielding devotion.

"What do you want, Vivian? If this is some ploy to gouge money from me, I will know. I've performed this song and dance a thousand times."

[Vivian]

Vivian waited patiently in the street for Alistair. He wasn’t sure if the other was going to storm off, yell at him, or claim he was trying to lure him into a dark alley to knife him. Honestly, Vivian had hoped the man would give him a little more credit. He gave Alistair a smile, a genuine smile. “You said you wanted to help the peasants, and I want to help them too. It doesn’t matter where people are, or what their situation is. You should always try to help the poor.” He told him lightly, and began walking.

He wasn’t sure how the locals were going to react to a pair of mages showing up. Vivian knew how to travel in these circles. He’d been a wanderer on the streets for years before he found his way to the home of Veir Socorro. The poor were suspicious and kept to their own, but responded to labeled acts of charity with disgust. However, they just might be tickled pink at the idea of mages coming to help them. Who knew? They were bound to come across some hostility, and Vivian was determined not to let that bother him.

As they headed toward the outskirts of the city, things became sharply less clean. There was more dust, things were drier, and there were fewer and fewer potted plants and groomed garden areas. Vivian took a sharp left into a narrow alleyway, recognizing a few of the smells. Cheap rice, rotting cloth, and refuse. Ah, the smells were the same everywhere it seemed. The houses here were ramshackle, built more for utility than beauty. A well stood in the middle of the odd little cul de sac, and Vivian peered down it. No bucket, no rope, and no smell of water. Dead dry, and probably had been for half a season.

He looked around. No one in the road, but he could see a patchy little leather ball rolling into a corner, and several curtains moving. They were being watched. It seemed the people here were taking the strategy to hide and watch, which wasn’t ineffective. Vivian would have done the same.

“Well, let’s get to work.” Vivian told Alistair. “Baptism, right?You take care of the well.” He began starting to pick up refuse, cleaning the area and piling it in a corner near the mouth of the alley so they could take it out.

[Alistair]

At some pivotal moment within the span of their walk, the mage found himself idling less on the prospect of helping Vivian, or being asked to prove himself, and even on the risks of accompanying an unknown mage to an unknown location. At some point, Alistair allowed his headspace to shift between modes, becoming more task-oriented. If he were thinking consciously on the fact, the mage surely would have deemed that a reflex, but his mind was more centered on other things. He kept observant, eyeing the poorly-constructed homes surrounding them, looking to their corners and foundations for the remnants of Dust Storms.

Most of Ciseperant was fertile, bountiful, tethered to the Amoras river; green and filled to the brim with square and rectangular fields. The south, however, was more arid, connected to the savannah region of Daravin's central-south. Bardona was easily inhabitable for the wealthy who could have food brought to them, but the population reliant on local farming likely suffered. That only made sense.

It felt impertinent to have his storied magic become reduced to that of a well-filler, but there was nothing necessarily stopping him from fulfilling the task asked of him... save for the fact that he did not yet know how to produce large amounts of water from air and plant moisture. He had learned to perform the feat itself, but had only done so in small quantities at a time, building up to Cascade as he progressed through the magic. Alistair had never actually performed a higher-quantity application of the ability, and now he was being asked to fill an entire, deep well as if it were nothing.

He restrained a grunt, and leaned over the well, looking down. The man's brow lifted -- there was dust, sand and dirt at the bottom. Even if he filled the well, it would not be drinkable, at least by his own standards. The mage decided he would clean it first, and in doing so would ramp himself up towards pulling larger and larger quantities of water from air moisture, eventually culminating in Cascade. He glided his arm forward, forming a large band of water that the mage proceeded to manipulate remotely. He brought it down to the bottom of the well, increasing the density and viscosity of the water along its outer barrier, effectively trapping the mud and dirt near its core inside. Slowly, he would lift the floating globule from the bottom of the well, before discarding the mud beside the stony barrier of the well. Alistair did this half a dozen times, even going so far as to scrub the edges of the well's interns with a more abrasive liquid shape. By the end of it, the construct appeared almost-new.

The mage nodded his head.

Cascade.

He brought himself to a seating position. The water he had already pulled from the air floated above him in an arc, globules passing each other only to reverse course before nearing his shoulders. For a time, he focused on the technique itself, meditating on the motions he had always performed to pull water from the air in a higher density. He would envision particles within a space, pull them out with his fist, and rapidly clump them together before they had a chance to disperse through osmosis. Alistair had to weave the water together and then keep it woven, requiring some semblance of continued concentration, or at least a very restrictive binding of ether. To do so in a large area would be difficult, but also feasible. He merely needed to repeat the same process, again, on a much wider surface.

And so he did.

"Oh," the man muttered, opening his eyes as twisting, oval-like shapes forged of aqueous molecules bound together, floating and circling around him. He took in a long, deep breath, focusing himself on bridging them together, connecting them by their corners and turning the water he had produced into one, large body. Alistair strained, clenching his teeth as pain fired through his body, his ether starting to feel like an open valve. He brought all of the water together and created one, large body, though as he did he could feel his muscles tensing and contracting, his face beginning to go red. The man grunted loudly, which slowly rose into a yell as he lifted all of the water into a spear-head shape, standing upright as he did. The shape rattled and threatened to burst, only to be commanded down by the sudden drop of the mage's lifted arm, the watery structure firing forth and filling in the deep well.

Alistair screamed -- a hole burst open on the back of his palm, bleeding, the skin punched through by that valve of ether. He grew nauseous, collapsing onto his rump, hands shaking as they clenched the sand. The mage's eyes watered, and he began to rapidly breathe in-and-out. He was overstepping.

"FUCK," Alistair cursed, shaking his head. "Fuck... fuck. Breathe... breathe," he coached himself. It was to be expected -- he had learned two new abilities in the span of hours. He should not have tried to prove himself to Vivian, or to do something he could not do out-of-hand. For someone with long years of experience in the arcane like him, it was an amateurish oversight. "I did it -- the well's full," said the mage, between his intermittent gasps for air. "What's next?"

[Vivian]

Vivian was content to leave him to fill the well on his own, and smiled at Alistair when he saw him cleaning the well. Good! That was thoughtful. He'd have expected him to attempt to fill it without such a kind gesture. Vivian nodded, satisfied, and gathered up more trash in his arms. He carried it back out of the mouth of the alleyway. While the guards might have stood for trash being tucked away in the corners of the city, dumped onto the street was less likely to be tolerated and would be summarily cleaned up. The well being filled up would help him start on the dusty laundry that had been hung up. Without easy access to water, the easiest step would have been to hang up the clothing and beat it with a rod to get some of the dirt out.

Vivian grabbed a basket and began taking down the laundry, settling it in the basket. The first house would be easy, the next few would start taxing him. It had been a while since he had done proper chores without the utility of a good washbasin and a pump like at the house in Amoren.

He put the basket on his hip, turning to see Alistair on the ground. The other mage lifted a great spear of water over his head, hovering above the well. Globules of water gathered, taken from the air. Vivian watched them gather, watched Alistair strain, his muscles shaking. Vivian didn't dare break his concentration, and the water flowed downward into the cleaned well, filling it up. Vivian winced; he hadn't meant to have Alistair do it all at once! They had all day, after all, and it seemed hurrying the matter had caused a hole to blow in the back of Alistair's hand. Vivian swore and grabbed a rag out of his basket, setting it down and hurrying to Alistair's side.

"Stop! Just breathe. You're going to overstep like this...I meant fill it over the course of hours, not all at once." he grabbed Alistair's hand and pressed the cloth to it to his wounds. "Just....breathe." Vivian wrapped it tightly. "Just grip that, let me find a bucket to flush the wound."

[Alistair]

The man appeared disoriented for a moment, blinking twice as he looked up to view Vivian's features, which were obscured by the sun's glare for a moment. He rubbed his watery eyes, huffing out, before looking down to see the cloth that pressed against the surface of his wound. Alistair shook his head. "I do not need help with it," he muttered, quickly regaining composure. "I am half-Orkhai: superficial wounds like this mean little to me. This wound will heal on its own within days, and I will disinfect it when I return home. You needn't worry."

Contrary to what he imagined Vivian would assume, the mage was not simply trying to appear strong. Orkhai were resilient; the wound itself barely bothered him at all. He scarcely even noticed it. His Overstepping had been the most notable source of his displeasure, and its initial surge had already begun to recede. He felt fine, spare the nausea.

"If I were more equipped, I could have filled the well all at once with no issue at all, but... I did not know the ability required: Cascade. It is an Expert skill, and I have been working up to it. I should not have attempted to force my way through it after already doing that with Laceration. My soul did not have time to recover."

The man stood up, lifting himself using his calves as an anchor. He dusted himself off once he'd come to his full height, and sighed, looking down towards Vivian almost... sympathetically. "Don't worry. I haven't overstepped in a long time, so I will be alright. A few days of light nausea at the worst, and I'll be back to normal soon. Your concern is... kind, though." Alistair's eyes scanned the Sil'Norai's features, and slowly he lifted his large arm to settle a hand on the other mage's shoulder.

"Listen, Vivian -- can we have a new start?"

[Vivian]

"Half-Orkai or not, you don't need to sit here and bleed." Vivian muttered, and dipped the rag into the newly-filled well. He squeezed out the excess onto the ground, and rinsed it again, then began cleaning Alistair's wound. When he was satisfied the man wasn't going to continue to ooze blood and it had begun to congeal, he put the rag in his laundry basket. He would wash it along with the rest of the clothing, as an apology to the woman whose washing-rag he'd just soiled with mage blood. He winced as Alistair told him what had happened, and looked at him guiltily.

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean you should force yourself that quickly. I meant for the well to be filled over several hours while I did other things, not so quickly. I didn't even ask if you had the ability. I just....assumed." Vivian apologized. "I'll get you some mint tea for the nausea when we're done."

Alistair put a hand on his shoulder. Gods, the man's arms were heavy, and that hand was powerful even if it was extended in friendship. Vivian cleared his throat, a blush blooming on his cheeks. "I thought we had started over. Go sit on the crates over there, catch your breath. If you find a cup I'll get you some water. I've got to start on some of the laundry." He gave him an embarrassed little smile, and looked around for a bucket to fill. He found one, and an old tin washbasin, and set about filling it. Gods, the laundry was filthy! He carried over his water basin, the laundry basket, and a spare crate. He dipped the first shirt into the basin, and a bloom of dirt came from it. He made a face, and started scrubbing.

[Alistair]

The Gilded looked to Vivian with some degree of confusion. It was difficult to imagine, given their interactions just over an hour ago, that the other would be displaying such concern for him, but he did not disbelieve him. Vivian was strange and poor at first impressions, but he seemed to be good at heart. The mage wasn't certain how much that even really mattered to him anymore, but in some base way it brought him a degree of comfort.

Alistair noticed the Sil'Norai's blush, flashing him a warm, reassuring smile as he removed his hand. Alistair did as instructed, sitting on one of the crates, even as it appeared to bend and creak beneath his weight. He sighed, peering up towards the clouds, occasionally glancing towards Vivian to watch him dutifully work away at each individual piece of clothing. That was something they still hadn't learned how to automate, in the Commonwealth: laundry. Alistair had never done it himself, though, until he'd been banished to Khadai. There were so many things he'd been forced to learn, so late into his life.

"Vivian," he called out, the man either becoming bored or curious. Either way, his face tended to portray little: he liked to keep a tight grip on his emotions, employing them only by means of will, rather than accident. "Where are you staying, here in Bardona?" Alistair asked, his fingers tapping the length of his brown slacks. The man reached for his lantern, settled along the length of his belt, only to remember he was Overstepping; it was likely unwise to heal his wound through Grave. Either way, he'd caught his breath well before even sitting down, so the mage moved to stand up straight again, stretching his legs.

"I've a nice room in town, if you'd like to lounge there after you're done with this laundry. We can, perhaps, come back here tomorrow morning after they've accepted their... peace offering."

[Vivian]

Vivian cocked an eyebrow at Alistair, looking up from his laundry. Well...he hadn't really thought about where he was going to stay. He had just wandered around, eaten, planted himself in a cafe and found himself in a rather unorthodox situation. He turned his attention back to scrubbing for a moment, wringing out the laundry he felt was clean enough and pinning it back up on the line. He wished he had a little soap, but they hadn't exactly planned this excursion. Alistair was right. They should return in the morning to see if the peasants had realized they weren't going to hurt anyone, and see if they couldn't tackle problems bigger than a load of laundry. Alistair would need to rest and recover some of his ether after overstepping, and Vivian couldn't deny the heat was sapping his energy as well.

"To be honest I hadn't thought about a hotel yet." he admitted. "I wouldn't say no to a bath, a meal and a good rest." He turned to the houses. "Good people! We are here to help you! We aren't here to hurt you. I grew up in the Amoren slums, in the Ripe Peach Brothel if any of you know it! I am one of you. Please, drink from the well. Bathe your children and ease your thirst. We should be back in the morning with fresh food, soap and cloth for you."

He didn't expect any answer, per se. They were suspicious. He looked at Alistair and wiped his brow, replacing the basket where he'd found it and dumping out the filthy water. At the very least it would keep the soil from cracking. "Right...lead the way then." he gestured at Alistair.

[Alistair]

Alistair chuckled beneath his breath as the other called out to the townsfolk, seeing nothing but the occasional shifting of curtains, sometimes followed by the glare of a commoner. Daravain people were hostile and reserved to any but their own flock, much of the time, and he did not blame them. The Omen and the Entente inflicted arbitrary violence upon them all the time, as much as they appeared to be devoted to the ground they walked on. Many of the people who lived where they were standing were likely working out in the fields, anyway, or serving some wealthy patron by cleaning out their chamberpot. It didn't matter -- Alistair was glad to limit his interaction, today. He felt a slow, thrumming ache beginning to build within his skull.

"Let's just go," he muttered, and Vivian complied by agreeing to leave. He was glad. The mage cleaned out his wound with a small trickle of water, before heading off towards the center of the city, not bothering to look behind him or to observe whether any of the people came to examine the work they'd done. Some people were odd, anyway -- Alistair wasn't certain the peasants would even appreciate them, much. Some people didn't like interlopers acting as saviors. On the other hand, some people already worshiped mages too much.

Time passed, and the two approached the face of his hotel. Le Charneau. It was a horrifying name, given what he knew of Gentevarese, but it was still an elegant establishment with a respectable patronage. His room for the week had been paid for by Lady Alon, and perhaps as a sign of her status, he received the nicest room available, occupying most of the top-floor of the quaint, building-villa. The man nodded towards Vivian, inviting him inside. Already, the man saw one of the employees look between he and Vivian, laughing beneath her breath. Vivian looked like a prostitute, which he apparently was. That, of course, made the purpose of his visit appear obvious, practically glued to the back of an imposing, and seemingly impatient larger man.

Alistair didn't care. He had rarely ever been concerned with public perception, beyond some initial resistance given to him by his noble heritage and training. He was in a land where he was effectively invisible -- if there was one benefit he wanted to reap from that, it was enjoying himself without carrying fear of some scandal that may return to bite at his throat.

The man guided Vivian through the baroque building, climbing the stairs until they met the uppermost room, on the fifth floor. The door was a deep brown, and once he opened it with his key, the mage revealed a large room of sand-colored floors, ivory pillars and black furnishings. At the end of it was a wide, open balcony, with two arched doorways leading into separate rooms. Alistair set down his key once stepping inside, removing his shoes and letting out a breathy sigh.

"Here we are," he announced, inviting Vivian further in. "Make yourself comfortable. You're welcome to stay until your departure from Ciseperant. Just... no shifts, like we agreed."

[Vivian]

Vivian was honestly relieved. It was always a gamble whether the populace would take their interference as a good thing, and he was exhausted. They would have to fulfill their promise tomorrow, and he made a mental list of foods that wouldn't quickly spoil in the heat. Some soap would be appreciated as well, as well as some fresh fruit or things that they didn't often get. Who knew how many they would have to feed, but Vivian was determined. They had filled the well. That was a genuinely helpful and kind thing they had done. Now they had to follow through with the rest of it. A small change in one population could lead to more down the line. If he wanted to become a true Veir, a good and kind Veir, he wanted to fill his life with things like this.

The hotel was quite possibly the fanciest one that Vivian had ever been in. Degare had never treated him out to places like this, and he found it hard not to stare. He wanted to linger in the lobby a little longer, and admire the architecture. Perhaps ask some of the servants if they were treated well here. He was getting some nasty looks, owing to his attire, but he didn't mind. He was used to the looks. He followed closely behind Alistair, not wanting to lose him. He figured the staff would take the first opportunity to throw him out on his tailbone. The prostitute eyed the stairs, and sighed. Well, at least the view on the way up was fancy.

Vivian climbed the five flights of stairs, stopping occasionally to look at the masonwork or appreciate the texture of the marble under his bare feet. He looked behind him once and winced; he was leaving behind a trail of dusty footprints crusted in dried mud, owing to his lack of shoes and the fact he'd tromped all over the dirty washbasin water he'd poured out. Someone wasn't going to be very happy about it. They were climbing up and up, past nicer and nicer rooms, until they reached the topmost floor. Alistair opened up the room, and Vivian stepped inside. Now he felt free to gawk a little. The room was incredible! All intricate black stone that seemed to command him to keep it free of fingerprints.

The Malformist hurried to the balcony, grinning and looking out over the city. Gods! What a view! It looked incredible from up here. Even the Veir didn't have a view like this. He rested his arms on the railing, content to look over Bardona. "It really is beautiful. You must be grateful." he muttered, without malice. Gods, the bathroom. The bathroom must have been heaven. He smirked, and turned to Alistair. "No shifting, as agreed."

Without a word, he shimmied out of his pants and left them on the balcony, sauntering off toward the bathroom. "The baths are calling me. Care to join? You're about as sweaty as I am." he offered, looking back over one alabaster shoulder.