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Entry tags:
Bending of the Light: His Majesty's Cat - Ghost
In this series: Thrall, Disbelief
Var hums to himself as he prepares the components for the magicka-stabilizing incense, batting at the air and making ingredients drift like they were bubbles in the ocean. He'd read dusty tome after dusty tome, plied the wizards and masters of Telvanni with tasty nibbles of knowledge, cajoled warm Jobasha and dear Ahnassi into finding him esoteric books in Ta'agra.
And he has now devised something to let him solve the prickly issue of Wraithguard. He understands Vivec's distrust of giving Julan the Wraithguard, he understands Julan's distrust of recovering both of the Tools of Kagrenac for the Tribunal, and he understands that his compromise he has struck is the most temporary thing.
A trade of good will, Sunder for recognition of the Nerevarine, while Var solves the issue of wielding a dwarven gauntlet that does not at all fit his tiny housecatlike foreleg.
From the blank of who he was before thralldom, there is a sigh, "Var, var, var...", such lively chaos, exhausting work, how disappointing!
But Var has never been a khajiit who gives up when a steep climb is required. He carefully works, taking over Vivec's dais, for the round rippling of a pool is alike to the sky, and the fire-flickers hanging above mirror the varliance gate. Var works at the incense until the vaporous air is sweet as moonlight and roses, sharp as flame and brine, and shimmers in rivulets of silver and blood.
In the periphery of his awareness, he knows Vivec is observing, carefully, guarding this holy place, as he does not quite trust Var. Which is, to steal the living god's own words, 'Sensible, very sensible.' Var could easily ritually corrupt Vivec-the-City, and thus Vivec-the-God, if he makes Vivec-the-House unclean, if he consecrates it to another deity.
Var won't do such a thing, but he understands he could, in an act of vengeance in the name of Moon-And-Star. He also understands that Vivec would not understand that there's no vengeance in his heart. There's displeasure and grief as ancient as the Velothi treatises and the heretical Khajiiti texts he combed through, but no wraith's retribution howling where Var believes Nerevar dwells within him.
The alfiq breathes in deep, a long, bracing thing as his magic churns within, and exhales the faintest smoke-plume of gold. He has one chance, one attempt, and his eyes sharpen dragon-like, a needle of terror from Oblivion at the center of an Aetherial mirror. No longer the eyes of Var, but something adjacent to him, terrible and Padomaic.
He begins the incantation, weaves versed word in a tongue Var doesn't know but the thing inside him does, as his body weaves and slithers snakelike, tail swirling the silver and blood and the sweet-sharp vapours into magic sigils. He fills the air with power-words spoken and written, a veiled argument of inheritence on behalf of a mutilated saint whose descendance is a pantheon, the between-the-lines of an ancestor summoning tangled with the invocation of a spirit who is missing because he is Var and Var is him.
His magic swells and seems to run endless, a fragile inner world brought into being by an array of moonsugar vapours and incense smoke and clever words, and Var abruptly sits down, pupils dilating so fast and hard that it makes his eyes empty voids, as he rips this magicka-watered inner-world out, Speaks his ritual creatia into a conjured entity.
"NEREVAR."
Var is an empty shell, a conduit, exists only as a tether while his spirit solidifies, something between an astral projection and a conjured daedra, slightly translucent and edges gilded azure. He takes on what comes natural to him, a dreamform somewhere between the Khajiiti spirit Boethra and Saint Nerevar. Vivec has visited him in dreams, once or twice, when Var slept in Vivec's palace where Dagoth Ur cannot reach him, so when he meets Vivec's eyes there's recognition.
He tilts his head in a curious way. Vivec's nose and brows tense with the barest frown, jaw clenching in displeasure. Some things don't change.
"Looks like that worked, and it's holding. Now to see if I can wear Wraithguard like this."
His voice has an odd quality to it, both the ghostly sound of an Ancestor Spirit and the echo of a magic projection, but he supposes it's to be expected. It isn't every day that a wizard twists reality to their will in this specific way.
In this series: Troublemaker
Var hums to himself as he prepares the components for the magicka-stabilizing incense, batting at the air and making ingredients drift like they were bubbles in the ocean. He'd read dusty tome after dusty tome, plied the wizards and masters of Telvanni with tasty nibbles of knowledge, cajoled warm Jobasha and dear Ahnassi into finding him esoteric books in Ta'agra.
And he has now devised something to let him solve the prickly issue of Wraithguard. He understands Vivec's distrust of giving Julan the Wraithguard, he understands Julan's distrust of recovering both of the Tools of Kagrenac for the Tribunal, and he understands that his compromise he has struck is the most temporary thing.
A trade of good will, Sunder for recognition of the Nerevarine, while Var solves the issue of wielding a dwarven gauntlet that does not at all fit his tiny housecatlike foreleg.
From the blank of who he was before thralldom, there is a sigh, "Var, var, var...", such lively chaos, exhausting work, how disappointing!
But Var has never been a khajiit who gives up when a steep climb is required. He carefully works, taking over Vivec's dais, for the round rippling of a pool is alike to the sky, and the fire-flickers hanging above mirror the varliance gate. Var works at the incense until the vaporous air is sweet as moonlight and roses, sharp as flame and brine, and shimmers in rivulets of silver and blood.
In the periphery of his awareness, he knows Vivec is observing, carefully, guarding this holy place, as he does not quite trust Var. Which is, to steal the living god's own words, 'Sensible, very sensible.' Var could easily ritually corrupt Vivec-the-City, and thus Vivec-the-God, if he makes Vivec-the-House unclean, if he consecrates it to another deity.
Var won't do such a thing, but he understands he could, in an act of vengeance in the name of Moon-And-Star. He also understands that Vivec would not understand that there's no vengeance in his heart. There's displeasure and grief as ancient as the Velothi treatises and the heretical Khajiiti texts he combed through, but no wraith's retribution howling where Var believes Nerevar dwells within him.
The alfiq breathes in deep, a long, bracing thing as his magic churns within, and exhales the faintest smoke-plume of gold. He has one chance, one attempt, and his eyes sharpen dragon-like, a needle of terror from Oblivion at the center of an Aetherial mirror. No longer the eyes of Var, but something adjacent to him, terrible and Padomaic.
He begins the incantation, weaves versed word in a tongue Var doesn't know but the thing inside him does, as his body weaves and slithers snakelike, tail swirling the silver and blood and the sweet-sharp vapours into magic sigils. He fills the air with power-words spoken and written, a veiled argument of inheritence on behalf of a mutilated saint whose descendance is a pantheon, the between-the-lines of an ancestor summoning tangled with the invocation of a spirit who is missing because he is Var and Var is him.
His magic swells and seems to run endless, a fragile inner world brought into being by an array of moonsugar vapours and incense smoke and clever words, and Var abruptly sits down, pupils dilating so fast and hard that it makes his eyes empty voids, as he rips this magicka-watered inner-world out, Speaks his ritual creatia into a conjured entity.
"NEREVAR."
Var is an empty shell, a conduit, exists only as a tether while his spirit solidifies, something between an astral projection and a conjured daedra, slightly translucent and edges gilded azure. He takes on what comes natural to him, a dreamform somewhere between the Khajiiti spirit Boethra and Saint Nerevar. Vivec has visited him in dreams, once or twice, when Var slept in Vivec's palace where Dagoth Ur cannot reach him, so when he meets Vivec's eyes there's recognition.
He tilts his head in a curious way. Vivec's nose and brows tense with the barest frown, jaw clenching in displeasure. Some things don't change.
"Looks like that worked, and it's holding. Now to see if I can wear Wraithguard like this."
His voice has an odd quality to it, both the ghostly sound of an Ancestor Spirit and the echo of a magic projection, but he supposes it's to be expected. It isn't every day that a wizard twists reality to their will in this specific way.
In this series: Troublemaker