This post is William's IC inbox at ataraxion. You can drop network or action stuff that doesn't quite feel like it fits or warrants a post on the main communities in here.
[William makes a sound that starts out like 'Wow' and folds itself elegantly, almost indistinguishably into 'ow' as it goes on. The sentiment behind wow doesn't fade, though, even as he becomes cognizant of the fact that this treatment is far from pain-free. He stares at her blood leaking onto his arm. It seems dreadfully unsanitary by the standards of space-age medicine, but he couldn't have really expected anything else.
And besides, the mess of demons, angels, and other supernatural creatures running amok on his homeworld really only lends itself to the understanding that sterilization and organization and methodization and other -zations, generally, are a desperate and sometimes quite mistaken effort to impose order on the fact that reality is messy.] Yes, [he says eventually. He looks up.] Yeah. Can I move it 'round now or will that fuck something up?
Give it a minute, ( she advises, as the last blood-rose melts into flesh, leaving for a moment a red trace of its shape before disappearing entirely. ) You don't want to pull anything while it's still working.
[William doesn't know why he was expecting a scar or something-- his own gifts don't scar, generally. This is so strange, though. The shape of the flower, finer than any tattoo artist he's ever seen, the way it disappears like a fractal subsumed by warm water.]
Why's it got -- why's it got that symbolic stuff? Does the rose mean something? [He hasn't forgotten her friend, the one who liked nude gardening or whatnot, but that seemed different.]
We are one of the only traditions, if not the only, that can create where others only manipulate. We draw from the natural world in all things, and roses are - a fitting symbol, one that many of us reach for, figuratively and practically.
( she turns her hand palm-up, draws the sharp edge of her pinky-nail across it, a red line following-- her head tilts, eyes closed, and a rose - a true rose, not a blood simulacrum like those that buried themselves in him to heal his flesh - rises and unfurls, slowly, from within her. she curves her fist around it when it has enough of a stem, and uses her other hand to break it off; a little blood drips between her clenched fingers, but her palm is smooth and unbroken when her hand releases. )
We find beauty where we look for it. In, sometimes, the ugliest of places.
[William sits forward slightly as the flower begins to grow. He probably should be done feeling surprised by any of this by now, but this is not like the magic that he's watched the wizards work. It turns in a different universe to what he wields.]
Ain't terms scientists usually use, but beautiful works all right for me today. [His gaze lingers on the rose. He'd rather like to do some analyses, but that'd be rude-- or something.] Could you start a garden, down with the herbs and the farm crop? With that-- what you can do. [He'd been thinking in terms of flesh and blood, which is his wont; but this, too, is important.]
I don't consider myself beholden to scientific terminology, ( terribly mildly, for a woman who just grew a rose out of her hand, but then-- ) as that would be an incredibly simple thing to do, and it could be coaxed to grow simply to give me pleasure.
( edgeworth had thought her background in agricultural engineering could be useful, and...it could, incredibly, but she can also weave life out of desire and bond with it, persuade it to do her will. )
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And besides, the mess of demons, angels, and other supernatural creatures running amok on his homeworld really only lends itself to the understanding that sterilization and organization and methodization and other -zations, generally, are a desperate and sometimes quite mistaken effort to impose order on the fact that reality is messy.] Yes, [he says eventually. He looks up.] Yeah. Can I move it 'round now or will that fuck something up?
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[William doesn't know why he was expecting a scar or something-- his own gifts don't scar, generally. This is so strange, though. The shape of the flower, finer than any tattoo artist he's ever seen, the way it disappears like a fractal subsumed by warm water.]
Why's it got -- why's it got that symbolic stuff? Does the rose mean something? [He hasn't forgotten her friend, the one who liked nude gardening or whatnot, but that seemed different.]
no subject
( she turns her hand palm-up, draws the sharp edge of her pinky-nail across it, a red line following-- her head tilts, eyes closed, and a rose - a true rose, not a blood simulacrum like those that buried themselves in him to heal his flesh - rises and unfurls, slowly, from within her. she curves her fist around it when it has enough of a stem, and uses her other hand to break it off; a little blood drips between her clenched fingers, but her palm is smooth and unbroken when her hand releases. )
We find beauty where we look for it. In, sometimes, the ugliest of places.
( a memory- she lets it alone. )
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Ain't terms scientists usually use, but beautiful works all right for me today. [His gaze lingers on the rose. He'd rather like to do some analyses, but that'd be rude-- or something.] Could you start a garden, down with the herbs and the farm crop? With that-- what you can do. [He'd been thinking in terms of flesh and blood, which is his wont; but this, too, is important.]
no subject
( edgeworth had thought her background in agricultural engineering could be useful, and...it could, incredibly, but she can also weave life out of desire and bond with it, persuade it to do her will. )