She’s not well-versed in the art of civil conversation. At least, not in any aspect where she might truly be interested in what the counterpart spoke of. Chase, however, had completely captured her attention, so much so, that even those like Barty recognized the severity of such an oddity. Morgana was far from harmless. Even if the wretched trickster of the Friémes dared to curse her name throughout the history books, she’s earned enough damning reputation on her own merit. That was the Morgana of legend, the Morrigan which tantalized and corrupted soldiers, kings, and cardinals alike. But this was not THAT woman. No, the sharp gaze of a fierce deity warmed like the sweet glow of sunrise. What could be scalding molten gold now breathed honeysuckles and emerald cliffsides of eons ago. It was positively human, and perhaps, that was more dangerous for her in the end.
His story, regardless of his confusion, seems to settle within her mind. Trickling within her senses as she paints this muted watercolored of a foreign lifetime. He’s forthcoming, a trait most appreciated, but he’s also hesitant. Morgana might suppose it wise to be with a stranger, but there is a deeper unsettled ethos about him. Guilt, perhaps? Fear? It isn’t immediately apparent, so she’s deathly quiet still as he continues. Her head cants as he confesses the unfortunate hour of ascension. A brief glimmer of love lost and sorrow. Empathy turns in her gut yet it pales at his final confession.
Burning alive? Her brow immediately furrows at the thought. A clear dissatisfaction with his words. No no no… he can not burn. That is not done, not any child of Pendria might taste the sharp bite of dragon’s fir— Ah, she reminds herself, he has not been tested by dragon’s fire. The salt of the earth, the magic of demons and lesser warlocks. No wonder he had suffered so needlessly. Her heart clenches unwillingly at the morsel of guilt that is compelled from her own negligence. If he was hers, had she then forsaken him? Might he have had far greater a chance to wade amongst the trials and tribulations of magicks with a proper teacher at his side? His father, whoever the wretched beast might be, should be glad to have died for the rage the Sorceress felt over such neglect.
Yet she’s been silent for far too long, her lip curling with internal reflection as her eyes glance unknowingly towards the window and the rising sun. Quickly, her sights affixed to him again before she crouches before the chair. Glancing over the numerous rings, she decides to stir up some measure of protection to answer such a confession. Her palm overturned as she snaps her fingers, a spark of flame so briefly conjured and yet it burned with blues and whites. Morgana glances back to him once more, fingers unfurrow to produce a dark solid ring of obsidian. Its veins marbled with molten gold yet solid when undisturbed. It’s a ring worn by few, shared sparingly throughout the many long years of her life. “Fire is not your enemy,” Morgana confesses, a light hand taking his left before sliding the piece down his ring finger. A direct line to the bloodstream that rang through the flesh and back to the heart. “I am truly sorry for your pain, but I will hold fast my part of the agreement. For now, this will spare you from any bite of Bel.” Or rather, she tells him this. The ring more so a direct connection to herself, a beckon that extends her influence should an occasion arise. He’d be safer, yes. Only because she would keep him as such.
HER QUIETNESS IS disconcerting. Chase wants to fidget under her scrutiny as if he’s thirteen again and being questioned by his mother as to why his bedroom had been turned upside down overnight and he knew that magic would get him grounded for telling lies even when it was the truth. Aside from that, he doesn’t want to tell her anything beyond the vague things he’d already divulged and the fact he’s already uncomfortable that she’s managed to pry that much out of him, they’re digging up a past he’s long tried to bury. He’d succeeded too, until tonight. But now she’s reopening very old, healed scars for a reason that he’s both unsure of and doesn’t trust. He wants to risk a sideways glance to where the dhampir is still working on his sewing machine, obviously still listening by the fact that Chase can see him, out of the corner of his eye, stealing the chance to look up from his work every time he has to pause at a seam. That’s all he needs as a confirmation that there’s something more to this -- that Morgana isn’t behaving as the tailor recognizes. That alone makes him nervous.
The way she’s focused solely on him doesn’t help.
He doesn’t realise he’s been holding his breath since he stopped talking until he allows himself to exhale during that very brief glance she gives the sunrise, watery and heavy as it rises under thick grey clouds. Chase, however, doesn’t take his eyes off Morgana. He can’t predict which way she was going to jump and that’s unsettling. Normally he was so good at reading how people would react, but she’s written in an ancient, dead language that no one even recognises anymore. There’s no Rosetta stone for someone like her and he’d wager even the ancient Celts - of which he’s noticed multiple telltale markings and artifacts from in her clutter - would struggle to read her. And she’s the one person he doesn’t want the dictionary to, for fear of what he might find deep in the pages.
The internal fight to shift and press himself further back into the soft leather cushions of the arm chair he’s sat in is lost as she drops to a crouch in front of him. Again, he’s tempted to attempt teleporting somewhere else in an effort to put distance between them, but the sudden flash of fire catches him off guard. Despite himself, he flinches and recoils, watching the flames with more than a little apprehension. It’s not that he’s afraid of fire, not exactly, but him and it don’t get on. He can feel his heart flutter in his chest as the primal panic surfaces, the memory of his skin searing; the way air was denied access to his lungs not by smoke but by heat. The absolute agony of months spent recovering even with his mediocre healing spells speeding the healing process as best he could. Even controlled by a woman who’s legends painted her as the mistress of fire, Chase can’t help but want to get away from it.
He wants to yank his hand free, to refuse that ring -- cold as stone against his skin despite the fire that seemed to forge it moments before -- that she slipped so effortlessly onto his finger. He doesn’t like that ‘for now’ bit either, nor what it implies lies in his future. His jaw works silently as he stares at her, glancing only briefly at the ring and up at the dhampir who again, had stopped his machine -- though now it seemed as he’d finished in earnest. “I think your tailor wants your attention.” He doesn’t ask what he wants to, he doubts he’ll get the answer anyway. “It seems he’s finished.”
