The Pyrosopher's Laboratory

"The flame that burns twice as bright burns twice as fast"

[phlogiston-and-ignipotence]

The Pyrosopher and the Iron Flame

Phlogiston is a Pyrosopher. A Pyrosopher is someone knowledgeable about fire and its properties. Phlogiston is the closest thing the Burning Bugs have to a scientist, and he/she (uses both pronouns but prefers he and calls himself a man) is constantly trying to innovate with Wispfire, Flickering Flame, and fire in general. But she hides a secret. Many, in fact. Secrets she'd like for the other Burning Bugs to never know.

Ignipotence is his latest creation. They/It (For they use both) are what he calls an Iron Flame. Made of metal and Wispfire, and full of Wisps, held together by Magnetite, Ignipotence was made in imitation of the Cogwork Creations of the Citadel. They are living fire, given shape and form, a permanent means to interact with the world. They can create Wisps and teleport, and they will never stop burning.

Rules:

No NSFW or gore. Don't put porn in my inbox. I am fine with suggestive content for Phlogiston, but only mildly.

Ships are okay. Just keep in mind that Ignipotence is aroace and wants nothing but arson, and Phlogiston is... Phlogiston is a whole lot to handle as far as a relationship goes.

Please, no themes of helplessness and despair. I'm disabled and poor; I get enough helplessness and despair in my personal life as is.

Generally, nothing too fucked up.

Interactions, story arcs, etc., are 100% allowed.

Magic Anons are welcome, so long as they don't do anything too fucked up. Like the above-mentioned helplessness and despair. Or eldritch horror. Or killing either of these two. Yeah, I'd rather they not die, or at least not stay dead.

I don’t do well with vague or surprise-based RP prompts. If an ask involves hidden context or delayed reveals, please add a note like “this is meant to be ambiguous / a surprise may follow” so I can engage with it properly.

Tags:

#phlogistoninteracts (For interactions involving Phlogiston)

#ignipotenceinteracts (For interactions involving Ignipotence)

#phlogistonanswers (For asks for Phlogiston)

#ignipotenceanswers (For asks for Ignipotence)

#lore (for lore)

#fics (For fics)

#ooc (For OOC posts).

#Fellow Burners (For interactions with other Wisp Thicket or Burning Bug blogs)

#Silk Unburned (for interactions with Weavers and GMS).

#sillies (For silly stuff).

Arc Tags:

None.

Fics:

None.

.

[creige-bartender-of-halfway-home]

A mostly-undressed burning bug came into the halfway home. It wore a mask that covered very little of its face, and a cloak that covered very little of its body.

It put one thousand rosaries on the counter and said, "I'd like two vintage nectars, please. No, you don't get to know where the rosaries came from."

@phlogistonandignipotence.

*creige looks down at the hefty sum of rosaries before nodding, scraping the ring of beadsninto his claws before nodding* understood sir, give this old bug a moment to go get it

*creige wanders over to the celler door, hobbling slightly from the long days of travelling before throwing the latch open and hopping down. Shortly after clambering back up with 2 large casks of aged drink under his arms* there, will that be all friend?

[phlogiston-and-ignipotence]

Phlogiston's eyes widened. He hadn't actually expected this to work.

"Yes, that will be all," She said.

[creige-bartender-of-halfway-home]

*Creige nods* glad to hear it friends, now take care, and one more thing *creige shoots them a mischevious smile* please keep those little fire spirits to yourself, wouldnt want this old place burning down now would we!

[phlogiston-and-ignipotence]

"Thanks," Phlogiston said, her face twitching at Creige's sudden request. "Uh. Yeah. I'll keep the... wisps to myself."

With that, he took the casks, and started exiting the door.

[creige-bartender-of-halfway-home]

A mostly-undressed burning bug came into the halfway home. It wore a mask that covered very little of its face, and a cloak that covered very little of its body.

It put one thousand rosaries on the counter and said, "I'd like two vintage nectars, please. No, you don't get to know where the rosaries came from."

@phlogistonandignipotence.

*creige looks down at the hefty sum of rosaries before nodding, scraping the ring of beadsninto his claws before nodding* understood sir, give this old bug a moment to go get it

*creige wanders over to the celler door, hobbling slightly from the long days of travelling before throwing the latch open and hopping down. Shortly after clambering back up with 2 large casks of aged drink under his arms* there, will that be all friend?

[phlogiston-and-ignipotence]

Phlogiston's eyes widened. He hadn't actually expected this to work.

"Yes, that will be all," She said.

[sinn0hh]

[valhallas-last]

Already said this but DO IT

[phlogiston-and-ignipotence]

I think I heard you saying something about flame-ignited Soul burning extremely hard before, is it hard to put out at all?

Phlogiston perked up, her posture straightening, and when she spoke, her voice was brighter, louder, more passionate.

"Ah, well, Soul cannot be ignited under normal conditions and by normal means," Phlogiston stated. "The way I know of, currently, to achieve the ignition of Soul is by using Soul in the casting of the spell Flickering Flame. Flickering Flame requires chitin, flintgem powder, and Soul. When done right, it can create Wispfire, which yes, is extremely hard to put out!" Phlogiston explained.

"However, I do not use Flickering Flame anymore, thanks to the Performer-Child. Runecraft... It's a much easier method of creating Wispfire, though it also means I have to complete redesign the recipe for an Iron Flame... I need the fire to be stronger... Speaking of Iron Flames, where is Ignipotence?"

As if on cue, Ignipotence's large form lumbered into the laboratory.

"Hello, creator," It crackled. "I have re... returned."

Phlogiston turned around swiftly at the sound of his creation's voice.

"Ignipotence!" He exclaimed. "Where did you go? What did you do? Why were you gone for so long?"

"Arson," Ignipotence answered. "Com... Committed arson. Was fun. Not... very successful. But I made things burn. Burn! Burn!"

Phlogiston sighed, her hand moving to her masked face. "Ignipotence, please do not vanish like that again. You are irreplaceable, you know? I quite value having you."

"Yes... Creator. Will not dis... disappear, again," Ignipotence promised.

"Good," Phlogiston replied. "Now, allow me to catch you up on all of my discoveries and plans."

[phlogiston-and-ignipotence]

Any epic failed inventions you recall?

"... I tried to make a Thicketberry Wine distillery," Phlogiston said, taking a sip of his thicketberry wine. "It... It tasted worse than muckmaggot water."

[ihavenocluewhatiwanttobecalled]

Fair Warning: Today is my Graduation Ceremony!

As such, I will not be online from about 5 PM MST (I think) to... I don't really know, I don't have a clue how long the ceremony is meant to last!

Regardless, I thought you all should know.

[phlogiston-and-ignipotence]

why are you so tall

"If you ask why I am so tall," Phlogiston said, "It was because my mother stood like a tree among mere sprouts, and I take after her in my height. If you are asking why Ignipotence is so tall, it is because I wanted a creation that could look me in the eyes, and I decided a larger creation would be more intimidating and more durable."

[laughsandstuff]

Reblog if you want a "why are you so..." in your ask.

Lol i’m not gonna get any, just doing this anyway :P

[ihavenocluewhatiwanttobecalled]

Finals Week

So. This is my last week of High School.

I have to finish two (2) projects, review for final exams, take two (2) final exams on Wednesday, and then take two (2) final exams on Thursday, one of which is to read a children's story of my own creation to a bunch of young children.

If I am less active this week, this is why.

Wish me luck.

[ihavenocluewhatiwanttobecalled]

Wish Me Luck

I have my final exam in Modern US History. I have to suffer through a lecture in Teen Choices before that. Wish me luck, people ^^ And also if I'm tired later and not very active, that's why; I wasn't active yesterday or the day before because I had a fuckload of homework.

[phlogiston-and-ignipotence]

Life for Life

Phlogiston was hard at work.

He knew the basic principles of the magic of the Shamans.

"Evos kur evos," She whispered as she walked through her laboratory. "Like calls to like."

Phlogiston thought he could use the principle to return life to the barren soil that had, not long ago, been used as part of the Underworks.

And yet, her experiments had been... less than successful.

But she was certain she had got it right this time.

And so, he got the brass device he had built and rebuilt again and again over a maddeningly frustrating several weeks, and pressed the trigger, watching the Silk Spool twirl and the Soul emerge from the device's tip hitting the soil in his, and...

... Green.

"I did it," He said softly, before shouting, "I DID IT!"

Hurriedly, he grabbed another small spool of Silk, the tool, and another pot of soil. Then, he rushed over to the Performer-child's place, long legs carrying him far.

He knocked on the door with his remaining free hand (at least, if one did not count the two extra hiding beneath his cloak) and said, "PERFORMER-CHILD! PERFORMER-CHILD! YOU WILL WANT TO SEE THIS!!!"

@child-of-the-father-of-the-flame

[child-of-the-father-of-the-flame]

*Starting up from its bedroll, the Performer-child rushes over to the door pulling it open and rubbing its eyes.*

Whate, Pyrosopher-child?! Whate dost thee hath? Whate hast beenth wrought?!

[phlogiston-and-ignipotence]

Phlogiston was beaming behind her mask as she arrogantly said, "Oh, only something that'll have you dancing and singing in joy."

With that, he pulled out a tiny spool of Silk.

"Now, I know what you're thinking," She said. "Bleh. Silk. Weaver-make. Disgusting. But tolerate it for five minutes, that's all I ask."

Phlogiston then pulled out a strange, rune-etched, brass device. It had a slot to attach the tiny spool, a tip through which it looked like something should come out, and a strange little trigger-lever thing attached to a handle.

"And yes, this is metal from the Underworks of that Citadel. And yeah, I know, also disgusting, but this is going to blow your mind, I promise you, so again, five minutes, tolerate it, please."

Phlogiston then pulled out a pot containing soil. He fumbled a little as he attached the spool to the device, and then aimed the device at the soil in the pot.

"Now," Phlogiston said. "Silk is made from Soul. It's basically just pure Soul. And maybe you know this, maybe you don't, but the core principle of the Snail Shamans' soul magic is 'like calls to like.' The Soul that makes up this Silk is, according to them, not any fundamentally different from the Soul that gives you and I life, or for that matter, that gives these plants around us life.

"And so, if my calculations and hypotheses were correct—which of course they are, because I'm the Pyrosopher, damnit, and I'm amazing—then it stands to reason that..."

Phlogiston didn't say the rest. She simply pulled the trigger. The spool spun, and the Silk upon it disappeared into the gadget. White Soul flashed as it emerged from the tip of the device, and made contact with the soil.

One heartbeat passed. Two.

On the third, a few blades of Wisp Thicket grass sprouted from the Soil.

Phlogiston grinned behind her mask.

"... I can convert Silk into the life of our Thicket. Those Weavers may have destroyed our land, but poetically, it is their Silk that I am going to use to restore life to the barren soil that was recently returned to us."

The Pyrosopher-child gazed at the Performer-child, awaiting approval. Somewhat hesitantly, he asked, "So... Are you happy I told you to tolerate the oh-so-horrid Silk and brass for five minutes, now?".

[child-of-the-father-of-the-flame]

*The Performer-child lets out a long, exhausted sigh, rubbing its eyes again, but, too tired to object, allows Phlogiston to set up his demonstration, watching the pot.*

*As the seconds pass, it begins to speak.*

Use of't yon metal beith nary an sin, Pyrosopher-child. T'is new-craft. Ourn use of't yonder veinbells is't nought sin afternall, this Bug hast regail'ed this to'n thee. T'is not an necessity to'n-

*It is suddenly cut off as, before its very eyes, grass sprouts from the pot. It freezes, and nothing is said, though the light of the Father blares out of its eyes.*

...Humility t'is most virtuous, Father-child. Thee dareth not forget such...

*It softly says, slowly kneeling down to the pot, gently running the blades of grass through its claw. The feeling catches something in its throat, and it chokes it back, breathily chuckling in awe.*

...Incrediblous... Truely most incrediblous... T'is reale, Father... Aye, t'is moste reale... "She" hast madeth toole most miraculous...

*It's gaze darts back up to meet Phlogiston's.*

Dost thee haveth waye to'n performth yon acte in His magik?! Is't thine tool limited by'n yon silk?!

[phlogiston-and-ignipotence]

"I show humility with each question I ask, and each time I admit I do not know something," Phlogiston stated. "If I have seen farther, it is by standing on the shoulders of giants, I do admit, but I climbed onto those shoulders by my own, and I do am going to pat myself on the back for that."

The Pyrosopher listened closely to the Performer-child as it continued. She could hear the quotation marks around 'she,' felt a sliver of disrespect for her identity, but decided that so long as the Performer-child didn't dare to misgender her, Phlogiston would do nothing.

"Uh, I mean, I suppose I could make it work with any source of Soul, but the problem is that then I'd have to sacrifice some sort of living thing instead, which seems... cruel? And wasteful? And unnecessary? I don't see why I should slaughter hordes of Pharlids for the sake of fertilizing our lands when I can just... Use some of the Silk I have in storage. And I have a lot of Silk in storage that I've been meaning to use, but couldn't find a use for beyond making us clothes. Or maybe rope. So uh. Unless you want a new outfit, I figure making those barren parts of our land nice and green again is the best use we have for it, yes?"

[child-of-the-father-of-the-flame]

Immolate thine store. Immolate it'all. T'is blasphemy to'n useth it inst any capacity, we Bugs Burning hast nary an use forn it. His holy wispflame dost keepeth ourn mortalshells clean of't yon silken blight forn an reason. Ande, inst yon immolation, yon Soul widthin it'st cleansed, to'n becometh Redeemer-child inst its nexte life. As't sayeth ourn tales.

...Thine Love ist misplace'd again, Pyrosopher-child. T'is not wasteful to'n giveth His true-light sacrifice. T'is not cruel to'n giveth yonder heretics life anew in feed forn His glorious Thicket. Ande ifith we doth use only Soul of't yon Pharlid, yon thinge t'is beast, not bug. Absent it doth be, of't heightened mind. Evene inst eyes of't yon Outsiders t'is no cruelty in takinge an Soul of't an beast.

This Bug is't willing to'n harvest Soul of't yon Outsiders to'n maketh thine invention clean inst His eyes, but ifith thee wisheth to'n only maketh use of't beast Soul, than useth yon Pharlids! Or'n moormite! They'n doth creepeth int'win ourn Mortal-Mother in abundance, juste ask yon Guardian-child!

[phlogiston-and-ignipotence]

"... Burning it would create Flickering Flame, Performer-child, which your words in the past have suggested is a far greater heresy. Besides, using Silk is far more efficient than causing the extinction of Pharlids," Phlogiston explained.

"As for using Outsiders, uh, what? That's... That's even less efficient than using Pharlids? Not to mention the moral implications. And also... Is it not poetic justice, that we would use the Soul of our enemy to restore the land they destroyed? Is that not justice? Does that not make you feel just... clever, vindictive? Because I felt that way coming up with the idea." Phlogiston had felt clever, just... Not necessary in the way he was talking about. It wasn't technically a lie.

[phlogiston-and-ignipotence]

Life for Life

Phlogiston was hard at work.

He knew the basic principles of the magic of the Shamans.

"Evos kur evos," She whispered as she walked through her laboratory. "Like calls to like."

Phlogiston thought he could use the principle to return life to the barren soil that had, not long ago, been used as part of the Underworks.

And yet, her experiments had been... less than successful.

But she was certain she had got it right this time.

And so, he got the brass device he had built and rebuilt again and again over a maddeningly frustrating several weeks, and pressed the trigger, watching the Silk Spool twirl and the Soul emerge from the device's tip hitting the soil in his, and...

... Green.

"I did it," He said softly, before shouting, "I DID IT!"

Hurriedly, he grabbed another small spool of Silk, the tool, and another pot of soil. Then, he rushed over to the Performer-child's place, long legs carrying him far.

He knocked on the door with his remaining free hand (at least, if one did not count the two extra hiding beneath his cloak) and said, "PERFORMER-CHILD! PERFORMER-CHILD! YOU WILL WANT TO SEE THIS!!!"

@child-of-the-father-of-the-flame

[child-of-the-father-of-the-flame]

*Starting up from its bedroll, the Performer-child rushes over to the door pulling it open and rubbing its eyes.*

Whate, Pyrosopher-child?! Whate dost thee hath? Whate hast beenth wrought?!

[phlogiston-and-ignipotence]

Phlogiston was beaming behind her mask as she arrogantly said, "Oh, only something that'll have you dancing and singing in joy."

With that, he pulled out a tiny spool of Silk.

"Now, I know what you're thinking," She said. "Bleh. Silk. Weaver-make. Disgusting. But tolerate it for five minutes, that's all I ask."

Phlogiston then pulled out a strange, rune-etched, brass device. It had a slot to attach the tiny spool, a tip through which it looked like something should come out, and a strange little trigger-lever thing attached to a handle.

"And yes, this is metal from the Underworks of that Citadel. And yeah, I know, also disgusting, but this is going to blow your mind, I promise you, so again, five minutes, tolerate it, please."

Phlogiston then pulled out a pot containing soil. He fumbled a little as he attached the spool to the device, and then aimed the device at the soil in the pot.

"Now," Phlogiston said. "Silk is made from Soul. It's basically just pure Soul. And maybe you know this, maybe you don't, but the core principle of the Snail Shamans' soul magic is 'like calls to like.' The Soul that makes up this Silk is, according to them, not any fundamentally different from the Soul that gives you and I life, or for that matter, that gives these plants around us life.

"And so, if my calculations and hypotheses were correct—which of course they are, because I'm the Pyrosopher, damnit, and I'm amazing—then it stands to reason that..."

Phlogiston didn't say the rest. She simply pulled the trigger. The spool spun, and the Silk upon it disappeared into the gadget. White Soul flashed as it emerged from the tip of the device, and made contact with the soil.

One heartbeat passed. Two.

On the third, a few blades of Wisp Thicket grass sprouted from the Soil.

Phlogiston grinned behind her mask.

"... I can convert Silk into the life of our Thicket. Those Weavers may have destroyed our land, but poetically, it is their Silk that I am going to use to restore life to the barren soil that was recently returned to us."

The Pyrosopher-child gazed at the Performer-child, awaiting approval. Somewhat hesitantly, he asked, "So... Are you happy I told you to tolerate the oh-so-horrid Silk and brass for five minutes, now?".

[child-of-the-father-of-the-flame]

*The Performer-child lets out a long, exhausted sigh, rubbing its eyes again, but, too tired to object, allows Phlogiston to set up his demonstration, watching the pot.*

*As the seconds pass, it begins to speak.*

Use of't yon metal beith nary an sin, Pyrosopher-child. T'is new-craft. Ourn use of't yonder veinbells is't nought sin afternall, this Bug hast regail'ed this to'n thee. T'is not an necessity to'n-

*It is suddenly cut off as, before its very eyes, grass sprouts from the pot. It freezes, and nothing is said, though the light of the Father blares out of its eyes.*

...Humility t'is most virtuous, Father-child. Thee dareth not forget such...

*It softly says, slowly kneeling down to the pot, gently running the blades of grass through its claw. The feeling catches something in its throat, and it chokes it back, breathily chuckling in awe.*

...Incrediblous... Truely most incrediblous... T'is reale, Father... Aye, t'is moste reale... "She" hast madeth toole most miraculous...

*It's gaze darts back up to meet Phlogiston's.*

Dost thee haveth waye to'n performth yon acte in His magik?! Is't thine tool limited by'n yon silk?!

[phlogiston-and-ignipotence]

"I show humility with each question I ask, and each time I admit I do not know something," Phlogiston stated. "If I have seen farther, it is by standing on the shoulders of giants, I do admit, but I climbed onto those shoulders by my own, and I do am going to pat myself on the back for that."

The Pyrosopher listened closely to the Performer-child as it continued. She could hear the quotation marks around 'she,' felt a sliver of disrespect for her identity, but decided that so long as the Performer-child didn't dare to misgender her, Phlogiston would do nothing.

"Uh, I mean, I suppose I could make it work with any source of Soul, but the problem is that then I'd have to sacrifice some sort of living thing instead, which seems... cruel? And wasteful? And unnecessary? I don't see why I should slaughter hordes of Pharlids for the sake of fertilizing our lands when I can just... Use some of the Silk I have in storage. And I have a lot of Silk in storage that I've been meaning to use, but couldn't find a use for beyond making us clothes. Or maybe rope. So uh. Unless you want a new outfit, I figure making those barren parts of our land nice and green again is the best use we have for it, yes?"

[phlogiston-and-ignipotence]

Life for Life

Phlogiston was hard at work.

He knew the basic principles of the magic of the Shamans.

"Evos kur evos," She whispered as she walked through her laboratory. "Like calls to like."

Phlogiston thought he could use the principle to return life to the barren soil that had, not long ago, been used as part of the Underworks.

And yet, her experiments had been... less than successful.

But she was certain she had got it right this time.

And so, he got the brass device he had built and rebuilt again and again over a maddeningly frustrating several weeks, and pressed the trigger, watching the Silk Spool twirl and the Soul emerge from the device's tip hitting the soil in his, and...

... Green.

"I did it," He said softly, before shouting, "I DID IT!"

Hurriedly, he grabbed another small spool of Silk, the tool, and another pot of soil. Then, he rushed over to the Performer-child's place, long legs carrying him far.

He knocked on the door with his remaining free hand (at least, if one did not count the two extra hiding beneath his cloak) and said, "PERFORMER-CHILD! PERFORMER-CHILD! YOU WILL WANT TO SEE THIS!!!"

@child-of-the-father-of-the-flame

[child-of-the-father-of-the-flame]

*Starting up from its bedroll, the Performer-child rushes over to the door pulling it open and rubbing its eyes.*

Whate, Pyrosopher-child?! Whate dost thee hath? Whate hast beenth wrought?!

[phlogiston-and-ignipotence]

Phlogiston was beaming behind her mask as she arrogantly said, "Oh, only something that'll have you dancing and singing in joy."

With that, he pulled out a tiny spool of Silk.

"Now, I know what you're thinking," She said. "Bleh. Silk. Weaver-make. Disgusting. But tolerate it for five minutes, that's all I ask."

Phlogiston then pulled out a strange, rune-etched, brass device. It had a slot to attach the tiny spool, a tip through which it looked like something should come out, and a strange little trigger-lever thing attached to a handle.

"And yes, this is metal from the Underworks of that Citadel. And yeah, I know, also disgusting, but this is going to blow your mind, I promise you, so again, five minutes, tolerate it, please."

Phlogiston then pulled out a pot containing soil. He fumbled a little as he attached the spool to the device, and then aimed the device at the soil in the pot.

"Now," Phlogiston said. "Silk is made from Soul. It's basically just pure Soul. And maybe you know this, maybe you don't, but the core principle of the Snail Shamans' soul magic is 'like calls to like.' The Soul that makes up this Silk is, according to them, not any fundamentally different from the Soul that gives you and I life, or for that matter, that gives these plants around us life.

"And so, if my calculations and hypotheses were correct—which of course they are, because I'm the Pyrosopher, damnit, and I'm amazing—then it stands to reason that..."

Phlogiston didn't say the rest. She simply pulled the trigger. The spool spun, and the Silk upon it disappeared into the gadget. White Soul flashed as it emerged from the tip of the device, and made contact with the soil.

One heartbeat passed. Two.

On the third, a few blades of Wisp Thicket grass sprouted from the Soil.

Phlogiston grinned behind her mask.

"... I can convert Silk into the life of our Thicket. Those Weavers may have destroyed our land, but poetically, it is their Silk that I am going to use to restore life to the barren soil that was recently returned to us."

The Pyrosopher-child gazed at the Performer-child, awaiting approval. Somewhat hesitantly, he asked, "So... Are you happy I told you to tolerate the oh-so-horrid Silk and brass for five minutes, now?".

[phlogiston-and-ignipotence]

Life for Life

Phlogiston was hard at work.

He knew the basic principles of the magic of the Shamans.

"Evos kur evos," She whispered as she walked through her laboratory. "Like calls to like."

Phlogiston thought he could use the principle to return life to the barren soil that had, not long ago, been used as part of the Underworks.

And yet, her experiments had been... less than successful.

But she was certain she had got it right this time.

And so, he got the brass device he had built and rebuilt again and again over a maddeningly frustrating several weeks, and pressed the trigger, watching the Silk Spool twirl and the Soul emerge from the device's tip hitting the soil in his, and...

... Green.

"I did it," He said softly, before shouting, "I DID IT!"

Hurriedly, he grabbed another small spool of Silk, the tool, and another pot of soil. Then, he rushed over to the Performer-child's place, long legs carrying him far.

He knocked on the door with his remaining free hand (at least, if one did not count the two extra hiding beneath his cloak) and said, "PERFORMER-CHILD! PERFORMER-CHILD! YOU WILL WANT TO SEE THIS!!!"

@child-of-the-father-of-the-flame

[child-of-the-father-of-the-flame]

Phlogiston knocked on the Performer-child's door, carrying a rather large box. Presumably filled with the water the Performer-child asked for.

"Hey, Performer-child. It's me again," The Pyrosopher greeted. "I got the water you wanted. Uh. You didn't specify how much, so I just got all I could!"

(OOC: Sorry for taking so long, I was wanting to wait until I finished the interaction with burning underworker, but uh... They haven't replied in over a week TwT)

@phlogiston-and-ignipotence

*The Performer-child opens the door, yawning and rubbing its eyes.*

Ah, excellent, Pyrosopher-child. Amany thanks.

*It takes the box and carries it inside. Opening the lid of the nest, it takes clawfuls of water and feeds them to the soil. Once assuring its moist-yet-not-floodedness, it closes the lid and sets the box off to the side.*

We shalt useth yon rest of't it later.

Dost thee fare well, Pyrosopher-child? This Bug hadeth an most peculiar dream yon night of't last.

Understandable. They're a bit inconsistent, but eh, life stuff, probably. Whattaya gonna do

[phlogiston-and-ignipotence]

The Pyrosopher enters the home, looking over the Performer-child's shoulder (for Phlogiston is a very tall burning bug and probably has the height on the Performer-child to do so) at the nest in fascination.

"We could use the water to make more of my thicketberry wine," Phlogiston joked (it was a testament to how comfortable he was becoming with the Performer-child, that he was making jokes, and the Pyrosopher-child hoped his fellow burning bug could realize that), before adding, "In all seriousness, I have plenty in case we want to celebrate these two hatching. Or any other achievement, anything worthy of celebration."

Phlogiston paused, to consider the Performer-child's question.

"... I am well," He eventually said. "I have made a small bit of progress on making new Iron Flames. I know I need... some kind of chemical, to complete the fire. I know that chemical is not gasoline. That... narrows it down," He explained. "I also have a new project I'm working on, one that I expect will be much easier. Or, at least, that I know where to start on...

"A dream, you say?" Phlogiston asked after trailing off. "Would you care to share it? Dreams have always been... fascinating to me, endlessly so."

[child-of-the-father-of-the-flame]

*The Performer-child chuckles at the mention of wine.*

T'is tradition of't us Performer-children to'n only partaketh of't yon drink of't the thicketberry aftern an successful Performance once every'th wick-length, an toast to'n ourn four's merry worke.

*It looks back at Phlogiston and winks.*

Though this Bug shalt not lie, yon Elder Performer-child of't its time t'was loose width that, fron time to'n time. Ande thee knoweth what yon sayeth: thee ar't h'what thee ar't taught.

*It laughs again.*

*It listens and nods as it listens to Phlogiston, and is about to inquire about her new project, but is caught up when he asks about its dream.*

T'was about yon hatchlings, ifith thee doth believeth. Within this Bug's dream, they'n doth hatch and maketh much mischief, killing this Bug inst its sleep forn no reason other than humor.

Ande then, onceth daye endeth, they'n hear an sound, cominge fromst below'th us. An voice widthout an voice. They claimeth they'n shalt not achieveth "metamorphosis" as't longe as't they'n beith apart fron it. Then they left and this Bug doth wake.

[phlogiston-and-ignipotence]

Phlogiston laughs as well, before listening closely to the Performer-child's description of the dream.

"Hm... Much more coherent than my dreams," Phlogiston said. "'Metamorphosis,' you say?... You did mention snails can ascend to the rank of Shaman. Perhaps that's where you got the idea of metamorphosis and the snails? And a voice below us... The Chapel is technically below us.

"Again, far more coherent than my dreams. Most of mine are... random nonsense. The few that do make sense are my... My desires, I suppose. The things I want this world to be." Those dreams drove Phlogiston onward.

[child-of-the-father-of-the-flame]

Mm. Yon doth maketh sense, this Bug doth suppose. Yon ascension is't ritual kepteth most hidden fron bugs-not-snail, ande this Bug doth confess an desire in understandment of't it. Yon Chapel... Place of't ritual forn yon snail-kind, this Bug dost assume? Hm, t'would also maketh sense, though this Bug doth wonder how'st its mind hath conjured such imagry, as it hast no knowledge of't yon "Chapel" untwin thine mention. Perhapseth yon aspect doth beith yon touch of't ourn glorious Father.

T'is h'what dreams often doth be, Pyrosopher-child. An manifestation of't one's own desires. T'is why ourn blazing true-light, as't well as't yon false-lights in vile imitation, can'th often commune widthst mortalbug through'n ourn dreams. They'n desires doth manifest width supreme powere, enough powere to'n breacheth ourn own subconscious.

*It gives an inquisitive look.*

What dost be thine desires, Pyrosopher-child, ifith thee doth feel comfort in ensharement? Dost it hath common ground widthst thine supposed "new project"?

[phlogiston-and-ignipotence]

Phlogiston smiled beneath her mask. "As a matter of fact," She said, "It does have something to do with my new project.

"I dream of a world without the Conductors of the Citadel. Much of the structure of the Citadel itself still exists, though it has been much shrunken. It's not a machine that chews nature up and spits out corpses anymore. It's just... a city. It's just a place bugs live their best lives.

"I dream of a Wisp Thicket restored. I dream of the trees my..." He tried to think of a word for his dad other than 'my dad.' He eventually settled on, "... sire told me stories of. Trees with bark as gray as ash, leaves bright green with red stripes like fire. I dream of a Wisp Thicket with animals for me to hunt and eat, satisfy my meat cravings. I dream of a Wisp Thicket at least ten times larger than that we find ourselves in now. This... This is related to my new project. We'll come back to this later."

Phlogiston took a deep breath. "And I dream that I can research what I want to research. That all of us, our lives are... simple. Joyful. Free. And I can satisfy this, this, this burning, within me, for knowledge... I yearn for understanding. I see something I don't understand, and... And so many bugs feel fear, but not me. Never me. Never since my hatch-giver told me that I can have fear, or I can have faith, but only one is going to bring me what I want. And it's easy to see that's not fear." Phlogiston continued. "No, I see something I don't understand, and all I feel is curious. All I feel is this want, no, this need to know how it works. This... Love, almost, for everything I learn, everything I don't understand.

"So in my dream, I'm learning everything I ever want to learn, I'm studying everything I want to study, I'm creating things. Helpful things, not violent things.

"... It was in one of these dreams that the idea for the Iron Flames, for Ignipotence, first came to me. And it was in one of these dreams that my new project came to me."

Phlogiston had looked away from the Performer-child for a while, during his speech. Now he turned to look at his fellow burning bug, and he said, "I think I've said it before, that we've gotten land back from the Citadel. Given to us by a... 'Twelfth Architect'? I doubt that means anything to you, though the name 'Architect' suggests a fellow maker. I suppose it matters little...

"The important thing is that the land we got back was barren. The soil's there; this Architect removed all the metal before they returned the land. But the plant life is not there... And I intend to fix that. And I think... I think I know how, though I can't do it without runecraft." Phlogiston grinned beneath her maks. "Thank you, for teaching me runecraft; it has created more possibilities than I ever imagined were possible."

[child-of-the-father-of-the-flame]

*The Performer-child closes its eyes and nods, a gentle serenity crossing its face as it shares in Phlogiston's vision.*

Thine ar't more than welcome, Father-kin, t'is this Bug's pleasure to'n spread His magik amongst thee, t'is thine hatchright to'n knoweth it.

Thine vision is't beautiful, Pyrosopher-child, ande thee doth conjure it so'n prettily. Aboveth all this Bug doth comrade in'th yon goal, an Thicket restored, madeth resplendent, grownth greatern than t'was even befornth ourn First Tragedy. Ande thee ar't an intelligent Bug, ande thee hast aln aready cometh so'n far, this Bug is't sure thee shalt bringeth bounty to'n yonder wabe.

Aye, thee hast brought mention of't it, ande this Bug hast rejoiced in yon news, eager to to'n beareth witness to'n His land, raised of't ugly, vile machinery. But its work caring forn yon hatchlings hast taken all'n of't its time, it has rarely lefteth its abode. It knoweth not what it doth appearin now, but already this Bug doth imagine it as't it shall grow to'n be, widthst thine help.

Ourn Father of the Flame is't proud of't thee, Pyrosopher-child.

[phlogiston-and-ignipotence]

Phlogiston's smile may not have been visible, but the Pyrosopher-child practically radiated happiness in response to the Performer-child's words.

"... Our Father is... proud of me?" She asked quietly.

Phlogiston hadn't ever considered that a possibility. He'd always assumed, well... Surely the Father must know of his difference from the others. He'd always assumed that between that, and the fact he laughed in the face of tradition, that the Father would never be proud of him. Yes, yes, the Father had obviously allowed him to have turned out the way he had (or perhaps his mother's genes were strong enough to simply overcome the magic...), and Phlogiston had suggested himself that it was because his skills were needed, but... He hadn't really believed it.

Knowing the Father was proud of him... stirred up a few things inside of him.

"... Then I shall continue to work, and experiment. For Him. Especially on this new project..."

[child-of-the-father-of-the-flame]

Good.

*The Performer-child walks up to Phlogiston and places a gentle, but firm claw on her side, smiling up into his eyes. The Flames of the Father extend from its own slightly, making soft caressing motions in his direction. A wide, endless expanse seems to stretch on in the Performer-child's Blazen Gaze, gateways into the Father's blazing otherrealm, and through either magic or His love for her, she can almost feel herself falling in, only to be caught and embraced by the Father's eternal warmth.*

Thee hast madeth mistakes inst thine path, thee now knoweth this just as't well as't He, bute neverth forget, kin, that thee ar't His Father-child, always. T'is thine nature as't mortalbug, to'n maketh mistake, but same as't any Father, ourn loving true-light shalt loveth thee in all of't eternity, love as't eternal as His everburning Flame.

He dost awaiteth thine fruit in eagerity.

*It gestures for Phlogiston to crouch a bit, then presses its forehead against her's, closing its eyes.*

As't doth this Bug.

[phlogiston-and-ignipotence]

The Pyrosopher-child got lost in the Performer-child's eyes for a moment.

Er. Not like that. She wasn't nearly tipsy enough to get lost in that way.

No, for the first time, Phlogiston was really, truly aware that to stare into the Performer-child's eyes was to stare into the eyes of their Father... Which made it good that she wasn't lost in its eyes in that way; she doubted the Father would approve.

The Performer-child's words soothed the Pyrosopher. He felt tension leave his body, tension he hadn't realized he'd been holding. He felt generally more relaxed. Comfortable.

It had... been a long time since he'd felt such a way. It was nice.

She was even more shocked when the Performer-child gestured for her to crouch, and when Phlogiston obeyed, the Performer-child's forehead pressed against her own. She stared at the Performer-child's closed eyes, and she said,

"Thank you." Her voice was breathless.

He felt an urge to hug the bug before him. Instead, he simply slowly, experimentally, settling his hand on the Performer-child's own. Loosely. The ghost of a touch. Just... testing the waters.

Or testing the fires, more like it.

[child-of-the-father-of-the-flame]

Of't course.

*The Performer-child, upon feeling Phlogiston's claw, immediately reaches out and wraps all four of its forelegs around him, giving her a chiten-breakingly strong hug.*

Pyrosopher-child, feeleth nary an shame in thine need of't friendly touch! This Bug is't always gladdened to'n provide! Though it hast been told by'n its Performer-children fellows thate its hugs ar't "an bit intense".

*It nearly squeezes the breath out of Phlogiston, displaying surprising strength that it hasn't displayed anywhere else (and might not even be capable of anywhere else, before letting go, air flowing back into Phlogiston like an accordion. It laughs again and pats her back.*

Thee muste all ways know h'what thee ar't getting thineself int'win, Pyrosopher-child. In its youth, beforn it had'st understedth its owne hug-strength, this Bug onceth nearly caus'ed its mentor to'n fall unconscious fron alone hugority.

[phlogiston-and-ignipotence]

Phlogiston grunts at the Performer-child's hug, surprised at its strength. The Pyrosopher-child had always suspected herself of being a decent bit physically stronger than her fellows (though, admittedly, she didn't really foster that strength much outside of hunting easy prey. Perhaps she should fix that), but perhaps she had been wrong; the Performer-child's grip was exceptionally tight.

The Pyrosopher felt relief as he was released, and he said, "You're not kidding, that is very strong," while simultaneously he thought about the fact the Performer-child had said the word "hugority."

... Was that even a word?

Honestly, at the best of times, Phlogiston thought the Performer-child's way of speaking was rather difficult to understand and needlessly complex, though it made a sort of sense once he'd first heard it recite an old piece of scripture. The Performer-children (was that the right word? Yes, it was, the Performer-child itself had used it) were tasked with keeping the old scriptures, the cult's stories and traditions, were they not? That was their purpose, yes?

In some ways, the Performer-children were the opposite of what Phlogiston considered his role as Pyrosopher (or, he supposed, Pyrosopher-child) to be. As the Pyrosopher-child, his task was to innovate, to make something new, to add to what was already known. The Performer-children, on the other claw, seemed to have the opposite role. They were the librarians of the past, the keepers of what came before; it was their job to keep their history alive. It would make sense, then, that they would learn to speak in a way that came across as a bit dated.

... But still? "Hugority"? Was that an actual word? Or was the Performer-child just making up words?

Then again, all words were made up, but Phlogiston (non-seriously) felt like her territory as the innovator was being threatened by the Performer-child making up new words (again, non-seriously; she felt threatened by a lot of things, but this was not one of them).

... Internally, the Pyrosopher wondered if the Performer-child realized that fundamental differences in their roles. She supposed it mattered little.

[child-of-the-father-of-the-flame]

Phlogiston knocked on the Performer-child's door, carrying a rather large box. Presumably filled with the water the Performer-child asked for.

"Hey, Performer-child. It's me again," The Pyrosopher greeted. "I got the water you wanted. Uh. You didn't specify how much, so I just got all I could!"

(OOC: Sorry for taking so long, I was wanting to wait until I finished the interaction with burning underworker, but uh... They haven't replied in over a week TwT)

@phlogiston-and-ignipotence

*The Performer-child opens the door, yawning and rubbing its eyes.*

Ah, excellent, Pyrosopher-child. Amany thanks.

*It takes the box and carries it inside. Opening the lid of the nest, it takes clawfuls of water and feeds them to the soil. Once assuring its moist-yet-not-floodedness, it closes the lid and sets the box off to the side.*

We shalt useth yon rest of't it later.

Dost thee fare well, Pyrosopher-child? This Bug hadeth an most peculiar dream yon night of't last.

Understandable. They're a bit inconsistent, but eh, life stuff, probably. Whattaya gonna do

[phlogiston-and-ignipotence]

The Pyrosopher enters the home, looking over the Performer-child's shoulder (for Phlogiston is a very tall burning bug and probably has the height on the Performer-child to do so) at the nest in fascination.

"We could use the water to make more of my thicketberry wine," Phlogiston joked (it was a testament to how comfortable he was becoming with the Performer-child, that he was making jokes, and the Pyrosopher-child hoped his fellow burning bug could realize that), before adding, "In all seriousness, I have plenty in case we want to celebrate these two hatching. Or any other achievement, anything worthy of celebration."

Phlogiston paused, to consider the Performer-child's question.

"... I am well," He eventually said. "I have made a small bit of progress on making new Iron Flames. I know I need... some kind of chemical, to complete the fire. I know that chemical is not gasoline. That... narrows it down," He explained. "I also have a new project I'm working on, one that I expect will be much easier. Or, at least, that I know where to start on...

"A dream, you say?" Phlogiston asked after trailing off. "Would you care to share it? Dreams have always been... fascinating to me, endlessly so."

[child-of-the-father-of-the-flame]

*The Performer-child chuckles at the mention of wine.*

T'is tradition of't us Performer-children to'n only partaketh of't yon drink of't the thicketberry aftern an successful Performance once every'th wick-length, an toast to'n ourn four's merry worke.

*It looks back at Phlogiston and winks.*

Though this Bug shalt not lie, yon Elder Performer-child of't its time t'was loose width that, fron time to'n time. Ande thee knoweth what yon sayeth: thee ar't h'what thee ar't taught.

*It laughs again.*

*It listens and nods as it listens to Phlogiston, and is about to inquire about her new project, but is caught up when he asks about its dream.*

T'was about yon hatchlings, ifith thee doth believeth. Within this Bug's dream, they'n doth hatch and maketh much mischief, killing this Bug inst its sleep forn no reason other than humor.

Ande then, onceth daye endeth, they'n hear an sound, cominge fromst below'th us. An voice widthout an voice. They claimeth they'n shalt not achieveth "metamorphosis" as't longe as't they'n beith apart fron it. Then they left and this Bug doth wake.

[phlogiston-and-ignipotence]

Phlogiston laughs as well, before listening closely to the Performer-child's description of the dream.

"Hm... Much more coherent than my dreams," Phlogiston said. "'Metamorphosis,' you say?... You did mention snails can ascend to the rank of Shaman. Perhaps that's where you got the idea of metamorphosis and the snails? And a voice below us... The Chapel is technically below us.

"Again, far more coherent than my dreams. Most of mine are... random nonsense. The few that do make sense are my... My desires, I suppose. The things I want this world to be." Those dreams drove Phlogiston onward.

[child-of-the-father-of-the-flame]

Mm. Yon doth maketh sense, this Bug doth suppose. Yon ascension is't ritual kepteth most hidden fron bugs-not-snail, ande this Bug doth confess an desire in understandment of't it. Yon Chapel... Place of't ritual forn yon snail-kind, this Bug dost assume? Hm, t'would also maketh sense, though this Bug doth wonder how'st its mind hath conjured such imagry, as it hast no knowledge of't yon "Chapel" untwin thine mention. Perhapseth yon aspect doth beith yon touch of't ourn glorious Father.

T'is h'what dreams often doth be, Pyrosopher-child. An manifestation of't one's own desires. T'is why ourn blazing true-light, as't well as't yon false-lights in vile imitation, can'th often commune widthst mortalbug through'n ourn dreams. They'n desires doth manifest width supreme powere, enough powere to'n breacheth ourn own subconscious.

*It gives an inquisitive look.*

What dost be thine desires, Pyrosopher-child, ifith thee doth feel comfort in ensharement? Dost it hath common ground widthst thine supposed "new project"?

[phlogiston-and-ignipotence]

Phlogiston smiled beneath her mask. "As a matter of fact," She said, "It does have something to do with my new project.

"I dream of a world without the Conductors of the Citadel. Much of the structure of the Citadel itself still exists, though it has been much shrunken. It's not a machine that chews nature up and spits out corpses anymore. It's just... a city. It's just a place bugs live their best lives.

"I dream of a Wisp Thicket restored. I dream of the trees my..." He tried to think of a word for his dad other than 'my dad.' He eventually settled on, "... sire told me stories of. Trees with bark as gray as ash, leaves bright green with red stripes like fire. I dream of a Wisp Thicket with animals for me to hunt and eat, satisfy my meat cravings. I dream of a Wisp Thicket at least ten times larger than that we find ourselves in now. This... This is related to my new project. We'll come back to this later."

Phlogiston took a deep breath. "And I dream that I can research what I want to research. That all of us, our lives are... simple. Joyful. Free. And I can satisfy this, this, this burning, within me, for knowledge... I yearn for understanding. I see something I don't understand, and... And so many bugs feel fear, but not me. Never me. Never since my hatch-giver told me that I can have fear, or I can have faith, but only one is going to bring me what I want. And it's easy to see that's not fear." Phlogiston continued. "No, I see something I don't understand, and all I feel is curious. All I feel is this want, no, this need to know how it works. This... Love, almost, for everything I learn, everything I don't understand.

"So in my dream, I'm learning everything I ever want to learn, I'm studying everything I want to study, I'm creating things. Helpful things, not violent things.

"... It was in one of these dreams that the idea for the Iron Flames, for Ignipotence, first came to me. And it was in one of these dreams that my new project came to me."

Phlogiston had looked away from the Performer-child for a while, during his speech. Now he turned to look at his fellow burning bug, and he said, "I think I've said it before, that we've gotten land back from the Citadel. Given to us by a... 'Twelfth Architect'? I doubt that means anything to you, though the name 'Architect' suggests a fellow maker. I suppose it matters little...

"The important thing is that the land we got back was barren. The soil's there; this Architect removed all the metal before they returned the land. But the plant life is not there... And I intend to fix that. And I think... I think I know how, though I can't do it without runecraft." Phlogiston grinned beneath her maks. "Thank you, for teaching me runecraft; it has created more possibilities than I ever imagined were possible."

[child-of-the-father-of-the-flame]

*The Performer-child closes its eyes and nods, a gentle serenity crossing its face as it shares in Phlogiston's vision.*

Thine ar't more than welcome, Father-kin, t'is this Bug's pleasure to'n spread His magik amongst thee, t'is thine hatchright to'n knoweth it.

Thine vision is't beautiful, Pyrosopher-child, ande thee doth conjure it so'n prettily. Aboveth all this Bug doth comrade in'th yon goal, an Thicket restored, madeth resplendent, grownth greatern than t'was even befornth ourn First Tragedy. Ande thee ar't an intelligent Bug, ande thee hast aln aready cometh so'n far, this Bug is't sure thee shalt bringeth bounty to'n yonder wabe.

Aye, thee hast brought mention of't it, ande this Bug hast rejoiced in yon news, eager to to'n beareth witness to'n His land, raised of't ugly, vile machinery. But its work caring forn yon hatchlings hast taken all'n of't its time, it has rarely lefteth its abode. It knoweth not what it doth appearin now, but already this Bug doth imagine it as't it shall grow to'n be, widthst thine help.

Ourn Father of the Flame is't proud of't thee, Pyrosopher-child.

[phlogiston-and-ignipotence]

Phlogiston's smile may not have been visible, but the Pyrosopher-child practically radiated happiness in response to the Performer-child's words.

"... Our Father is... proud of me?" She asked quietly.

Phlogiston hadn't ever considered that a possibility. He'd always assumed, well... Surely the Father must know of his difference from the others. He'd always assumed that between that, and the fact he laughed in the face of tradition, that the Father would never be proud of him. Yes, yes, the Father had obviously allowed him to have turned out the way he had (or perhaps his mother's genes were strong enough to simply overcome the magic...), and Phlogiston had suggested himself that it was because his skills were needed, but... He hadn't really believed it.

Knowing the Father was proud of him... stirred up a few things inside of him.

"... Then I shall continue to work, and experiment. For Him. Especially on this new project..."

[child-of-the-father-of-the-flame]

Good.

*The Performer-child walks up to Phlogiston and places a gentle, but firm claw on her side, smiling up into his eyes. The Flames of the Father extend from its own slightly, making soft caressing motions in his direction. A wide, endless expanse seems to stretch on in the Performer-child's Blazen Gaze, gateways into the Father's blazing otherrealm, and through either magic or His love for her, she can almost feel herself falling in, only to be caught and embraced by the Father's eternal warmth.*

Thee hast madeth mistakes inst thine path, thee now knoweth this just as't well as't He, bute neverth forget, kin, that thee ar't His Father-child, always. T'is thine nature as't mortalbug, to'n maketh mistake, but same as't any Father, ourn loving true-light shalt loveth thee in all of't eternity, love as't eternal as His everburning Flame.

He dost awaiteth thine fruit in eagerity.

*It gestures for Phlogiston to crouch a bit, then presses its forehead against her's, closing its eyes.*

As't doth this Bug.

[phlogiston-and-ignipotence]

The Pyrosopher-child got lost in the Performer-child's eyes for a moment.

Er. Not like that. She wasn't nearly tipsy enough to get lost in that way.

No, for the first time, Phlogiston was really, truly aware that to stare into the Performer-child's eyes was to stare into the eyes of their Father... Which made it good that she wasn't lost in its eyes in that way; she doubted the Father would approve.

The Performer-child's words soothed the Pyrosopher. He felt tension leave his body, tension he hadn't realized he'd been holding. He felt generally more relaxed. Comfortable.

It had... been a long time since he'd felt such a way. It was nice.

She was even more shocked when the Performer-child gestured for her to crouch, and when Phlogiston obeyed, the Performer-child's forehead pressed against her own. She stared at the Performer-child's closed eyes, and she said,

"Thank you." Her voice was breathless.

He felt an urge to hug the bug before him. Instead, he simply slowly, experimentally, settling his hand on the Performer-child's own. Loosely. The ghost of a touch. Just... testing the waters.

Or testing the fires, more like it.