"You don't seem that entertained," Loki commented as he spotted the boredom on the god's face. He joined her side, leaning against the wall. Asgard's parties were said to be pretentious and full of life yet it did not seem to reach Phobos' expectations, at least not tonight. The prince chuckled, now standing right next to her. "Care for some real entertainment?"
None of them had ever said so in so many words, but they were not the fondest of one another, neither as colleagues nor individuals. Phobos thought Mímir too fanciful and Lestat too flighty; Lestat thought Phobos too frigid and Mímir too forward; Mímir thought Lestat too sneaky and Phobos too stuffy.
Understandably, it made meetings like this one uncomfortable, and away to the west, in Feldspar Proper, Dreamweaver was currently thanking their lucky stars that they had not been asked to attend. The Wardens felt this was a matter that should be discussed among themselves, and had assured them that their presence would not be required.
(Privately, however, they all agreed that Dreamweaver’s presence would have been a comfort, because none of them wanted to be alone with the others--but their founder was very busy, and there was no reason to drag them from their duties for a matter as trivial as comfort.)
Thus, they sat, each of them absorbed in their own busywork. Phobos shuffled through his notes again. He had done so several times already. Lestat tended to his nails. They were manicured to perfection, but he was an expert at finding minute details to fuss over. Mímir, meanwhile, had only a goblet of wine to distract him, nursed slowly and with reverence. It was some of Bordeaux’s finest, sent up fresh from the western vineyard.
But Mímir was not as patient as his peers, so finally, and with great reluctance, he set his cup aside and tapped a finger on the table. “Let’s dispense with the formalities,” he drawled. “We all know one another, and I’m certain we all know why we’re here.”
“Patience is a virtue,” Lestat chided. All the same, he tucked his file away in his sleeve, where they all knew he kept more than just beauty products. “What you’re referring to, I presume, is that unpleasant bit of black magic from the other night? It woke me out of a sound sleep!”
“Yes,” said Phobos, “it woke me as well. From that alone, we can assume it was either an expulsion of an immense amount of magical energy, or of very potent magical energy--or, gods forbid, both. Regardless, something must be done about it, preferably without Dreamweaver’s involvement.”
“The poor dear,” Lestat tutted, “they really are on their last legs. I do wonder, though, how we’ll ever be able to settle this matter ourselves. Unless...” He flashed his colleagues a distinctly insincere smile. “Would either of you like to take a stroll through the Hewn City?”
Mímir and Phobos exchanged wary glances. Dreamweaver paid them both very handsomely, but not nearly enough so to delve into the City itself. Guard its borders, bar entry to troublemakers, report any abnormalities, certainly--but to pass through the Hewn City’s gates was to pass into hell.
Lestat shrugged daintily. “I didn’t think so.”
“Don’t pretend you’d go in,” Mímir snorted. “You’d break one nail and run crying into your new boytoy’s arms--what’s his name? Killian?”
“Oh no, Killian was last week,” Lestat replied, twirling a lock of rose-gold hair around his finger absently. “This week it’s Gabriel.”
“And people call me a slut.”
“That’s because you are one, darling dearest.”
Phobos heaved an exasperated sigh, adjusted his furs, and tossed his painstakingly organized notes down on the table. The papers spread out across the wood in a perfect fan. “This,” he said, “is a far more pressing matter than which of you is the most promiscuous.”
“Is it?” Mímir asked. “If Lestat keeps on like this, he might actually steal my title.”
“I stole that long ago,” Lestat cooed.
“There is something in the Hewn City,” Phobos pressed on, “and it is powerful enough to withstand whatever else skulks beneath the Black Veil. With Ozymandias playing pet to our young heir, we are defenseless. People are going to die--our people.”
Lestat shifted uncomfortably in his seat, but Mímir met Phobos’ heated gaze defiantly. “Fine,” he said, sweeping his arm theatrically across the table, “let’s hear your grand plan then. The floor is yours.”
Discreetly, Phobos averted his eyes. “I never said I had a plan,” he murmured. “That’s why we called this meeting: to discuss what is to be done. I’ve compiled as much data as could be gathered. I’d like the two of you to look it over.”
They did so--Lestat, for once appearing quite grave; Mímir, grinning at his triumph over his older and more experienced colleague. His victory was short-lived. The more he read, the darker his expression grew.
“This can’t be right,” he muttered. “Crucis gave you these readings?”
“Yes,” Phobos said, “he was fortunate enough to be awake at the time of the surge.”
“It’s not draconic,” Lestat noted, “at least, not entirely. That narrows it down a great deal.”
“Could be a demon,” Mímir suggested.
“Faust and Holloway would have taken notice and come to us,” Phobos replied. “Even through the Veil, a demon’s signature is distinct. It would have to have been severely distorted by the Veil to give readings like these.”
“Then the Shade?” Lestat proposed.
“Possible,” said Phobos, “but not probable. Crucis knows the Shade’s signature. He assured me this was not it--barring, once again, any distortion.”
“You don’t suppose it’s...” Mímir looked away, his face somehow simultaneously thoughtful and absentminded. “Dreamweaver told us they accepted the nightmare back into themself,” he said tentatively. “Is it possible some part of it lives on outside of their heart?”
“Don’t say such things!” Lestat cried. “Don’t even think it! There must be a more, er, pleasant explanation, don’t you think?”
“I’m inclined to agree with Lestat,” Phobos said, in a tone that betrayed his displeasure at doing so. Lestat gave a relieved sigh. “If it were the nightmare, Dreamweaver would have insisted on attending--no, more likely, they would have forgone the meeting and set out for the City to rectify their mistake. Seeing as they have not done so...”
“So what is it?” Mímir asked. “Beastclans don’t have access to magic like this, and there aren’t an awful lot of other non-draconic beings living in Sornieth that do.”
“What does Crucis think it is?” Lestat pressed. “He must have some idea.”
“There are...” Phobos clasped his hands in front of him. Both Lestat and Mímir stiffened and leaned forward. “There are two possibilities he is considering,” Phobos went on. “First: an unidentified being native to the Hewn City. Commonfolk know almost nothing of its residents or their natures.”
“That’s true,” Lestat was quick to agree, “and its residents are bound to it, for the most part, so whatever it is wouldn’t pose a threat to any of us here in Feldspar!”
Mímir noticed that Phobos did not seem convinced. The Imperial’s face was impassive, but there was a subtle tightness to his lips that set Mímir’s teeth on edge. “What’s theory number two?” he asked.
“An Outsider,” Phobos said simply.
Lestat gave a startled wail and slumped back in his seat. “Oh, my stars,” he sputtered, a hand pressed dramatically against his forehead, “oh, it simply cannot be! An Outsider, here, in the Sunbeam Ruins?! No, no, no, you must have misheard, you must be mistaken!”
“It’s only a theory,” Phobos assured. “Outsiders are often drawn to places such as the Hewn City. These places are isolated, and brimming with magical energy more in line with that of the Outside. They seek to escape into our world, but even once they do, they find themselves longing for familiarity.”
“Just as dragons do,” said Mímir.
Lestat, still beside himself, scrambled out of his chair. He did his best thinking on his feet, or so he would claim if his colleagues questioned him. “How,” he began breathlessly, “how did an Outsider get into the Hewn City? It can’t have come through Feldspar lands! Dreamweaver would have never allowed it!”
“Its quickest route would have been to the south,” Mímir surmised. “It came up from below.”
“That easily?!”
“We have no territories south of the Hewn City,” Phobos said, “and to my knowledge, that area is almost entirely uninhabited, save by errant wanderers and Beastclans with no obligation to help keep dragonkind’s secrets.”
“That’s how most troublemakers get in these days.” Mímir drank deeply from his goblet, his face twisted in annoyance. “No matter how observant we are,” he sighed, “someone always sneaks in and ends up dead. It’s a damned mess. Now there’s a godsforsaken Outsider firing magic off all over the place, and that’ll only draw more reckless thrill-seekers to the accursed place.”
“We don’t know it’s an Outsider,” Phobos reminded.
“You think it is,” Mímir replied. “I know you. I know that look on your face.”
“The readings are unlike any Crucis has ever seen,” Phobos conceded, “so the likelihood of it being an Outsider is uncomfortably high. Still, it could be some other dark thing, born within the City itself. If that is the case, it will likely be trapped within the City, as Lestat said.”
“If it’s not, though,” Lestat groaned, “oh, oh, if it’s not, if it is an Outsider, what then? We’ll have to involve Dreamweaver!”
Phobos joined Lestat on his feet, and Mímir, sensing that the meeting was near its end, followed suit. “If a time comes when we feel we must act,” Phobos said, “then we will call upon Dreamweaver. Until such a time, however, we will do as we always have: tend to our own people, in our own ways.”
“Crucis will tell them his findings,” Mímir said. “You know he will. That fool--they’ll probably involve themself unnecessarily and wear themself even thinner. Our founder’s got a nasty hero complex.”
“We’ll just have to find a way to put their mind at ease then,” Lestat asserted. “If they won’t look after themself, we’ll do it for them.”
“Perhaps...” Phobos tucked his hands behind his back. He did this whenever, on rare occasion, he was thinking something devious. “Perhaps we might ask Lady Telos for her assistance. If she were to tell Dreamweaver they were in need of rest, I believe they may...acquiesce.”
“Oh?” Mímir’s smirk had returned. “They listen to Lady Telos, but not their own husband?”
“Banrai, they feel, worries too much,” Phobos elaborated. “Lady Telos, on the other hand...”
“Phobos, you’re far more manipulative than I gave you credit!” Lestat said. It was meant to be a compliment, but Phobos did not take it as one. Noticing this, Lestat hurried on. “I’ll write the letter then--only, how much should I divulge, do you think?”
“She’ll already be aware of the surge,” Phobos said. “Tell her whatever you’d like.”
“Just so long as Dreamy’s taken care of,” said Mímir, and pulled a cigar from somewhere on his person. He offered one to his colleagues, out of politeness, but in the end, he smoked alone. It was not quite so fine as the Firebird a certain detective had been gifted, but its smell was just as potent. “I don’t care what we have to do,” he added, “just so long as they’re safe.”
“Still nursing your little crush on them, are you?” Lestat teased.
“It’s called having respect for one’s superiors,” Mímir replied. “I wouldn’t expect you to know anything about it, though.” With another, somehow smugger smirk, he exhaled a cloud of pungent blue smoke into Lestat’s face, sending the Skydancer into a coughing fit. “Mind your own heart, flowerboy.”
“Only if you mind your manners!” Lestat gasped in response. “Oh, you’re a foul one, Mímir, you really are! How that harem of yours stands the smell of that smoke, I’ll never know!”
“The smell’s prettier than your personality.”
“I’m going to bed,” Phobos announced. “You two are welcome to stay up bickering, but keep in mind that you’ve got work in the morning. Wardens don’t get vacation days.”
“We’re only having a bit of fun,” Lestat placated. “No need to scold us, General.”
Phobos said nothing, but the swiftness with which he abandoned them to their banter spoke volumes. Now was neither the time nor the place for clever back-and-forth, playful or otherwise, so, with one final, tense glance shared, Lestat and Mímir followed Phobos out into the bitter October evening.
Mímir: Do you see this? This is the diamond that I’m going to give to my brand new husband and/or wife. It’ll be theirs for the rest of time. With the GameCube 2. So if you want--
Phobos: *laughing in the background*
Lestat: Whoa, he’s bisexual! I didn’t know that!
Mímir: By the way, I’m bisexual. I forgot--I forgot to announce--
Darcy is a child, she is small and standing in the middle ofthe road. Slack-jawed. Wide-eyed. Bewildered. Bothered. Cold. Squinting alittle bit. She isn’t wearing shoes or socks. Darcy is middle-skinned and hasfluffy hair and big eyes, and she is very confused. A woman stands next to her.She’s pale and plain-looking and crying. Big eyes turn to Abigail Madden, hermother, and she notices they are holding hands.
Then Abigail picks up the child and holds her tightly. Thereare two people in the car – a woman who looks slightly familiar but it mightjust be through familial resemblance, and the baby. Darcy didn’t like it, itwas too loud and she would sit with her little hands over her little ears andher big eyes squeezed shut when it bawled. When it vibrated the edges of hervision.
Abigail takes the child inside. There are people sitting onan indistinct sofa, looking dark and sad. Darcy wonders why they are sad thatthe loud thing has gone. She gets ushered to bed.
What ringtone my muse has set for yours: The generic one.What contact photo my muse has set for yours: N/A.What my muse thinks of the way yours texts: She has no issue with it. How quickly my muse responds to your texts: Very quickly.How often our muses text: No often at all - only if Zeus has asked her to tell Phobos something that came out in an interrogation. Even then, she did so as Deimos, not Darcy. How often our muses call: Never. Does my muse purposefully miss calls from yours: If Phobos phoned her, she would be very disturbed, and likely to miss it so she could call Zeus and ask what was going on. Last text sent from my muse to yours:
[deimos➝phobos] You should pick up Dillon Gates. He’s been working our turf and Zeus isn’t happy.
maniiae asked:
"These voices are driving me crazy."
█▐ @godly-fear
“That only tells me that you’re ignoring what they’re telling you. Everyone has something to say, so why not be a dear and humor them?” His eyes flashed wickedly.
❝How would you know what they tell me? Hmm?❞ Maniae rubbed her temples, flashing him an angered expression. ❝They have little to say and it holds even less value as they are not real, you see.❞
“Where do you THINK I got it from? Ugh, you must be another bloody god. I am so tired of running into you...people!” Liz stepped back from him, completely uncomfortable by a wink he gave her. No one ever winked at her, but she was certain it was because he was about to eat her. “Don’t you eat me, you mutant.”
