multiversallogs | And be it gash or gold it will not come again in this identical guise. [OPEN]

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And be it gash or gold it will not come again in this identical guise. [OPEN]

Who: Sebastian and YOU? (Also, Podder and Sol.)
What: Part open post, part wizard talk.
Where: The open post can be for anywhere in Hellsing Guild House or Baedal.
When: Newdi
Notes: I've been so slow about posting this open thread. *sob*
Warnings: None, yet.

Always adaptable, Sebastian has found it easy to settle into life in Baedal. There are times when he thinks it's the best of both worlds: he doesn't need to lie about his abilities (or lack thereof) and he's able to do useful, constructive things. Most of his days are filled with rebuilding and repairing the Hellsing Guild Hall and the evenings walking through the city or working through Malfoy's never ending reading list. It's not an ideal existence, but for as long as he's in exile from Britain it's the best he can hope for.

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After he and Lucius had been cornered by the crows, Sebastian knew he had to go and speak to Sol sooner rather than later, but even with that knowledge he put it off for a time. He can admit to himself that part of his delay was a reasonable allotment of caution, but another part was that he's frightened Sol will tell him that he's irreparable damaged. Contrary to popular belief, Sebastian can feel fear, but he has matured to the point that he can recognize it for what it is and won't let it stop him from doing what he wants.

A few days ago, Sebastian sent a short message arranging a time and place to meet Sol.

Sol does have an office, but for his part that seems a bit disconcertingly official for the conversation he and Sebastian need to have; he arranges to meet him outside in the garden that's coming along. If it gets awkward, they won't have a shortage of work in front of them to busy their hands with, and he's in the habit of not smoking indoors, thanks to parenthood.

He's there (lit cigarette in hand) when Sebastian arrives to meet him.

While it's not anything he has much experience in, Sebastian is proud of the work he's put into the garden -- clearing the space, reusing some of the old, unneeded building supplies to build trellises and supports.

"Hullo," he says with a bit of smile. As always, Velcro is tagging along near Sebastian but he's not wearing his vest today and appears to be giving both the wizards (mages?) a bit of space. If he's not working for Sebastian, there are important dog things, like chasing groundhogs, to do.

It's a good space, and Sol's been down here to work on it himself when he's got the time; it's much more familiar to him, comfortable, something he doesn't really think of as work. From the looks of things, he's been at it a while, maybe come down earlier to clear his mind.

"I'm glad you got in touch," he says, breathing smoke out and thinking not for the first time about how he should probably actually quit sometime in the near future. (It never happens, but he genuflects to good sense now and then.)

"Thank you for, well, even if you're a sounding board for anything at all I appreciate that you're taking the time to listen." Occasionally when Sebastian is being particularly earnest about something, he loses the war weary and aged veteran feel and can come across as shockingly young.

"I don't really know where to go from here though. When I try and explain things to Malfoy he gives me this look that says I was raised by wolves and know just about as much as Velcro."

"I don't think that's your fault," Sol says, crouched by the garden, amicable; even if all he does is listen, which might well be how it works out if their magic is incompatible (he'd prefer 'mage' to 'wizard', the latter being something he could probably never call himself with a straight face - and neither of them most of the time, while he's still officially Just The Lawyer), he's glad to do it. He feels like he can see what Sebastian needs, but it's not entirely up to him whether or not he can provide it, or how. "Why don't we start with how it is for you? How it started, how you've experienced it. Walk me through it."

Sebastian pauses, taking a bit of time to check over what he wants to say before speaking. "Some of this is a bit out of order, because you'll need more information about how my world works before it makes sense, but the basic story is that my parents died when I was very young, they were wizards and there was a terrible war. After that, I was given to relatives that knew of magic but hated it and told me nothing about it."

"Which didn't stop my talent from cropping up in strange ways: talking to snakes, outrunning bullies, and things like that. I tried to stop, I tried anything to stop and nothing made it go away." His voice is distant, as if he's working to maintain a strong separation between events and his emotions. "One day, when I was ten, letters started to come and when my relatives didn't answer, eventually, the wizarding school sent someone to take me away and it was wonderful. I had a birthday cake."

"After that, six years of practical education. All spells were taught by rote, with latin or latin-like words, specific actions, and that was the norm. All wizards need a wand and very few can cast without one -- I could, still can," he says wryly. He might not be able to cast a variety of spells, but there is power in the one he can wield. "It was brilliant for me. I was always very poor in written work, didn't really read anything until I got older, but the hands-on was good. I didn't do well in memorizing spells or the fussy things, but for charms or defense against the dark arts, I did well. And, Merlin, I could fly to beat the best of them."

"Even in my first year, the war began again and I was fighting. It continued on, with periods of quiet and short, hidden battles for years until I was eighteen and then it was all war. There was a lot of disagreement on our side because it wasn't considered sporting or, ah, appropriate to adapt spells, but I thought it less sporting to die because the traditional counter-curse didn't always work." Sol might notice that it's easier for him to talk about war than his early childhood. "In the final days of the war, we found a way to remove the magic of their leader by tying my talent to his and ripping them both away. So, we did."

In the mid-to-late afternoon, Boromir is sitting at one of the tables in the mess hall eating a late lunch of whatever was warm and left in the kitchen. There are very few people around, most of them having eaten earlier or being busy with work. Therefore he's quite alone, and probably open to some idle chit-chat or being familiarised with colleagues he's only seen in passing.

Sebastian is still a bit plaster-coated when he and Velcro come to lunch. As he approached the table, Boromir might notice that he walks with a limp and holds himself much in the way old fighters do.

"Mind some company?"

Nazca is in a clock shop, considering the wares with a critical eye. She's always been fond of clockwork, and is used to a fairly complicated version of it. Not that she can't find some quality pieces in the shop, mind, but the shopkeeper clearly took her for a woman who wanted a merely decorative piece.

"It's too bad there aren't any Verrari in the city," she says, to no one in particular. "One proper artificer could make a killing." Though it's more or less rhetorical, she addresses whoever happens to be next to her, from habit.

"Good evening."

She offers a smile as she passes the man and his dog on the sidewalk, just outside a tavern. She's been out shopping--she has a small bag tucked under one arm--and she's headed back to the Inn.

She glances up at a sign over the door as she moves, eyes darting up and then back to the path ahead. Two more steps, though, and she slows, biting her lip. She knows that name.

...Responsibility rears its head again.

"I'm sorry," she says, turning and moving back, offering a bright, reassuring smile. "If you were considering a meal at this place, don't. The mussels are bad."

Contaminated. Not handled well, and people are going to get ill from them by morning. She can't very well barge in and announce it, though--she'll get tossed out. But at least she can warn one person?

"Could he?" Sebastian seems to be an agreeable fellow, willing to chat about whatever a Verrari might be while he searches for just the right second-hand (har, har) watch.

"Oh," he says, looking a little surprised, "That's awful and good to know. Thank you."

Sebastian has never really gotten used to the fishiness of mussels and probably would've avoided them anyway, but he's not one to ignore freely given advice. "Is there somewhere else you'd suggest?"

"Oh, I--no." She offers a bright smile to try to smooth away any awkwardness. "Just not here, that's all."

That's the hard part of never leading with so fifteen years ago when I was inexplicably ill I had the most random visions about my future and now I know things I shouldn't--there's not always an easy way to cover. Hopefully this suffices.

"I'm afraid I don't have very extensive experience with the city. I'm a recent arrival."

She smiles at him, wry. "Gods, I've become my father. Talking to myself in public. He could, though, that's true."

Boromir looks up, breaking out of whatever reverie he was engaged in. "No, not at all. Seb...astian, isn't it?"

He says it as though he's not sure if he's saying it right.

He nods and takes a seat at the table before introducing himself and his dog, "That's right and this is Velcro."

'What exactly does an artificer do?" Sebastian can piece together a rough idea from the name and that she mentioned it in a clock-shop, but he doesn't know the details and he'd like to.

Boromir smiles down at the dog, "Hello, boy." And then, after visibly pausing, "He...doesn't talk, does he?"

"Not when I'm looking," Sebastian says dryly as Velcro realizes that he's being spoken about and hams it up by wuffling and wagging his tail.

"I don't think I've your name though."

"Forgive me, I'm still coming to terms with extending courtesy to new races. And in my defence, I've heard at least one instance of a talking dog." Although it doesn't stop him from smiling slightly at the absurdity of the situation. "I'm Boromir, and quite recent to Hellsing."

There's a moment where Sebastian is tempted to say that his godfather was a talking dog, but he chases the thought away with a drink from his glass.

"A pleasure, Boromir," he says, putting his glass down and offering to shake hands over the table. "I'm the local handyman, should you need anything fixed, let me know?"

Boromir shakes hands, a new gesture for him but it's one that he's gotten used to. "I will. I'd extend the same courtesy but unless you have any battles to fight, I'm not much use."

It's meant tongue-in-cheek but it's also true. Being a warrior is all Boromir's ever done in life and all he feels that he's good at, even though his original cause is now gone.

"They have different specialties," Nazca allows, "but they generally make useful or sometimes decorative pieces. Generally out of clockwork, though some of them vary their tools. A good Verrari clock will tell you everything but the moment of your death, and they're working on that."

"I don't, not anymore," Sebastian replies with a bit of an odd, half wistful smile. Were Boromir to voice his opinion about being a warrior and lacking a cause, Sebastian could agree whole-heartedly. "Which is why I've taken up carpentry and the like."

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And be it gash or gold it will not come again in this identical guise. [OPEN]

For Sol

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