"Completely certain," Argus doesn't even bat an eye, which Triss only kinda notices since she's so busy watching Danae, who's straightened up a little. The thin woman sits back off her elbows and shrugs out of her jacket, revealing a cuff around her left wrist. It's almost as wide as Triss' palm, made of heavy cloth or maybe leather, decorated with...bullets? That's all her brain can come up with until Danae reaches for one of them, plucks it free, and tosses it to Argus. His reflexes are pretty good for somebody with that many bags under his eyes, he practically palms it outta the air.
What he sets on the table in front of Patricia isn't a bullet at all. It's plastic vial, about as long and wide as her pinky finger, stoppered off with a foam cork. She has to squint to make out the contents, a clear liquid suspending tiny flakes of something too dark to be sand. They spin and drift as the liquid settles, drifting slowly towards the bottom.
"What's in it?" for a second she's not anxious, or wary, she's just curious about the strangeness of it all.
"Iron," Triss looks up, surprised, when Danae answers instead of the other two. She's propped one elbow back on the island and watches the group at the table with dark and unblinking eyes. It's creepy. She's creepy. "You wanna talk allergies, just about everything that crawls out from Underhill's deathly reactive to it. Freaks 'em right out that some of us can use it to our advantage. So that's top of the list for 'things they don't like'."
That makes even less sense than the stuff Ruth and Argus have been saying. How's it supposed to hurt a kelpie if she can somehow turn a little bit of iron into magic? Would that magic be iron-flavored and dangerous to any faerie thing it touched? She keeps trying to work out some kind of peanut analogy in her head and falling flat. Her confusion must show, because Argus and Ruth trade an exasperated look and Argus says, "That's...fundamentally right, although there's more to it. But the important thing is that these pieces are too big for you to digest. They'll pass out of your body if you can't use them for fuel, like we talked about."
While that's reassuring, it's also embarrassing. Triss reaches for the vial so they won't have to talk about bathroom stuff, pulling at the cork with her fingernails. There's little indentations all over it, like...like teeth marks and, okay, she can see how it'd be easier to just bite and pull but she's not gonna try now that she's pretty sure Danae's mouth's been all over it.
"That's water and a little bit of alcohol, to keep the iron from sticking together," Argus says just as Triss gets a whiff. "It doesn't taste the greatest but it's not a shot, either."
"Luckily you've got that hot chocolate," Ruth sounds like maybe she's about to laugh, but Triss is squinting down the vial like it's the barrel of a gun and doesn't check the way she usually would. Nothing about this makes enough sense to her. How can magic come from a metal? Isn't it just supposed to be something you are, like Hannibal's mutation? Does that make magic a mutation, too, just an older one? Are faeries mutants? She should've shouted that at the kelpie earlier, see if it pissed it off. Her knee throbs in agreement and the towel in her lap is cold and heavy and she wishes none of this had to happen.
She's been wishing that for almost half her life, now. Why should it change now?
Nose wrinkled, mouth twisted up, she takes a breath, holds it, and slugs the iron-water-alcohol down. It's hardly even a sip, just enough to get to the back of her throat without leaving leaving the iron grit everywhere. It burns a little bit, like cough syrup, but it doesn't stick all over the inside of her mouth like a real medicine would, and it doesn't taste sticky-sick either. She reaches for her hot chocolate anyway, just to help get it to her stomach faster. Triss imagines she can feel it making its way, scraping sandpaper-like down her throat.
"'Kay," she says, grimly, "Now what?"
"Give it a second," Argus says, and she can tell Ruth's trying not to swallow. Danae hasn't blinked this whole time. "Then check the place where your magic usually comes from."
So Triss sits, and waits, and tries not to feel too much like she's back at a hearing with all kinds of important people staring only at her. Her stomach knots up at the thought, her hands curl into fists, and she's just about to say no this is dumb nothing's happening when the warm spot in her belly sort of rolls over and a second one throbs to life.
"It's--there's something--!"
Somebody, Danae, lets out a long breath. Triss' looks up and around with wide eyes, to find Argus nodding encouragement and Ruth smiling, a little...sad?
"You can poke at it, if you want," she says.
"Poke?" that's one of the weirder things she's heard tonight, which is saying something. Ruth's smile widens at how offended she sounds. "But--what if it..."
"You can turn it on without using it," Danae's scornful tone triggers a hot, angry stab from her gut, and Triss scowls at her. "Like, lighting a match doesn't have to set a fire. I got it even if you do, anyway."
She's so dismissive Triss almost wants to show her otherwise, wants to break something without using her hands, wants to throw things around. What does Danae even know about what she can do, Danae wasn't there at the church, she didn't feel every single nail peeling loose from the rafters, the walls, the pews, she didn't--
It's not a 'poke', it's a breath. It's blowing gently on an ember to coax a flame, or throwing open a window on a fire and setting a roaring backdraft alight. Triss' irritation is a gust, a puff of air that strikes a spark into something more and the warm spot turns into a pool of warms, spreading up her chest and neck and settling behind her eyes and--
"What're those?!" it's like she's in a spy movie and just put on special goggles, suddenly they're all sitting in a net of glowing blue lasers. Some are thicker than others, some glow brighter, but all of them start (or end?) in one spot: her midsection.
"There you go," Danae says, but not to her. "Lurcher."
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timeasmymeasure
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Date: 2016-06-06 05:01 pm (UTC)What he sets on the table in front of Patricia isn't a bullet at all. It's plastic vial, about as long and wide as her pinky finger, stoppered off with a foam cork. She has to squint to make out the contents, a clear liquid suspending tiny flakes of something too dark to be sand. They spin and drift as the liquid settles, drifting slowly towards the bottom.
"What's in it?" for a second she's not anxious, or wary, she's just curious about the strangeness of it all.
"Iron," Triss looks up, surprised, when Danae answers instead of the other two. She's propped one elbow back on the island and watches the group at the table with dark and unblinking eyes. It's creepy. She's creepy. "You wanna talk allergies, just about everything that crawls out from Underhill's deathly reactive to it. Freaks 'em right out that some of us can use it to our advantage. So that's top of the list for 'things they don't like'."
That makes even less sense than the stuff Ruth and Argus have been saying. How's it supposed to hurt a kelpie if she can somehow turn a little bit of iron into magic? Would that magic be iron-flavored and dangerous to any faerie thing it touched? She keeps trying to work out some kind of peanut analogy in her head and falling flat. Her confusion must show, because Argus and Ruth trade an exasperated look and Argus says, "That's...fundamentally right, although there's more to it. But the important thing is that these pieces are too big for you to digest. They'll pass out of your body if you can't use them for fuel, like we talked about."
While that's reassuring, it's also embarrassing. Triss reaches for the vial so they won't have to talk about bathroom stuff, pulling at the cork with her fingernails. There's little indentations all over it, like...like teeth marks and, okay, she can see how it'd be easier to just bite and pull but she's not gonna try now that she's pretty sure Danae's mouth's been all over it.
"That's water and a little bit of alcohol, to keep the iron from sticking together," Argus says just as Triss gets a whiff. "It doesn't taste the greatest but it's not a shot, either."
"Luckily you've got that hot chocolate," Ruth sounds like maybe she's about to laugh, but Triss is squinting down the vial like it's the barrel of a gun and doesn't check the way she usually would. Nothing about this makes enough sense to her. How can magic come from a metal? Isn't it just supposed to be something you are, like Hannibal's mutation? Does that make magic a mutation, too, just an older one? Are faeries mutants? She should've shouted that at the kelpie earlier, see if it pissed it off. Her knee throbs in agreement and the towel in her lap is cold and heavy and she wishes none of this had to happen.
She's been wishing that for almost half her life, now. Why should it change now?
Nose wrinkled, mouth twisted up, she takes a breath, holds it, and slugs the iron-water-alcohol down. It's hardly even a sip, just enough to get to the back of her throat without leaving leaving the iron grit everywhere. It burns a little bit, like cough syrup, but it doesn't stick all over the inside of her mouth like a real medicine would, and it doesn't taste sticky-sick either. She reaches for her hot chocolate anyway, just to help get it to her stomach faster. Triss imagines she can feel it making its way, scraping sandpaper-like down her throat.
"'Kay," she says, grimly, "Now what?"
"Give it a second," Argus says, and she can tell Ruth's trying not to swallow. Danae hasn't blinked this whole time. "Then check the place where your magic usually comes from."
So Triss sits, and waits, and tries not to feel too much like she's back at a hearing with all kinds of important people staring only at her. Her stomach knots up at the thought, her hands curl into fists, and she's just about to say no this is dumb nothing's happening when the warm spot in her belly sort of rolls over and a second one throbs to life.
"It's--there's something--!"
Somebody, Danae, lets out a long breath. Triss' looks up and around with wide eyes, to find Argus nodding encouragement and Ruth smiling, a little...sad?
"You can poke at it, if you want," she says.
"Poke?" that's one of the weirder things she's heard tonight, which is saying something. Ruth's smile widens at how offended she sounds. "But--what if it..."
"You can turn it on without using it," Danae's scornful tone triggers a hot, angry stab from her gut, and Triss scowls at her. "Like, lighting a match doesn't have to set a fire. I got it even if you do, anyway."
She's so dismissive Triss almost wants to show her otherwise, wants to break something without using her hands, wants to throw things around. What does Danae even know about what she can do, Danae wasn't there at the church, she didn't feel every single nail peeling loose from the rafters, the walls, the pews, she didn't--
It's not a 'poke', it's a breath. It's blowing gently on an ember to coax a flame, or throwing open a window on a fire and setting a roaring backdraft alight. Triss' irritation is a gust, a puff of air that strikes a spark into something more and the warm spot turns into a pool of warms, spreading up her chest and neck and settling behind her eyes and--
"What're those?!" it's like she's in a spy movie and just put on special goggles, suddenly they're all sitting in a net of glowing blue lasers. Some are thicker than others, some glow brighter, but all of them start (or end?) in one spot: her midsection.
"There you go," Danae says, but not to her. "Lurcher."