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Blue Light Breeze
097017
>>549622
> Whats that? Hot-served magical apple whiskey? Hey, that sounds delicious. I'd like a serving of Hard Apple Seiðr!
Seiðr? Like sorcery and stuff? You look as Faan starts pouring a some sort of foamy spiced oil on your arm. Well, you might have meant to inject a surge of strength, but there was no method or ritual to it; nothing you could formally recognize as magic. It was more instinctual, reflexive to the force of your will--if you forced to make a conclusion you'd say that your body is having a hard time interpreting your divine nature.
Already you can feel the cool salve sink into your pores. At first it tickles, and then the feeling in your arm dulls. You might worry, but you consider it's probably some sort of painkiller. Actually smells a bit like wintergreen toothpaste--Minty. It's kinda nice actually. His thin, bony fingers knead your knotted muscles. He starts gently at first, almost imperceptibly. As he continues however, he let's you know that it's going to be a little painful. His fingers sink deeper into your aching sinews and it strikes a nerve. Ouch! A little painful, he says? "I know it hurts, right now it's just... ya know.. one of those... uh," he looks over to his sister "Necessary Evils?." She scowls, but says nothing. She probably knows he didn't mean it maliciously because his face says he was drawing a blank. He continues the massage with practiced motion, somehow knowing and seeking out exactly where (and where not) to press.
Well, you wouldn't call it evil, but you wished he would have giving you a little more warning. Despite the painful sensory feedback (or perhaps because of it) it still happens to be an enjoyable experience. Everything sensation and experience is wondrous and new to you, even though your mind seems to already have been formed on some irrecoverable experiences in your past... even though you aren't supposed to have any. Besides, having everything handed to you with a silver spoon wouldn't be fun at all. It's things like the pleasure/pain contrast that makes life interesting.
You sit back and relax (for the second time) and decide to chill and maybe gather some information as you wait for the Proper, Parentally Prescribed Party-Pooper Patrol to arrive. You close your eyes and an absolute deluge of priorities and tasks surge in your mind, and you need to get them into order before they drown you. What bothers you most is your inexplicable situation with these amiable strangers. That's what they are, you remind yourself. Maybe some relation exists, but there's something behind the smiling faces that doesn't put you at ease. Something that triggers evasion from those seemingly 'in the know' and confusion and concern in those who are apparently out of the loop. You should probably start out with some small talk first. You keep your eyes closed to fully appreciate the tactile sensations. This Faan fellow may not be much to look at and is probably a terrible conversationalist, but he sure knows how to give a massage.
"So why can't the little shit have bombs? They can't hurt us, can they?" Necessity responds. "Not really, mostly because with them he can be like, three times as annoying as usual." You play devil's advocate for some reason you can't put your finger. "Maybe he's just trying to entertain? Probably just part of his shtick." You open one eye to look over at her. "And what do you mean by 'not really'?" She rolls her eyes. "Yeah, he does a great job entertaining himself at our expense. Not really just means nothing permanent. Most of that kind of damage is superficial, but it's kind of unsettling to look at until it heals. Mostly he just makes messes in other people's space that I have to clean up." You toggle your open eye closed and peer at Faan for confirmation through the other. "Yup." He says, still rubbing your arm. By the time he's finished your arm hangs loosely from your shoulder. It feels comfortably numb. You try to lift it but it just wobbles back to your side, like jelly. It's a bit funny and nice, like these other 'kids'. You can't be perfectly sure, but they seem to be as oblivious about whatever's going on behind the scenes as you are. Necessity is quick to move into the space Faan vacates with a tailoring kit. Faan is already opposite of the table to you working on the rest of his meal. You're going to want to get on Mr. GoodWithHisHands' good side, especially if you ever get in a scrap. You'll probably try your best to resolve issues by smooth talking, but you never know how things will turn out--especially until you get those whatever those are under control.
You look over to Faan and try to be as charming as seems appropriate considering your supposed relation to him. "Thank you for that, it was very sweet." He nods and mutters an "mmphhhmmph." He gulps down some drink, then points to your plate. "You should probably get started on your plate if you want you build up your strength." You look down and your eyes shine with delight! It's--uhmn, that kind of food--you know, your favorite! What's it called again? Oh come on, you should know this!
> What is your favorite food?
> What is your least favorite food?
You take a bite with your good arm (it seems you're ambidextrous) and hum with satisfaction. "Mmmmmhmmmm!"
You think about these three young people you've met so far. Faan with is plain yet becoming features and those clear hickory eyes; Chip with his man-childish good looks, his antics and silvery hair (which didn't strike you as unusual until now considering your supernatural company); and then you look over at Necessity and her hard set, boyish features and freezing blue eyes focused on fixing your sleeve to better fit your new muscles. Your creeping smile shrinks only a little on that last thought; you probably should workout that other arm to balance it out. Still, you find yourself surrounded by lively, talented and good looking people. A little part of you hopes the trend keeps up. You lift the cup and take a sip of what turns out to be a warm, lightly alcoholic apple beverage. Maybe you were adopted, you muse, or forcibly kidnapped from some awful tyranny or ugly smelly giants to live in this fantasy of superpowers and pretty people. "Supposed relations." you repeat to yourself as you take another sip.
Look likes I've caved; Relationship simulator activated. Just promise me you won't go Paris Hilton or Miley Cyrus on me.
Wait... You place the cup and pat yourself down. Where's the box?! You think back to all the times you were touched, picked up, put down and walked over. Then a smug, smiling face fills your head.
Chip.
Oooh that little bastard was going to get it. Not now, but soon. "So I'm getting a little tired of waiting. Who's going to introduce the safety patrol?" you ask aloud, more than a little ticked that your daydreaming was interrupted by these turn of events.
A grim sullen speaks from directly behind you with a intonation that's not quite urban and a drawl that isn't rustic. He drags his speech with every terminating syllable. "Uhh, that would be me, and I prefer to introduce myself." You turn around in your seat to see a man dressed in black with cobalt eyes stare back. He's hunched over you like a vulture, and almost looks like a vampire with the widows peak he's rocking. "I'm Paradameus, and don't 'freak out' or anything, but I'm a wizard."
You can't quite place it, but you have the nagging feeling that you should know this person.
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