[ The doctor see-saws quite a bit sometimes, between sounding terribly formal or terribly casual, with the pithiness of certain rifters. Today, he’s casual. ]
Do you know, magic doesn't seem to like being denied, [ equally as wry. oh, but also—well. that can wait til they're not talking over crystal; ness still doesn't trust that they can't be tapped in some way. ] There's other reasons too, honestly. I can tell you when I get to your office, say in fifteen minutes?
[ and lo, ness arrives at stephen's office fifteen minutes later without starbucks. she knocks on the doorjamb to announce herself as she enters, stepping in almost like she's equally ready to fling herself back out. there's a kerchief tied around her hair, which is... not the worst it could be, by any means. it's clean, at least, and brushed. just... very noticeably frizzy, also. ]
Hello, Doctor. Do you mind if I close the door while we work?
No, that’s fine. I often have the door shut for private medical consultations anyhow—
[ And Strange could just let her shut the door herself like a normal person, but Ness has proven herself comfortable with magic and he can’t resist the urge to show off a little — it’s like stretching metaphorical limbs gone a little stiff from disuse, flexing his fingertips — and so with a careless gesture of his hand, he whisks the door shut behind her with a burst of telekinesis. There’s the smallest smile at the corner of his mouth, and he gestures for her to take the seat in front of his desk. ]
[ obligingly, ness watches the door swing shut on its own with wide eyes, and turns back to stephen with a smile—and, upon seeing his little smirk, even laughs and gives him a little round of applause. yes, doctor, you're very impressive, well done. ]
Well, if we're giving demonstrations, [ feeling emboldened by his display, she waits until stephen is looking right at her again and then: ] mine's a little less visually impressive, I think.
[ her mouth doesn't move, and the voice in his head sounds a little distorted, a little... eldritch. but it's undeniably ness, and she's smiling, waiting—hoping, really—for him to be impressed right back. ]
[ It’s perfectly, carefully set up: Ness looking right at him, making sure he’s meeting her gaze in turn, and so he notices how her mouth doesn’t move.
He doesn’t fall out of his chair, but there is a visible jolt: a twitch of surprise, a tilt of his head as if he’s listening for some far-off noise, a murmuring of voices in the room next door. That odd underwater distortion. Her voice in his head.
(He thinks, once again, of Wanda’s fingers rifling through his mind.)
But it’s not fear which ripples through the rest of his reaction, but instead his own bemused slow-clap applause in turn: ]
Ennaris Tavane, you’ve been holding out on me. You’re telepathic?
[ if stephen's reaction isn't wholly positive, ness is eager enough for the bits that are not to notice. she beams, effulgent with the applause. ]
Only a little, [ out loud this time, because it's only polite, and, frankly, the connection is still a little temperamental. ] I can't read minds, only hold conversations in them. I don't know what you were thinking just now. It only lasts a short while, too, maybe a minute? I haven't timed it. And...
[ some of the brightness slips, now. her hands twist in her lap. ]
It's the other reasons. I can't really control it, sometimes I link with someone without intending to. Leaving the Gallows like this would be reckless, bordering on imbecilic, but I can't stay here forever. There's too much to do.
[ ness smiles—grimaces, almost, a little embarrassed, a little apologetic, a little pleading. ]
You're the first person I've told on purpose. I hoped you'd be able to help me learn to control it, and the tentacles.
[ If Ness were able to read minds or emotions, she’d be able to feel this: his unexpected warm glow at being the first to be told on purpose. He likes to know things; to be first in anything; to be thought of as a learning resource. It’s so much better than being an inept rifter, floundering, seen as a liability; one of his greatest fears at the start, and likely something she can relate to.
So Strange finds himself leaning forward, hands laced together on his desk, locking in. ]
Have you noticed any commonalities to when it happens unintentionally? During moments of distraction, or strong emotion, or a particular time of day? —for this or the tentacles, really. Either/or.
[ she doesn't have to be able to read stephen's mind to know that she has his attention—being able to predict people, to tell where she's wanted and where she's not, is a practiced skill of hers, and she can read interest and intrigue in the way stephen learns in, the keen focus of his eyes on hers.
it's gratifying, and ness smiles to see it, even if she doesn't have a good answer for him. somehow, it feels like he won't mind that too much—the challenge will make this more fun. ]
No, not for either—I'm more likely to link to someone mentally under duress, or if I'm very focused on them, [ ask gwen how she knows about that some time, stephen, ] but neither is a guarantee. The tentacles happen at all times of day, whatever my mood.
[ she considers a moment, then taps her nails on the table. ]
The tentacles have been happening more, recently, though. I don't think they have a will of their own, really, [ probably? ] but it's almost as though, since the magebane, the magic wants to be used.
Hmm. Not that I have any experience with this specifically, but I could see that. If it’s just… building up that energy and not giving it a chance to release, to vent. Or the magebane might just be treating the symptom, not the underlying root cause. If you take a painkiller for a sprained ankle, the pain will still keep happening whenever the drugs wear off.
[ Quick, rapidfire patter, thinking out loud. The doctor still feels that itch to grab a pen and paper to take notes, but he doesn’t have the handwriting for it, so it’s just affixing this conversation in his memory to the best of his recollection. He’ll dictate some notes for himself later. ]
We didn’t go into much detail about it before; can you describe the tentacles further? And you said you didn’t have magic at all before Thedas?
There’s the faint instinctive suspicion, the lurking pride of a man not wanting to be pitied, condescended, accounted for (even as his disability very much requires accounting for). But. Might I borrow. Ness has landed on just the right combination of words which makes it seem like it’s more for her sake than his; it’s just a sensible next step, a rational response.
Gwenaëlle had always done much the same at the start, matter-of-fact offers and not making much of the accomodation.
So Strange nods, and starts rummaging through his desk before coming up with some scrap paper with old infirmary inventory on the other side. The pen he passes her isn’t the usual Thedosian quill, but rather a dip pen made in shiny brass, decorated in fine filigree, with a small reservoir for refilling. A Provost Stark construction, a treasured tool. Don’t break it. ]
You might’ve heard about the paper shortage, but these sheets should be fit for purpose. Reduce, reuse, recycle.
[ gods above, that's a fancy pen. ness takes it with an appropriate amount of interest and respect without letting herself get distracted trying to inspect it too closely, even though she absolutely wants to inspect it closely. ]
It has been very difficult as a consummate note-taker to find new paper sources—you should see my personal sheaf, it's a mess.
[ a mess she WILL be transferring to an actual journal as soon as such a thing is available again.
ness quickly sets about making notes of what stephen's already mentioned, muttering energy build-up, painkiller treating symptoms to herself to keep on track. as soon as that's sorted, she pivots back to his question, making rapid notes as she explains. ]
The tentacles seem to be made of some kind of concentrated shadow, or darkness—they're fully physical, and they interact with the world, but they aren't like real animal flesh in any way. They don't last very long once they actually, ah, assert themselves, but the build-up to that can last a while, it's kind of variable? Like I said, though, it's been happening faster and more often since the magebane.
I had some magic prior to this, but nothing impressive, I could make little lights, that was all. Vazeiros—my father—he taught me. It's not unheard of to gain magic after contact with magical forces, and I—I—
[ here, ness finally stumbles, the rapid scratch of the pen on paper halted as she blinks, remembering exactly what had happened that she thinks started this whole stupid tentacle saga. carefully, minding the sudden tremor in her hands, she sets the pen back on the desk.
she'd done so well being impartial, impersonal in her explanation, only the facts, no value judgments or emotion clouding the important bits. now look at her. ]
I'm sorry, I just need—I have to gather my thoughts, I apologize.
[ The doctor’s fairly accustomed to people sitting in this room, door closed, giving a report about deeply personal topics. (Orlov, discussing things he absolutely did not want to discuss. Baynrac, the same.) He’s had months of practicing his actively-listening face. ]
Take your time.
[ The problem with Ennaris doing the notes, however, is that Strange doesn’t have anything to do with his hands while he waits for her to re-compose herself. So he folds them over his stomach instead and tries to affect casual patience, as if this exchange is perfectly normal, as if her hands aren’t shaking as his normally do. And eventually his nudging question, when it comes, is almost brutally straightforward: ]
Was that your death? Contact with magical forces. Gaining magic.
Yes, [ she says, and tries to stay steady. tries not to lean too far away from the back of her seat, tries not to twitch at every sound. her fingers start to flex and she clenches them into fists instead. for a moment she tries to explain, tries to open her mouth and let the words flow out, but they won't come. she's never had to explain this before, she doesn't know how.
but maybe she doesn't have to. ness looks up and catches stephen's eye, asking with her gaze if she can enter his mind and tell him there, instead. whatever she sees on his face is the permission she needs, even if it wasn't really.
the walls around minds are permeable, she's learning. not for most, not for the vast majority of people—but once you learn how to look, you can see the holes, the places you can slide out of your own consciousness and into someone else's. doing it on command is a difficult proposition, one she still hasn't gotten the hang of, but she's under duress and she doesn't want to use her words, so: telepathy.
she slips through the walls of her own mind and pours herself into stephen's, instead, poking and prodding until she finds a hole in the wall to slip through. she's small, there, doesn't want to take up too much space, not here to intrude, just to show: the terror of the abduction, the horror of looking a mindflayer in the eye and seeing something soulless stare back.
watching the people you traveled with, some you'd known for years, get a tadpole urged into their eyes, knowing it would be your turn, soon.
the ship you're in jolts, rocks, tumbles you away from the mindflayers and straight into a vat of brine. you keep your eyes shut but inhale a mouthful of the liquid and you don't know it but in that moment something inside of you wakes up, or changes, or wakes up and changes.
you cough brine out of your lungs and when you open your eyes the mindflayers don't care about you anymore. you're too smart to really think you're free, but you hope anyway.
what a stupid thing to do.
the first stab is such a shock you don't even feel it. you only know you've been impaled when you feel your stomach get wet and look down to find a blade sticking out of you. you make some stupid noise of surprise, and the blade disappears, and this time you feel it when it pierces your ribcage, and then again when it punctures a lung.
you fall to your knees, then your front, gasping and coughing up blood. your sight dims, and the aliens who killed you slit the throat of the merchant you've known since you were seven. they're going to kill everyone.
you want your father. you'd call out for him, but all you can manage is a faint, gurgling rattle. you're dying. it's a very calm thought, but maybe that's because you're so tired you can't be alarmed anymore. you hurt, but you know if you close your eyes, it'll be over soon. you want it to be over. everything is getting so cold.
you close your eyes.
ness pulls away from stephen's mind and has to press her hand to her stomach, to her breast. no wounds. no scars, even, to suggest she'd ever been injured at all. ]
This, too, is distressingly familiar. Gwenaëlle’s panicked hand clawing at her spine searching for the mortal wound, remembering her own death, re-living it. Stephen’s own mind afire with his own death, I’m sorry on a whisper and that wave of force colliding with another him, slowly peeling his body apart. He had watched the execution happen from outside himself, seen from a professor’s steady remorseful gaze.
This particular memory is more visceral, bone-deep; when he looks down at his chest he half-expects to see the blade still extruding. A gasp, a startled breath, his hand splayed on the table. Strange is rattled, but not as much if he hadn’t already witnessed his own death. When he looks at Ennaris, however, his gaze is soft and apologetic.
He doesn’t really have the words. Doesn’t know the right thing to say. So what comes out instead, lodged on the sight of those tentacles, that pitiless inhuman face pressing the tadpole to an eye: ]
[ he could be referring to the githyanki, too, inhuman and bizarre as they both must be to his eyes... but he's not. ness knows he's not.
she breathes in, breathes out. tries to find equilibrium. ]
They're some of the most horrifying creatures in my world, [ too rattled to maintain the distance she's been carefully cultivating since she arrived, ] because their goal isn't to kill, or to conquer. They propogate by infecting other species with their parasites, which grows within their victims in a process called ceremorphosis. For seven days, the infected experience a series of...
[ she flounders, momentarily, searching for the words, the clinical vocabulary that will keep this at arm's length. ]
Of symptoms, I suppose. Transformations. Fever, graying skin, loss of memory. [ among other things. ] At the end, the adult illithid emerges, with all of the memories but none of the soul of their victims.
[ she pauses, lets that sink in. the person that mindflayer was is destroyed. obliterated. from the inside out, they are unmade. understand? ]
There's no known cure. No recourse. Once you're infected, you're already dead.
[ Strange sizes her up. There are other, more anthropological questions he wants to ask, but suspects would be too impolitic and unwelcome; what are illithids like outside of their reproduction? Is this the only way they can reproduce? Do they have any choice? What looks unsavoury in a parasite might just be a fact of biology—
But at least he’s tactful enough not to go down that route. Instead: ]
I’ve known you for several weeks now, and your skin doesn’t seem particularly grey, and your memory is as sharp as any student I’ve known.
[ at any other time, ness might be willing to answer all those questions—she could even genuinely enjoy the conversation, despite the subject matter—but for now, it's probably best that stephen listens to the little voice of tact in his head.
she nods, understanding his implication, but doesn't look much happier about it. ]
But that's where this magic comes from, I think. Contact with strong magic can... leave an impression, sometimes, in my world. Like the rifts leave a bit of themselves in us, in the anchor, I've been left with... Aberration. Invisible but ever-present difference.
[ ...hang on, she's getting maudlin, this is supposed to be about practicing magic. ness visibly pulls herself back together, shaking her head and straightening out her shoulders. deep breath, chin up, pen back in hand, where were we? ]
So that's where I think it came from. Mindflayers are psychic, and you saw the tentacles, ergo. It is, at least, the strongest theory I have, given I'm not likely to ever know for sure.
What makes it aberration? [ Strange repeats, drilling in on that particular word choice. His voice has taken on a faintly professorial air as if he’s questioning a theorem, interrogating an assumption. ] You and I, we’ve got glowing green shards in our hands that can seal rips in reality. Anyone who sees them knows we’re rifters. We’re already visibly aberrant. And just because you can read minds and get a little tentacle-y sometimes, I don’t think that necessarily entails a judgment call either way.
[ This angle is perhaps a little self-serving and biased, considering Stephen Stranges across the multiverse and their predilection towards alarming-looking spells, but. He folds his hands on the desk in front of him. ]
Magic’s gross and ugly and a little slimy sometimes, sure. But if it gets the job done, I don’t see what the problem is. Any tool in a kit.
Ah, [ she presses her lips together—there has been a miscommunication, here. ]
I don't mean aberrant as in... morally repugnant, or reprehensible in any way, [ although that debate may be worth having too, considering the unfortunate bent of enchantment magic in general, ] but instead...
[ ness rolls the pen between her hands, squinting softly, a delicate crinkle between her brows. ]
There is a plane of existence known to my world as the Far Realm. It's a place of madness, by all accounts, where many layers of reality blend together. From that Realm come Aberrations, creatures that don't fit in the natural order. Creatures inexplicable by the laws of man or gods.
[ she looks up to catch stephen's eye and spreads her fingers; see what she means now? ]
Mindflayers are one such creature. And now, touched by their magic as I am...
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portalling) wrote2022-04-02 01:17 pm
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crystal; pre-mod plot
[ the call comes early...ish, in the morning, with none of the usual scritching of ness' quill or rustling notes. ]
Dr. Strange, is your morning terribly busy? I had a question for you which might lead to a longer meeting in person.
no subject
[ The doctor see-saws quite a bit sometimes, between sounding terribly formal or terribly casual, with the pithiness of certain rifters. Today, he’s casual. ]
no subject
[ what's—huh??? at least from context she can at least understand that this is not a literal question, but she is incredibly confused. ]
You said I could practice magic with you—is that still on offer? I've come to realize I can't put it off any longer.
no subject
[ Wry: ] Continual magebane not doing the trick?
no subject
Do you know, magic doesn't seem to like being denied, [ equally as wry. oh, but also—well. that can wait til they're not talking over crystal; ness still doesn't trust that they can't be tapped in some way. ] There's other reasons too, honestly. I can tell you when I get to your office, say in fifteen minutes?
no subject
➛ action; office.
[ and lo, ness arrives at stephen's office fifteen minutes later without starbucks. she knocks on the doorjamb to announce herself as she enters, stepping in almost like she's equally ready to fling herself back out. there's a kerchief tied around her hair, which is... not the worst it could be, by any means. it's clean, at least, and brushed. just... very noticeably frizzy, also. ]
Hello, Doctor. Do you mind if I close the door while we work?
no subject
[ And Strange could just let her shut the door herself like a normal person, but Ness has proven herself comfortable with magic and he can’t resist the urge to show off a little — it’s like stretching metaphorical limbs gone a little stiff from disuse, flexing his fingertips — and so with a careless gesture of his hand, he whisks the door shut behind her with a burst of telekinesis. There’s the smallest smile at the corner of his mouth, and he gestures for her to take the seat in front of his desk. ]
So. Your mysterious ‘other reasons’?
no subject
[ obligingly, ness watches the door swing shut on its own with wide eyes, and turns back to stephen with a smile—and, upon seeing his little smirk, even laughs and gives him a little round of applause. yes, doctor, you're very impressive, well done. ]
Well, if we're giving demonstrations, [ feeling emboldened by his display, she waits until stephen is looking right at her again and then: ] mine's a little less visually impressive, I think.
[ her mouth doesn't move, and the voice in his head sounds a little distorted, a little... eldritch. but it's undeniably ness, and she's smiling, waiting—hoping, really—for him to be impressed right back. ]
no subject
He doesn’t fall out of his chair, but there is a visible jolt: a twitch of surprise, a tilt of his head as if he’s listening for some far-off noise, a murmuring of voices in the room next door. That odd underwater distortion. Her voice in his head.
(He thinks, once again, of Wanda’s fingers rifling through his mind.)
But it’s not fear which ripples through the rest of his reaction, but instead his own bemused slow-clap applause in turn: ]
Ennaris Tavane, you’ve been holding out on me. You’re telepathic?
no subject
[ if stephen's reaction isn't wholly positive, ness is eager enough for the bits that are not to notice. she beams, effulgent with the applause. ]
Only a little, [ out loud this time, because it's only polite, and, frankly, the connection is still a little temperamental. ] I can't read minds, only hold conversations in them. I don't know what you were thinking just now. It only lasts a short while, too, maybe a minute? I haven't timed it. And...
[ some of the brightness slips, now. her hands twist in her lap. ]
It's the other reasons. I can't really control it, sometimes I link with someone without intending to. Leaving the Gallows like this would be reckless, bordering on imbecilic, but I can't stay here forever. There's too much to do.
[ ness smiles—grimaces, almost, a little embarrassed, a little apologetic, a little pleading. ]
You're the first person I've told on purpose. I hoped you'd be able to help me learn to control it, and the tentacles.
no subject
So Strange finds himself leaning forward, hands laced together on his desk, locking in. ]
Have you noticed any commonalities to when it happens unintentionally? During moments of distraction, or strong emotion, or a particular time of day? —for this or the tentacles, really. Either/or.
no subject
[ she doesn't have to be able to read stephen's mind to know that she has his attention—being able to predict people, to tell where she's wanted and where she's not, is a practiced skill of hers, and she can read interest and intrigue in the way stephen learns in, the keen focus of his eyes on hers.
it's gratifying, and ness smiles to see it, even if she doesn't have a good answer for him. somehow, it feels like he won't mind that too much—the challenge will make this more fun. ]
No, not for either—I'm more likely to link to someone mentally under duress, or if I'm very focused on them, [ ask gwen how she knows about that some time, stephen, ] but neither is a guarantee. The tentacles happen at all times of day, whatever my mood.
[ she considers a moment, then taps her nails on the table. ]
The tentacles have been happening more, recently, though. I don't think they have a will of their own, really, [ probably? ] but it's almost as though, since the magebane, the magic wants to be used.
no subject
[ Quick, rapidfire patter, thinking out loud. The doctor still feels that itch to grab a pen and paper to take notes, but he doesn’t have the handwriting for it, so it’s just affixing this conversation in his memory to the best of his recollection. He’ll dictate some notes for himself later. ]
We didn’t go into much detail about it before; can you describe the tentacles further? And you said you didn’t have magic at all before Thedas?
no subject
[ ness notices the twitch of fingers that suggests stephen might be taking notes, were his hands trustworthy to it, and thinks quick. ]
Sorry, pardon me, but might I borrow pen and paper? This seems like a conversation we should have notes on.
[ she'll answer the question in a moment, but first: notes and (hopefully) impressing authority figures, her favorite things. ]
no subject
There’s the faint instinctive suspicion, the lurking pride of a man not wanting to be pitied, condescended, accounted for (even as his disability very much requires accounting for). But. Might I borrow. Ness has landed on just the right combination of words which makes it seem like it’s more for her sake than his; it’s just a sensible next step, a rational response.
Gwenaëlle had always done much the same at the start, matter-of-fact offers and not making much of the accomodation.
So Strange nods, and starts rummaging through his desk before coming up with some scrap paper with old infirmary inventory on the other side. The pen he passes her isn’t the usual Thedosian quill, but rather a dip pen made in shiny brass, decorated in fine filigree, with a small reservoir for refilling. A Provost Stark construction, a treasured tool. Don’t break it. ]
You might’ve heard about the paper shortage, but these sheets should be fit for purpose. Reduce, reuse, recycle.
no subject
[ gods above, that's a fancy pen. ness takes it with an appropriate amount of interest and respect without letting herself get distracted trying to inspect it too closely, even though she absolutely wants to inspect it closely. ]
It has been very difficult as a consummate note-taker to find new paper sources—you should see my personal sheaf, it's a mess.
[ a mess she WILL be transferring to an actual journal as soon as such a thing is available again.
ness quickly sets about making notes of what stephen's already mentioned, muttering energy build-up, painkiller treating symptoms to herself to keep on track. as soon as that's sorted, she pivots back to his question, making rapid notes as she explains. ]
The tentacles seem to be made of some kind of concentrated shadow, or darkness—they're fully physical, and they interact with the world, but they aren't like real animal flesh in any way. They don't last very long once they actually, ah, assert themselves, but the build-up to that can last a while, it's kind of variable? Like I said, though, it's been happening faster and more often since the magebane.
I had some magic prior to this, but nothing impressive, I could make little lights, that was all. Vazeiros—my father—he taught me. It's not unheard of to gain magic after contact with magical forces, and I—I—
[ here, ness finally stumbles, the rapid scratch of the pen on paper halted as she blinks, remembering exactly what had happened that she thinks started this whole stupid tentacle saga. carefully, minding the sudden tremor in her hands, she sets the pen back on the desk.
she'd done so well being impartial, impersonal in her explanation, only the facts, no value judgments or emotion clouding the important bits. now look at her. ]
I'm sorry, I just need—I have to gather my thoughts, I apologize.
no subject
Take your time.
[ The problem with Ennaris doing the notes, however, is that Strange doesn’t have anything to do with his hands while he waits for her to re-compose herself. So he folds them over his stomach instead and tries to affect casual patience, as if this exchange is perfectly normal, as if her hands aren’t shaking as his normally do. And eventually his nudging question, when it comes, is almost brutally straightforward: ]
Was that your death? Contact with magical forces. Gaining magic.
cw description of death, trauma dumping
Yes, [ she says, and tries to stay steady. tries not to lean too far away from the back of her seat, tries not to twitch at every sound. her fingers start to flex and she clenches them into fists instead. for a moment she tries to explain, tries to open her mouth and let the words flow out, but they won't come. she's never had to explain this before, she doesn't know how.
but maybe she doesn't have to. ness looks up and catches stephen's eye, asking with her gaze if she can enter his mind and tell him there, instead. whatever she sees on his face is the permission she needs, even if it wasn't really.
the walls around minds are permeable, she's learning. not for most, not for the vast majority of people—but once you learn how to look, you can see the holes, the places you can slide out of your own consciousness and into someone else's. doing it on command is a difficult proposition, one she still hasn't gotten the hang of, but she's under duress and she doesn't want to use her words, so: telepathy.
she slips through the walls of her own mind and pours herself into stephen's, instead, poking and prodding until she finds a hole in the wall to slip through. she's small, there, doesn't want to take up too much space, not here to intrude, just to show: the terror of the abduction, the horror of looking a mindflayer in the eye and seeing something soulless stare back.
watching the people you traveled with, some you'd known for years, get a tadpole urged into their eyes, knowing it would be your turn, soon.
the ship you're in jolts, rocks, tumbles you away from the mindflayers and straight into a vat of brine. you keep your eyes shut but inhale a mouthful of the liquid and you don't know it but in that moment something inside of you wakes up, or changes, or wakes up and changes.
you cough brine out of your lungs and when you open your eyes the mindflayers don't care about you anymore. you're too smart to really think you're free, but you hope anyway.
what a stupid thing to do.
the first stab is such a shock you don't even feel it. you only know you've been impaled when you feel your stomach get wet and look down to find a blade sticking out of you. you make some stupid noise of surprise, and the blade disappears, and this time you feel it when it pierces your ribcage, and then again when it punctures a lung.
you fall to your knees, then your front, gasping and coughing up blood. your sight dims, and the aliens who killed you slit the throat of the merchant you've known since you were seven. they're going to kill everyone.
you want your father. you'd call out for him, but all you can manage is a faint, gurgling rattle. you're dying. it's a very calm thought, but maybe that's because you're so tired you can't be alarmed anymore. you hurt, but you know if you close your eyes, it'll be over soon. you want it to be over. everything is getting so cold.
you close your eyes.
ness pulls away from stephen's mind and has to press her hand to her stomach, to her breast. no wounds. no scars, even, to suggest she'd ever been injured at all. ]
no subject
This, too, is distressingly familiar. Gwenaëlle’s panicked hand clawing at her spine searching for the mortal wound, remembering her own death, re-living it. Stephen’s own mind afire with his own death, I’m sorry on a whisper and that wave of force colliding with another him, slowly peeling his body apart. He had watched the execution happen from outside himself, seen from a professor’s steady remorseful gaze.
This particular memory is more visceral, bone-deep; when he looks down at his chest he half-expects to see the blade still extruding. A gasp, a startled breath, his hand splayed on the table. Strange is rattled, but not as much if he hadn’t already witnessed his own death. When he looks at Ennaris, however, his gaze is soft and apologetic.
He doesn’t really have the words. Doesn’t know the right thing to say. So what comes out instead, lodged on the sight of those tentacles, that pitiless inhuman face pressing the tadpole to an eye: ]
What are they?
no subject
Mindflayers, [ she says softly, ] illithid.
[ he could be referring to the githyanki, too, inhuman and bizarre as they both must be to his eyes... but he's not. ness knows he's not.
she breathes in, breathes out. tries to find equilibrium. ]
They're some of the most horrifying creatures in my world, [ too rattled to maintain the distance she's been carefully cultivating since she arrived, ] because their goal isn't to kill, or to conquer. They propogate by infecting other species with their parasites, which grows within their victims in a process called ceremorphosis. For seven days, the infected experience a series of...
[ she flounders, momentarily, searching for the words, the clinical vocabulary that will keep this at arm's length. ]
Of symptoms, I suppose. Transformations. Fever, graying skin, loss of memory. [ among other things. ] At the end, the adult illithid emerges, with all of the memories but none of the soul of their victims.
[ she pauses, lets that sink in. the person that mindflayer was is destroyed. obliterated. from the inside out, they are unmade. understand? ]
There's no known cure. No recourse. Once you're infected, you're already dead.
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But at least he’s tactful enough not to go down that route. Instead: ]
I’ve known you for several weeks now, and your skin doesn’t seem particularly grey, and your memory is as sharp as any student I’ve known.
[ A hint, an implication. ]
It seems it hasn’t followed you here, at least.
no subject
she nods, understanding his implication, but doesn't look much happier about it. ]
But that's where this magic comes from, I think. Contact with strong magic can... leave an impression, sometimes, in my world. Like the rifts leave a bit of themselves in us, in the anchor, I've been left with... Aberration. Invisible but ever-present difference.
[ ...hang on, she's getting maudlin, this is supposed to be about practicing magic. ness visibly pulls herself back together, shaking her head and straightening out her shoulders. deep breath, chin up, pen back in hand, where were we? ]
So that's where I think it came from. Mindflayers are psychic, and you saw the tentacles, ergo. It is, at least, the strongest theory I have, given I'm not likely to ever know for sure.
no subject
[ This angle is perhaps a little self-serving and biased, considering Stephen Stranges across the multiverse and their predilection towards alarming-looking spells, but. He folds his hands on the desk in front of him. ]
Magic’s gross and ugly and a little slimy sometimes, sure. But if it gets the job done, I don’t see what the problem is. Any tool in a kit.
no subject
I don't mean aberrant as in... morally repugnant, or reprehensible in any way, [ although that debate may be worth having too, considering the unfortunate bent of enchantment magic in general, ] but instead...
[ ness rolls the pen between her hands, squinting softly, a delicate crinkle between her brows. ]
There is a plane of existence known to my world as the Far Realm. It's a place of madness, by all accounts, where many layers of reality blend together. From that Realm come Aberrations, creatures that don't fit in the natural order. Creatures inexplicable by the laws of man or gods.
[ she looks up to catch stephen's eye and spreads her fingers; see what she means now? ]
Mindflayers are one such creature. And now, touched by their magic as I am...
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potential 🎀