Aurus, who had been vacillating between destroying Six's remains and destroying them with fire, thought for a moment. While not a fool, the fire guardian had no way to communicate with speech, and his response had to be determined carefully. The carefully greased spike of beard on his chin was the subject of thoughtful strokes. Each one stimulating the still working, undamaged neurons of his battle-hardened brain.
"... the keepers would just throw him away…"
The whiskey glass did nothing to stop the broadcast of thoughts to Ruarc's mind. The closer his hands were to the stone, the clearer they became.
His runic circle revealed a curse of binding, a binding that held something else within. Otherwise, it highlighted no dangers commonly associated with members of the Library.
"... I'm his apprentice, they dinnae' listen to…"
"Hu hah," guffawed Aurus finally, slapping his iron gauntlets together. He pointed at his grinning mouth, and then pointed at Ruarc.
For emphasis, Aurus began to make his best attempt at a tap dance, and then again, furiously pointed at Ruarc.
[The Office] An Unwanted Gift
Re: [The Office] An Unwanted Gift
Ruarc’s eyes felt fuzzy, and he could tell he had drunk too much of the whiskey. Coupled with the strain of the past week and the general annoyance he was feeling about this entire interaction, Ruarc was skipping steps on the way towards being the reckless Keeper that leapt onto the backs of raging gods. Blinking between the stone and Aurus, the Irishman felt a new wave of exasperation and wondered how hard it would be to summon Percy to help translate. He had no idea what the grinning was about, and in fact it was a little disconcerting. Once the small god finished his dance Ruarc just sighed.
“Fuck it, if I go insane, slap me or someth’n” Ruarc said as he removed the whiskey glass and grabbed the stone.
“Fuck it, if I go insane, slap me or someth’n” Ruarc said as he removed the whiskey glass and grabbed the stone.
Re: [The Office] An Unwanted Gift
The rough, calloused hand of the Keeper extended and the voices from the stone became louder. At this point, Aurus became nervous, realizing that Ruarc was about to do something inadvisable. The godling's mouth opened, but froze in place as the world around him came to a slowing stop. Before Ruarc could fully snatch up the stone, a ghostly, slender hand reached out from it and interlocked its fingers with his. Then, it pulled, and he felt a portion of himself become connected with something strange and alien.
A whirling, sickening vision of disjointed memories of Six's service under Heddwyn flashed in his mind. They were strange sensations of shared experience, similar to that of the kind he shared with Laoise. Nothing was fully clear, as Ruarc could only discern flat shapes and colors.
Then, the memories sharply coalesced. The feeling was so severe that Ruarc felt paralyzed.
His office had disappeared, and instead he was floating down a hallway in a dark building. Instinctively, as he started to sink, he swept his arms up and down to keep himself in the air. It was hard to fly inside a human structure, but Ruarc had never been so large that it was impossible. With a sharp turn of his head, he saw a place to land, and found himself gliding easily to it.
He extended a foot out to set himself down, and felt it latch to the small railing. It was awkward, turning on something smooth, but he had a good enough grip.
"Hey! You know I 'ave a 'ard time keepin' up! Don't go on too quickly, or my asthma'll flare up again," a soft, pampered voice called after him.
Ruarc turned his head all the way around to see a woman in her early twenties swiftly walking up. She was terribly beautiful, with curly black hair spilling from under the heavy hood of a druid. Her round, pale face stared up at him, and Ruarc could feel her anxiety in this dark place.
This woman was Maeve McSorley, a druid of the 1st Circle. She was in the Library of Cardiff this dark evening to find her master, David Winfield. Maeve was his druid, Ruarc realized, and it was then he understood he was not Ruarc.
He was Ciarán, an Irish snow owl, and Maeve's familiar.
A whirling, sickening vision of disjointed memories of Six's service under Heddwyn flashed in his mind. They were strange sensations of shared experience, similar to that of the kind he shared with Laoise. Nothing was fully clear, as Ruarc could only discern flat shapes and colors.
Then, the memories sharply coalesced. The feeling was so severe that Ruarc felt paralyzed.
His office had disappeared, and instead he was floating down a hallway in a dark building. Instinctively, as he started to sink, he swept his arms up and down to keep himself in the air. It was hard to fly inside a human structure, but Ruarc had never been so large that it was impossible. With a sharp turn of his head, he saw a place to land, and found himself gliding easily to it.
He extended a foot out to set himself down, and felt it latch to the small railing. It was awkward, turning on something smooth, but he had a good enough grip.
"Hey! You know I 'ave a 'ard time keepin' up! Don't go on too quickly, or my asthma'll flare up again," a soft, pampered voice called after him.
Ruarc turned his head all the way around to see a woman in her early twenties swiftly walking up. She was terribly beautiful, with curly black hair spilling from under the heavy hood of a druid. Her round, pale face stared up at him, and Ruarc could feel her anxiety in this dark place.
This woman was Maeve McSorley, a druid of the 1st Circle. She was in the Library of Cardiff this dark evening to find her master, David Winfield. Maeve was his druid, Ruarc realized, and it was then he understood he was not Ruarc.
He was Ciarán, an Irish snow owl, and Maeve's familiar.
Re: [The Office] An Unwanted Gift
This was a new experience in several ways. He had never flown like a bird, but he had also never experienced this type of magic before. To be placed within the memory of another individual, much less the consciousness of a familiar which was further bound to yet another mind. Once the initial disorientation had worn off he froze. What could appear as a standard posture of avian raptors was in fact Ruarc trying to deduce if he was merely an observer, or if he was going to be able to act out of line in some way. Rationally, this had already happened, and thus there would be a script that he had never seen. So for now he observed, and took in every detail Ciarán’s senses would give him. He now had a name, or rather two names; Maeve McSorley and David Winfield. He had a lead finally, and so long as he was able to extricate himself from these memories he could start digging; but first he had to see how far this specific line would take him. His eyes were fixed on Maeve, and tried to fathom how this young woman could have been tangled up with the Library; he found himself suddenly saddened. Ciarán cared about Maeve, and those feelings coupled with Ruarc knowledge of general events were almost too much for him to bear.
”How did it come to this?” he thought unconsciously.
”How did it come to this?” he thought unconsciously.
Re: [The Office] An Unwanted Gift
The perception that Ruarc had in the memory was filled with a vague sense of static as he thought aloud. He was struck by the sensation that he wasn’t remembering what he, or rather, Ciarán had ‘said’ exactly. The more Ruarc dipped into the feeling and memory of the owl, the more his own individuality faded and he became Ciarán. The more he tried to make his own thoughts, the less clear details were and it became that much harder to hear Maeve’s voice.
And all Ciarán wanted to hear was Maeve’s voice, one more time.
“We haf’ to find Master Winfield, Ciarán,” Maeve looked at him with grave seriousness under her heavy, dark eyebrows. Ruarc could see a strange wisdom in the depth of those blue pools, an understanding that stretched far beyond her years, ”The Order has come to some spurious conclusion that mah’ Master is dangerous. He is merely misunderstood, but the keepers would just throw him away! I’m his apprentice, they dinnae’ listen tae’ me!”
It was unfortunate that Maeve’s wisdom did not outstrip the love she felt for those around her. That same passion for knowledge fueled a passion for others, and Ruarc could feel it as she put her back to him and stepped down the hall.
A door formed in front of them, Ciarán flew over Maeve’s shoulder, and landed on another rail.
The Sage was trembling, the darkness of the Library was encroaching on her mind. Ciarán could feel the doubt seeping into her mind as errant memories of seeing strange mages drinking up forbidden knowledge flitted by.
Suddenly a pair of voices rose in the next room, one that both Ciarán and Ruarc knew, the other, only Ciarán.
“... I’m out of options, Heddwyn, we lost the child.”
“How do you lose a child, my dear David.”
“It doesn’t matter, he’s dead and that Grimley witch has nothing stopping her from coming for me now that her son is gone. Heddwyn, you have to protect me, ‘fore the Order learns of this too.”
Maeve was frozen at the door, her hands shaking to push it open. Ciarán could sense her doubt, the troubling and shattering realization that someone she cared about deeply was not what they seemed. Yet, there was a kernel of something else, a sense of wanting to disprove what she heard. He could feel the urge grow in her to push through the door.
And all Ciarán wanted to hear was Maeve’s voice, one more time.
“We haf’ to find Master Winfield, Ciarán,” Maeve looked at him with grave seriousness under her heavy, dark eyebrows. Ruarc could see a strange wisdom in the depth of those blue pools, an understanding that stretched far beyond her years, ”The Order has come to some spurious conclusion that mah’ Master is dangerous. He is merely misunderstood, but the keepers would just throw him away! I’m his apprentice, they dinnae’ listen tae’ me!”
It was unfortunate that Maeve’s wisdom did not outstrip the love she felt for those around her. That same passion for knowledge fueled a passion for others, and Ruarc could feel it as she put her back to him and stepped down the hall.
A door formed in front of them, Ciarán flew over Maeve’s shoulder, and landed on another rail.
The Sage was trembling, the darkness of the Library was encroaching on her mind. Ciarán could feel the doubt seeping into her mind as errant memories of seeing strange mages drinking up forbidden knowledge flitted by.
Suddenly a pair of voices rose in the next room, one that both Ciarán and Ruarc knew, the other, only Ciarán.
“... I’m out of options, Heddwyn, we lost the child.”
“How do you lose a child, my dear David.”
“It doesn’t matter, he’s dead and that Grimley witch has nothing stopping her from coming for me now that her son is gone. Heddwyn, you have to protect me, ‘fore the Order learns of this too.”
Maeve was frozen at the door, her hands shaking to push it open. Ciarán could sense her doubt, the troubling and shattering realization that someone she cared about deeply was not what they seemed. Yet, there was a kernel of something else, a sense of wanting to disprove what she heard. He could feel the urge grow in her to push through the door.
Re: [The Office] An Unwanted Gift
“Maeve, please. Don’t do it,” Ruarc thought. Ciarán’s feelings had impacted his own to the point where he felt like he was watching a drama, had become invested in a character, but no matter how much he shouted at the screen she would never hear him. Ruarc could never save Maeve, and he needed to watch as that failure played out. In the back of his mind, he tried to remain objective and observant so that he could take away some valuable intel from this. Master David Winfield. A lost child; a dead child; Grimley’s son.
Had a druid kidnapped Tabitha Grimley’s son while working with the Library? Worse yet, the child had died as a result. Poor Tabitha. Poor Maeve.
“Do the right thing.”
Had a druid kidnapped Tabitha Grimley’s son while working with the Library? Worse yet, the child had died as a result. Poor Tabitha. Poor Maeve.
“Do the right thing.”
Re: [The Office] An Unwanted Gift
Ciarán had said all he could, all the way from the street, to the front door, through the hallway, and to this moment. He had done what he could as a guide. That’s all one could ever do as a guide, even though Ruarc knew the owl could never forget this moment. Maeve looked at him, helpless and scared. Drysi had given Ruarc that same look when they fought the Lamplighters in the jungle, except the triclops had known how to defend herself. Ciarán knew that if this went badly, Maeve wouldn’t escape unscathed.
“Do the right thing.”
The door opened, and the memories became disjointed and wild; not because it was out of sync, but because Ciarán did not want to remember.
“... Why are you here, girl…?”
“... Your apprentice, David? Perfect, let’s bring her in, she looks the hopeful type.”
“No, she’ll never come around, she’s heard too much, and she’s too good for this sorta business.”
“...Master?”
“... be reasonable, David.”
“I’m sorry, girl.”
Ciarán had flown into the room in time to witness something that Ruarc couldn’t make out. The owl had blocked the vision from his memories, either because he refused to look, or the trauma was too severe. At that moment, he felt his arms seized upon, and could see Heddwyn had taken him by some sort of spell. Looking back at Maeve, something was happening to her. It was painful. It was slow. Ruarc couldn’t see it, but he could feel it, because Ciarán could feel her suffering.
“A shame, but I’ve always wanted a pet.”
Steadily, Ruarc’s connection to Maeve faded, until it was no more, but Ciarán continued to be.
“Heddwyn. I need you to hide me. I can’t return to the order, and the authorities will find me if I don’t lie low.”
“I’m afraid I cannot abide by that, dear David… Your carelessness has cost the lives of two innocent youths; I do not think the Library wishes to associate with you any longer.”
An argument began, Ruarc could sense something further was being discussed, but the smell of something acrid tore his senses from the situation.
—
“Rook! Rook! Wake up, you bastard,” came the familiar voice of the school alchemist.
When Ruarc awoke in his chair, Percival was standing over him with something under his nose, and felt a searing pain in his cheeks. Seeing the druid awake, the Welshman set the vial of pale powder on the desk. The headmaster could tell it was smelling salts, a traditional method of waking people from trances and breaking them out of the hold of illusion magic.
Percival snapped his fingers a couple of times, and when he could see Ruarc was cogent, he breathed a sigh of relief.
“Aurus called for me when he couldn’t slap you awake,” explained Percival, looking toward the open doorway, which, instead of leading into the main hall in Safeholme, led to a wide, grassy field. “I came as fast as I could; you were clutching an egg, and staring out into the infinite. It looked like you were in something deep.”
“Do the right thing.”
The door opened, and the memories became disjointed and wild; not because it was out of sync, but because Ciarán did not want to remember.
“... Why are you here, girl…?”
“... Your apprentice, David? Perfect, let’s bring her in, she looks the hopeful type.”
“No, she’ll never come around, she’s heard too much, and she’s too good for this sorta business.”
“...Master?”
“... be reasonable, David.”
“I’m sorry, girl.”
Ciarán had flown into the room in time to witness something that Ruarc couldn’t make out. The owl had blocked the vision from his memories, either because he refused to look, or the trauma was too severe. At that moment, he felt his arms seized upon, and could see Heddwyn had taken him by some sort of spell. Looking back at Maeve, something was happening to her. It was painful. It was slow. Ruarc couldn’t see it, but he could feel it, because Ciarán could feel her suffering.
“A shame, but I’ve always wanted a pet.”
Steadily, Ruarc’s connection to Maeve faded, until it was no more, but Ciarán continued to be.
“Heddwyn. I need you to hide me. I can’t return to the order, and the authorities will find me if I don’t lie low.”
“I’m afraid I cannot abide by that, dear David… Your carelessness has cost the lives of two innocent youths; I do not think the Library wishes to associate with you any longer.”
An argument began, Ruarc could sense something further was being discussed, but the smell of something acrid tore his senses from the situation.
—
“Rook! Rook! Wake up, you bastard,” came the familiar voice of the school alchemist.
When Ruarc awoke in his chair, Percival was standing over him with something under his nose, and felt a searing pain in his cheeks. Seeing the druid awake, the Welshman set the vial of pale powder on the desk. The headmaster could tell it was smelling salts, a traditional method of waking people from trances and breaking them out of the hold of illusion magic.
Percival snapped his fingers a couple of times, and when he could see Ruarc was cogent, he breathed a sigh of relief.
“Aurus called for me when he couldn’t slap you awake,” explained Percival, looking toward the open doorway, which, instead of leading into the main hall in Safeholme, led to a wide, grassy field. “I came as fast as I could; you were clutching an egg, and staring out into the infinite. It looked like you were in something deep.”
Re: [The Office] An Unwanted Gift
Staring blankly for several long moments, Ruarc got his bearings again as he felt a couple tears leak out of the corners of his eyes. The Irishman felt sick, he felt numb, but buried beneath all of that he felt a cold and quiet fury. He had obviously been powerless to change the matter, but that didn’t make the pain he felt in his chest any easier to bear. Maeve had been a victim of the ordeal, and he felt ashamed of the frustration he had directed at her earlier. Similarly he looked at the remains of Ciarán, an unfortunate prisoner bound by the chains of his own existence. The Devil take this whole situation.
Without speaking Ruarc righted the crystal glass and poured a bit more whisky into it, but instead pushed it over to Percy. Looking at the he read the label again. Irish Soldiers & Heroes. Irish Heroes. That is what he wanted to be. Whatever being a Keeper might mean to some, to Ruarc it gave him the authority and responsibility to help those who needed help; to stop those who needed to be stopped. To be an Irish hero. Sniffing hard against the lingering sensation of the smelling salts, Ruarc opened the drawer that he’d put Tabitha Grimley’s file into and retrieved the document.
“I’m tired, Percy,” Ruarc said finally, his voice unsteady and slightly slurred as it sounded like it was working against several emotions. “There’s so much evil. How’re we s’posed to fight it all? I’m so tired, but there is still so much.”
Ruarc’s bottom lip quivered.
Without speaking Ruarc righted the crystal glass and poured a bit more whisky into it, but instead pushed it over to Percy. Looking at the he read the label again. Irish Soldiers & Heroes. Irish Heroes. That is what he wanted to be. Whatever being a Keeper might mean to some, to Ruarc it gave him the authority and responsibility to help those who needed help; to stop those who needed to be stopped. To be an Irish hero. Sniffing hard against the lingering sensation of the smelling salts, Ruarc opened the drawer that he’d put Tabitha Grimley’s file into and retrieved the document.
“I’m tired, Percy,” Ruarc said finally, his voice unsteady and slightly slurred as it sounded like it was working against several emotions. “There’s so much evil. How’re we s’posed to fight it all? I’m so tired, but there is still so much.”
Ruarc’s bottom lip quivered.
Re: [The Office] An Unwanted Gift
The folder, labeled T. GRIMLEY in flowing script, flapped onto the table, and from the thick file emerged one of the topmost documents. It was a record, showing a few details of someone named Tyler Grimley. A picture was clipped to the document. It depicted a young boy with mahogany skin; black, cropped hair; and a broad smile, embraced from behind by his mother, their bright, brown eyes looking back up at Ruarc.
Percival stood over the druid, his gaze alternating between folder and the man before him. The Alchemist, for all his intelligence and learning, was the least equipped to comfort Ruarc. In fact, he was sure he had managed to hurt more people than he had helped since had returned. He tried to summon, several times, a way to encourage the man, but fell silent. Instead, he reached for the glass, and tilted it back, draining the contents and setting the crystal back on the table.
“My idea of doing good was locking myself in a cave,” said Percival finally, the alcohol removing a modicum of restraint, “Your idea of doing good was starting a school and giving these students of yours a better future than we ever got. What you’re seeing is the world our ancestors left us. All you can do is the best you can to make it better for those that come after us. Like for that Maelgwyn girl who doesn’t fawn for the Library anymore, the Fairburn girl who’s finally found her legs or the Krieger boy who’s started speaking in class.”
Percival grit his teeth, and pressed his one hand to Ruarc’s shoulder, “You can’t save everyone, Rook. You’re only–...”
Crck…
“…–human…”
The small blue stone that Ruarc had taken up to see the vision had changed form. It still retained its color, but had assumed a smooth, oblong shape, like that of an egg. It was shaking, and a crack had formed down the side.
Crck!
Another jagged seam formed, and a small head poked up from the stone. It was a small, baby snow owl, its eyes glowing with ethereal power. It shook off the egg-shell it wore as a cap, and revealed a pair of dark growths on its head, resembling the horns of its cousins. The owl looked up at Ruarc and tilted its head.
Fizt!
The form of the owlet wrapped itself in light, and bled from the egg and reappeared a couple inches away.
Fizt!
It translated again, this time, its little claws were on Ruarc’s hand.
Fizt!
Blinking, it wormed its way through the mystic ley lines in the druid’s veins and appeared on his shoulder. Its glowing eyes stared up at him in wonder, as one did at the towering of giants. A voice, vaguely feminine, but terribly familiar, entered his mind.
“Ruarc Flynn?”
Percival stood over the druid, his gaze alternating between folder and the man before him. The Alchemist, for all his intelligence and learning, was the least equipped to comfort Ruarc. In fact, he was sure he had managed to hurt more people than he had helped since had returned. He tried to summon, several times, a way to encourage the man, but fell silent. Instead, he reached for the glass, and tilted it back, draining the contents and setting the crystal back on the table.
“My idea of doing good was locking myself in a cave,” said Percival finally, the alcohol removing a modicum of restraint, “Your idea of doing good was starting a school and giving these students of yours a better future than we ever got. What you’re seeing is the world our ancestors left us. All you can do is the best you can to make it better for those that come after us. Like for that Maelgwyn girl who doesn’t fawn for the Library anymore, the Fairburn girl who’s finally found her legs or the Krieger boy who’s started speaking in class.”
Percival grit his teeth, and pressed his one hand to Ruarc’s shoulder, “You can’t save everyone, Rook. You’re only–...”
Crck…
“…–human…”
The small blue stone that Ruarc had taken up to see the vision had changed form. It still retained its color, but had assumed a smooth, oblong shape, like that of an egg. It was shaking, and a crack had formed down the side.
Crck!
Another jagged seam formed, and a small head poked up from the stone. It was a small, baby snow owl, its eyes glowing with ethereal power. It shook off the egg-shell it wore as a cap, and revealed a pair of dark growths on its head, resembling the horns of its cousins. The owl looked up at Ruarc and tilted its head.
Fizt!
The form of the owlet wrapped itself in light, and bled from the egg and reappeared a couple inches away.
Fizt!
It translated again, this time, its little claws were on Ruarc’s hand.
Fizt!
Blinking, it wormed its way through the mystic ley lines in the druid’s veins and appeared on his shoulder. Its glowing eyes stared up at him in wonder, as one did at the towering of giants. A voice, vaguely feminine, but terribly familiar, entered his mind.
“Ruarc Flynn?”
Re: [The Office] An Unwanted Gift
The folder broke Ruarc’s heart. It solidified the horrors of the vision into tangible reality, and the Irishman would not be able to doubt or disregard what he had seen. That poor boy. His poor mother. All of this topped off by the memory of the first and last time Ruarc had met Miss Grimley, he had shouted at her for slamming doors. Percy’s presence helped, for what it was worth. Even if he was just doing his usual Percy method of consoling. It was logical and hard to refute, but Ruarc had no time to consider a response as his attention was drawn elsewhere.
From the stone in his hand came the most curious sight. It appeared to be hatching, and the spectacle had arrested Ruarc’s sob session. Once the owlet had emerged he was at a loss for words, and could only stare as it teleported across his desk and up his arm. At the sound of its voice he blinked away his confusion.
“Are… are you…?”
From the stone in his hand came the most curious sight. It appeared to be hatching, and the spectacle had arrested Ruarc’s sob session. Once the owlet had emerged he was at a loss for words, and could only stare as it teleported across his desk and up his arm. At the sound of its voice he blinked away his confusion.
“Are… are you…?”