u_can_have_it_4_a_song | A Moment of Introspection (Locked to Verity)

A Moment of Introspection (Locked to Verity)

Schön keeps an office in the Nexus, although he does most of his work outside it, an opulent retreat from the timeless bustle outside. Richly colorful Oriental rugs allow only glimpses of a polished oak floor. The desk is a monolith of mahogany, inlaid with accents of rosewood and teak, carved with reliefs of twining roots and branches, of fanciful creatures, and of faces peeking from among the leaves. The chairs before and behind the desk are upholstered in silk and buttery-soft leather, the one behind the desk tall and evocative of a throne.

The walls, papered in a deep Chinese red pinstriped with navy, are densely clustered with art in a dizzying array of styles; most are paintings, but a few cameos hang as well, and a Stradivarius enjoys pride of place over the mantle. Shelves behind the desk are similarly crowded with books and odd little knickknacks, the former rarely comprising the sort of orderly matched sets that tend to fill shelves behind desks in offices. To one side of the door stand a coat rack and a sideboard loaded with bottles of exotic libations, while to the opposite side stands a small table bearing several indistinct articles over which has been draped a gossamer shroud. Against one side wall sits an overstuffed couch, and in the opposite wall is set a fireplace, where a multicolored flame pops and crackles merrily, sending an occasional swirl of rainbow-colored sparks up the chimney.

The room has also been warded to a fare-thee-well, to keep out prying eyes and ears, ensuring that all which transpires within remains private. The wards, to an extent, even work both ways, for when the door is closed, all the noise from outside falls away.

Hanging up his hat and cane as he enters, Schön turns to offer a hand to escort Verity inside. "Please come in, Ms. Willis, and be seated comfortably. May I offer you anything to steady your nerves?"

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It would be an assault on the senses if it weren't so expensively tasteful. Verity pauses by the door, one hand still resting lightly in Schön's, giving herself a minute to--not take it all in so much as come to terms with it. "Oh my god. It's beautiful."

Okay, so she's not eloquent. She's never claimed to be a poet. Or an art critic, but she knows what she likes. Maybe when she can see the pieces individually she'll have favorites, but at the moment it's all one crazy bundle of gorgeous and she is wide-eyed and helpless in its presence. The girl really needs to spend more time at museums.

He may need to repeat the question.

There are few things so flattering as to have one's demesne properly appreciated, and Schön's thin lips curl in a smile as he draws Verity farther into the room, closing the door and shutting out the multiverse. He releases her by one of the chairs before the desk, where she can sink into it if need be, or turn and gain some new perspective on the gallery-in-miniature before her. He waits by the sideboard for her to come back to herself.

It'll be a few minutes, since he's being so patient, of Verity turning and trying to take it all in before she sees him and actually sees him, and remembers that there was a question. "Oh. I'm sorry. What did you say?"

"Offer you a drink?" he repeats, smiling and hoisting an empty tumbler, "or something else to steady your nerves? Perhaps just more time to... take it all in?"

"Um. Okay. Yes, thank you. How can you stand it all? It's like. It's too much pretty." She is not good at this please don't laugh at her.

"Any preference?" he inquires, fingertips trailing over a row of cut-crystal carafes and bottles of blown glass, each a small work of art in itself. "Or shall I simply pour you something soothing?"

He does let slip a soft chuckle, but there is at least a feeling that it isn't directed at her. "I like to savor beauty and wonder whenever the opportunity presents itself. We all have our little ways of keeping young, do we not?"

"Uhm." She's not sure what's in most of those bottles. She could make a couple of guesses, maybe, if she bothered to inspect them more closely. "I like sweet things." Of course the bitter woman has a sweet tooth. She has to compensate somehow.

Her gaze drifts up to the artwork again, coming to rest on a playful abstract piece, all bright dancing colors and nothing hinting at illusions or metaphors or any of those other things she doesn't understand. "It keeps you young?"

"Doesn't having a chord of awe struck within your soul make you feel like living a little longer, Ms. Willis?" he asks, an evasion though not technically a lie (she didn't say that was the personal question she wanted answered, after all). While she thinks on it, he pours a little bit of a rich, red elven wine. The fae-kin have sweet teeth of their own, after all. Perhaps not strictly tumbler-appropriate, but she can surely overlook that little lapse?

Offering her the glass, he holds one of his own, as well.

"I guess. I don't understand art." Nobody her age should sound so old. It should be an actual crime. She'll take the glass, not ever one to complain about someone else's stemware or lack thereof. She's not quite such a lush she downs the whole thing in a go; she knows how to appreciate it, taking in the bouquet before taking a sip. "Mm. This is really good."

She is in desperate need of some awe, then. He smiles at her appreciation of the wine, though. "Thank you. The elves who make it age it in casks formed from the wood of living trees, and the vintners sing to the trees every day that the wine ages." He's not lying.

"I find it's often a matter of finding a piece that speaks to you, touches you. It's no failing not to be moved by what someone else adores. Inspiration is a very personal, very intimate experience."

"They sing to it?" That's a little weird. "Why?"

There are so many things she needs that she doesn't even know how to ask for. "I've never... I've never felt that. I mean, I can see that things are beautiful, I just." She doesn't even know. Rather than trying to explain she'll sink down into the chair behind her. Oh god even the floor is gorgeous.

"They believe that the songs make the trees happy, and that the happiness percolates into the wine, along with the taste of the wind, the sun, and the rain."

Starting with time enough to learn? "Haven't found that special something?" he hazards gently. "It's alright. As I said, it's personal. When it's right for you, it will be right for you." His voice is softer; he sounds almost a different man entirely than the boisterous salesman or the hard-edged enforcer of deals.

"That's a nice thought." She's not sure it's true, but the wine is good and she's not going to argue with the results. Maybe more people would be happy if she came from a world where people sang to the trees and drank happy wine.

Time is something she has in spades, because she might be the last living survivor of her universe soon. Not much to do after that is there? The change in his tone gets her to look up, wondering... "I don't know if there's a right anything for me. Maybe..."

Sigh. "Maybe I should stop wasting your time. I'm sorry. Do I need to stick out my tongue and say 'ah'?"

"If I felt the time ill-spent, Ms. Willis, I would say so. I am not solely ruled by my bargains--even I might discuss art or wine for the pleasure of it. A unique perspective is refreshing, and yours is certainly unique. But if you wish to proceed, you need only relax."

He pauses for a sip of his drink, then sets it down on the edge of his desk (on a coaster). "I may appear to change, to your eyes, but the promises I have made will still hold true." And that is not a lie.

The reassurance coaxes a smile from her. "Thanks." Maybe she'll trust him more next time. Trust is slow to build, and slower on the quicksand of her shattered life.

She too takes a sip of her drink before setting it down, making sure she's found a coaster first. "Okay. I'll try to hold still." Hopefully it'll be an interesting show, otherwise this is likely to just be awkward.

When she seems settled, he concentrates, the thin man in a nice suit bleeding away, while a marble-pale, silver-haired elfin lord, his sable breastplate chased with silver details and blazoned with a pair of crescent moons. His eyes are pools of darkness, speckled with the lights of a night sky, constellations that watch, in a face as distant and perfect as the moon.

"Be at peace, Verity Willis. No harm comes to you this day." He extends a hand, palm toward her, fingers spread, and something presses out from it. There's no show of lights, just a feeling--a breeze on a summer's night, after rain, when it's both warm and cool at once, and the air is fresh. It flows over and around and through, and it cannot possibly be there, or real--but it is.

She watches the change with wide eyes and naked admiration, but no surprise. There's not even a shock. Maybe he's just too pretty for her to care because he is certainly too pretty. She drinks in the sight of him, giving a small nod in response when he speaks, but not closing her eyes until the magic starts. It's a soft and wonderful feeling and she wants to focus on it for however long it lasts.

All too soon, the wind withdraws, though the memory of it may linger. Schön's perfect brow is marred with the crease of a thoughtful frown as he considers what he has found, leaning against his desk a little to contemplate it.

She's silent for a moment after, holding her breath in case there's more, and then she sighs. It had been so lovely.

But it's time to move on. She opens her eyes and looks up at him, curious but patient, and with a new light of admiration. She'd never realized magic could be so nice.

"You have bargained for knowledge," he tells her, his voice formal and precise, with a faint musical undertone, like bells being rung in time to his voice in another room, "and what I have learned, you shall have, though it bring you little happiness. There is a curse upon the ring within you, old as mountains and caked in blood and death. Blood calls to blood, and it appears that yours has some affinity for things of magic."

"But not all is woe. I believe it possible for you to bear some enchantments safely. It is likely that you will reach your threshold for layering them without mishap sooner than most, and some may simply not work for you, but I do not find it likely that more spells would bind to you as this one has."

He's right that it isn't happy news, but it's still a relief. At least now when she calls it a curse she knows it's more than her own histrionics and melodrama. And the news isn't all bad.

"Thank you. I appreciate your help."

His head dips in a regal nod. "There is now the matter of your question," he prompts.

"Okay." She'll pick up her glass and take a sip of wine before asking. "Why are there two of you?"

"Two of me?"

"Yeah. There's always two of you. One of you is solid and the other's... not. One of you looks human, that's the one that usually looks solid. The other one is... I don't know. Pointy-eared and way too pretty to be real." She rubs the back of her head, blushing. "Not that you're not always handsome."

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