OPEN - I wanna know who you are

[cruelyethuman]

CHARACTERS: The Darkling and YOU
LOCATION: Around the station during downtime
DATE: Every date until the next mission
CONTENT: Meh, Darkling doing darkling stuff- but in space!
WARNINGS: None? Morally grey stuff?



i. Returned. Infirmary

[The transition to the station is less smooth this time, and the Darkling stumbles away from the drop-point, letting go of Alina's hand as he takes an unsteady step to avoid the utter disgrace of falling flat on his face.

What's left of his clothes has been dried out from the heat of Alina's Light, but it's still torn and covered with plaster dust, sticking uncomfortably to his skin and the blood has dried out in to flaky maroon.

He walks slowly towards the infirmary, right hand clenched around his side to stop the bleeding. Once inside, he rummages through drawers and cabinets, pulling out clean gauze, water and alcohol. Needle and thread, in case he needs it, putting it all out in a neat row. Slowly, carefully, because most of his left side feels burned, skin pulled too tight and near-blistering from the Small Science that seared what was left of the poison out of him before the fall through the floor.

The Darkling peels off his shirt, trying awkwardly to reach around on his back where a piece of glass is sticking out.]

Excuse me? If you could just pull on that for me.

ii. The Sunlight room

[The days drag on the station. There's nothing to do, except fall in to his own mind and work on the block that Rhysand seems to think is possible. Unless that too is a trick, another lie to worm his way closer.

The Darkling sits under a tree with the false sun shining on his upturned face, letting it warm him in ways the blankets and the heating of this place never could. It might be a simulation or something equally mysterious that powers it, but the rays are heated against his skin and it's something else to look at other than Kovacs or the pale walls in their room.]

Move.

[And without opening his eyes, he adds a-] please.

iii. Kitchen

[Without a mission, or even a clear goal to plan for, the Darkling drifts through the station, watching the other orbers go about their business. The careless way they might interact, who talks to whom and which rooms people go in to.

There's an idleness to this that grate on his nerves. That makes his skin itch, and he heads off to the kitchen to find something to eat, now that most people seem to have had their fill, thus leaving it mostly empty.

Sliding in to a chair, he grabs the tray of food, stabbing it as if it had personally insulted him.]

iv. Training

[The sense of boredom grows with every day, his body unused to this life. Sitting for long periods of time without anything to plan for, or to do, makes him restless, and the Darkling finds himself in the training room again.

Trying to burn off excess energy by punching a bag that hangs from the ceiling. For once, the Darkling isn't covered from head to toe in black, but has opted for a white shirt and loose dark pants that might once have been pajamas, his hands covered with black leather gloves and sweat making his hair stick up.

Punch after punch, hitting the bag until he's breathless and panting, muscles aching and mind a little less loud in the quiet of the room. When the door opens, he glances over before nodding at the row of weapons.]

How are you with a sword?

v. WILDCARD

[Throw anything at me, as the Darkling is lurking around in the shadows on the station when he's not in his room. Or hit me up at ireth

Comments

[cruelyethuman]

Some.

[He admits, the thought of all magic and all Small Science being connected in a fundamental way is terrifying. There's nothing magical about his connection to the making. There's nothing supernatural about Grisha, and what they can do, but the otkazat'sya used it as an excuse to murder them in their beds, to kill their children and burn them all on pyres.

The Darkling balls up the grimy fabric in his hands, but keeps his face passive.]

But yours can be passed down to someone else. By this ritual, and by practice, I assume.

[bindsthedead]

True- Baptism might be the first step, but to be a mage means training and practice, as well as learning the marks, and what they do.

Your... Small Science works differently?

[Perhaps for him, it's something inborn, like her Death sense, and they Clayr's Sight.]

[cruelyethuman]

The Small Science in Grisha is in our bones. A natural part of us, like our hearts and lungs, that connects us to the Making at the Heart of the World. What we do manipulates the threads that binds us to all things.

[The theory behind every branch of Small Science was more complex, but describing it as the connection between everything in the world, is not wrong.]

The treads that binds you and I, and to every other thing in the universe.

[bindsthedead]

And if you described it that way to any mage in the Old Kingdom, they'd say you were talking about Charter magic... but you make it sound inborn, rather than gained through baptism.

[cruelyethuman]

It is.

[Partly hereditary as well, as Grisha seemed to show up more often in certain families. But enough were born to people without any kind of treads to the Making, that it made it near-impossible to predict.]

We cannot give our gift away, nor bestow it upon others. Some have tried, and failed.