Mind Over Matter (Closed)

[Oliver]

Unlike Scara Brae, ‘cheap tricks’ were common place in Radasanth. Shameless wizards and magical charlatans purveyed their wares on street corners and in smoky bars. Whilst there was much academic learning to be found in the capital of Corone, there were far more mistakes to be made and wrong corners to turn.

That Oliver Midwinter had survived here for so long, relatively alone and naive in the grand schemes of the world at large was a miracle. Only the guidance of his master, the Grand Magister Pavel had kept him both sane and mortal. The beard and the man behind his mentor had taught the boy all he needed to know about life in a city. More specifically, he had imparted all the knowledge needed to survive in this particular city.

“I’m not convinced,” Oliver said, pouting like a child. “Magic I get.” He got it well. “But, ‘reading the mind of another?’” He threw the quote around flippantly, as though psychic talents were every day.

Pavel glared. His beard alone was intimidating. But, when coupled with a century of tutelage and power unending in sorcerous travesty, Oliver had no choice but to buckle.

“Okay, okay…,” the youth sighed. “I will seek out this ‘Mack Clowed’ and see what he has to say for himself.”

The rest of the evening passed them by in relative silence. Pavel tended to his plants with delicate wand flicks and sprays of light mist from a watering can. Oliver trawled through books heavy enough to break a camel’s back and text as tedious to read as a day pent in the sun with nothing to do. At the very least, his apprentice was coming to an end and Pavel had promise him release to join the ranks of the Tarot good and proper.

He had lost count of the weeks since he had been welcomed by the magical brethren. Promises of adventure, occultism, and release from the drudgery of his existence were too easy to ignore for the boy who dared to look. He had waited, patiently, for his apprenticeship to end. Perhaps years since he left the village of Albion, and now it was time. He smirked, finishing a paragraph to finally earn a break. He sat back in his chair, a winged oaken throne of stagnation and deceit.

“May I retire, Magister?” he enquired. He left a bookmark on the page, so as to continue his studies at the tedium toll of dawn’s arrival.

With Pavel’s nod, Oliver dragged his booted feet to his bedchamber, to meet with this ‘psion’ in the morning by the Citadel’s steps. Long before the boy’s head touched the pillow he resigned himself to not learn a thing from his tutor. Stubborn and pig-headed as always, Oliver Midwinter did not realise than what he would in the days to come. His apprenticeship, shorn from the village that harboured his treachery and betrayal, would never end. No amount of dedication and study would free him from his guilt.

[Logan]

Another day, another mark for Logan to seek out and work with thanks to the cards. Not that he was one to complain about such, but there certainly were quite a few marks lately. When he'd joined with the Tarot Hierarchy, he had been told to expect one or two marks over the course of multiple months. He was up to five in just the last month. Still, it was nice to be wanted and needed, and the cards certainly proved he was both, at least to Tarot.

The morning air hinted at freshly fallen dew and a smattering of aromas ranging from the pleasurable breakfasts of the Silver Inn to the putrid memorials of the night spent either drinking away one's sorrows or screwing away the same. Either way, it was an odd mixture, but not an unfamiliar one. As he neared the steps of the Citadel, he winced slightly. The repetitive clacks of the hooves of various mounts making their way along the cobblestone street left him with a mild migraine. He lifted his hand to his face to shield the morning sun as he peered down the street.

Everything was supposed to be simple and easy, but as he knew it rarely ever turned out that way. More times than not, he found himself in the midst of some epic struggle, usually against some organization dead set on sussing out the faces behind the Hierarchy. The one thing the psion knew best, however, was how to keep a secret no matter the cost.

Logan rubbed his fingers against his temples gently massaging the muscles there to ease the building tension in his head. As if the sound and light weren't enough, the growing impatience in waiting for the boy only increased the throbbing. He began to wonder how long it would be before the child would finally arrive, and whether he would even be worth the wait at all.

[Oliver]

The journey across Radasanth was tedious and, to a boy born in nature's throng, anathema. There were many things Oliver could not abide, and he danced with each on the cobbles of the city. The first were crowds of ignorant, ignoble citizens. They pushed into one another in a furious attempt to arrive at their destinations before their perceived rivals. The smell alone was intolerable, without considering the constant cockling and the din of a thousand voices arguing, swearing, and vying for attention.

When Oliver turned the final corner onto the boulevard leading to the Citadel, he encountered his second annoyance; ahead, tall and indomitable, the Citadel. It's sandstone peaks were a testament to a time long ago when bloodsport was the drug of Corone, and it's people, still in it's grip, clung to those ancient memories. The monks within, curious relics of faith fettered, were akin to the Angels – rule's law in mortal form, oppressing others with their world view.

“Why here?” he mused.

He pulled his half-cloak tighter around his shoulders to conceal his talismanic tattoos. The more irate he grew, the brighter they glowed. The sun danced over them, tracing the dedication he had pledged to his sorcerer mentor.

“Hello!” he cried.

His voice carried on the wind to the foot of the stairs. He had been given a description of Logan McCloud by the contacts amongst the Cards. He wove through the last metres of the crowd of weary warriors and bloodstained harlots (old and new Radasanth swimming together), and gestured at the man whom he 'had to meet'.

[Logan]

The activity around him faded as he closed his eyes and took to focusing on his breathing. Such a small action had a rather large impact in allowing the veteran to clear his mind and block out all of the excess distractions. Unfortunately, telepathy was a blessing and a curse. When one is a psionic things tend to become far more jumbled than if one were less mentally endowed. The constant bombardment of disruptions was something he learned to deal with almost immediately.

In the back of the psion's mind, amidst all the hustle and bustle, he swore he heard a small voice cry out a youthful greeting. His eyes opened and scanned the throngs before him. A few comers and goers, but he couldn't make out the boy he was supposed to meet. At least, he couldn't until the boy gestured toward him.

"Oh, hello there. You must be Oliver," Logan said with a soft, gentle smile and an extended hand. "Pleasure to meet you."

A carriage rolled by, and the wooden wheel dove into a rather deep puddle of muddy refuse which unfortunately splashed upon both of them. The psion shook his head with a deep sigh. Bad luck seemed to possess zero regard for migraines, and even less for recruitment errands. At least his room in the inn contained a clean set of clothes, and perhaps a drawn bath of warm water. He turned to the budding mage.

"I do believe I would best served to return to my room at the Silver Inn so I might change and bathe. You are free to return to the Inn with me so we can continue introductions, and so you may query me as you see fit. I was told you held a desire to learn, and I am more than happy to teach or train. Whichever it is you prefer."

[Oliver]

Oliver took a deep breath. He centred his energies in his chest for warmth and courage. He took a further moment to alleviate his rising frustrations by grinding his teeth. Whilst he was born into a family with a long standing tradition of respecting the forces of nature, he had long abandoned the patience required to be content when soaked to the bone.

“Yes,” he said flatly. His mood permeated into his words.

“Then follow me, and let’s talk.” Logan remained non-chalant, a temperament Oliver would soon find unbearable. “Do you have much experience with magic?”

Oliver walked. He did so because he wanted to get changed as much as Logan, though the thought of a bath made his skin crawl. As he stepped over the pothole the thud of his boots on the road reminded him of home. Long, winding tributaries carved into the valley of Albion. A river bright as a vein of silver dividing the east bank from the West. Two worlds, one ravine. The past in autumnal leaves and folk song.

“I was born into a family of witches.” The statement turned Oliver’s stomach. He saw no use in hiding things from the man, if his talents were as promised. Honesty from the outset was now his way of life, given all the pain lies had brought him.

“Warlock, surely?” Logan enquired jovially.

Oliver smiled. It was the first expression of genuine bemusement he had made in a long time. Perhaps the day could get better.