Eliot Waugh (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
eliotwaugh) wrote2019-09-17 12:34 am
eliotwaugh) wrote2019-09-17 12:34 am
Entry tags:
sparks are spilling out the gears (for Martin and Daine)
Eliot straightens up and feels his back crack. Another late night scribbling equations until he nearly passes out from exhaustion. It's probably not a good sign that he's getting used to waking up smelling like scotch and chalk dust, but at least he's managing to make himself presentable for shifts at the Archive. At this point the aggressively nonsensical nature of city records is almost a relief, and he's been surprised to find that he actually enjoys the mundane office work.
He knows somehow that there's probably an easy solution to his magic dilemma, that trying to brute-force the math is about as reasonable as searching an entire beach of keys one at a time for one in particular. But he's never been inclined to do things the easy way. So he's run the numbers on calculating Planck's constant three different ways, determined that no, this earth shouldn't be any larger or smaller than the one he knows, and tried a dozen other approaches without finding what he's looking for.
Eliot switches to water at midnight, slumping on his uncomfortable couch as he examines the charred remains of an oak leaf. Blue's power boost has helped, certainly, as well as attuning to the ley line for his sense of a cardinal direction, but what spells he's tried are still liable to just end explosively rather than doing exactly what they're supposed to. It shouldn't be this much work to transmute materials. He sighs and closes his eyes, letting his mind drift in a free-association haze brought on by low blood sugar, probably. He thinks about turning carbon to gold, and how gilded leaves would make for nice autumnal decor, and how if he were home he'd probably be well into costume planning in his continued efforts to get Fillory to celebrate Halloween. He thinks about gold leaf and Mycenean treasures, lost caches of ancient kings. He thinks about computer code as archaeological strata. A name drifts up from the depths of his subconscious. Schliemann.
He sits up too fast, his head suddenly throbbing, and frowns as he reaches for another leaf from the pile on the coffee table. he holds it in one hand while gesturing with the other, adjusting the movement of his fingers and trying to keep the metaphorical image in his mind. The incantation, a Cycladic dialect pronounced more musically than he'd done before. He doesn't reach as deep, doesn't feel the prickle of static in his hands. There is only a faint shimmer around the leaf in the moment before it grows heavier and changes from red to gleaming gold.
He grins, and sets it down with a soft metallic clink before firing off a series of texts.
He knows somehow that there's probably an easy solution to his magic dilemma, that trying to brute-force the math is about as reasonable as searching an entire beach of keys one at a time for one in particular. But he's never been inclined to do things the easy way. So he's run the numbers on calculating Planck's constant three different ways, determined that no, this earth shouldn't be any larger or smaller than the one he knows, and tried a dozen other approaches without finding what he's looking for.
Eliot switches to water at midnight, slumping on his uncomfortable couch as he examines the charred remains of an oak leaf. Blue's power boost has helped, certainly, as well as attuning to the ley line for his sense of a cardinal direction, but what spells he's tried are still liable to just end explosively rather than doing exactly what they're supposed to. It shouldn't be this much work to transmute materials. He sighs and closes his eyes, letting his mind drift in a free-association haze brought on by low blood sugar, probably. He thinks about turning carbon to gold, and how gilded leaves would make for nice autumnal decor, and how if he were home he'd probably be well into costume planning in his continued efforts to get Fillory to celebrate Halloween. He thinks about gold leaf and Mycenean treasures, lost caches of ancient kings. He thinks about computer code as archaeological strata. A name drifts up from the depths of his subconscious. Schliemann.
He sits up too fast, his head suddenly throbbing, and frowns as he reaches for another leaf from the pile on the coffee table. he holds it in one hand while gesturing with the other, adjusting the movement of his fingers and trying to keep the metaphorical image in his mind. The incantation, a Cycladic dialect pronounced more musically than he'd done before. He doesn't reach as deep, doesn't feel the prickle of static in his hands. There is only a faint shimmer around the leaf in the moment before it grows heavier and changes from red to gleaming gold.
He grins, and sets it down with a soft metallic clink before firing off a series of texts.
no subject
So when Eliot suggests tea, he nods promptly, giving no thought to the hour. "Love a cup," he says. "I could go and fix it if you'd like to keep, well—demonstrating." He doubts Eliot will allow it—he seems very committed to being a good host—but it's worth a shot.
Before he even gets an answer, he can't keep from asking, "Do you think—if you were siphoning it somehow, I mean... is it a finite resource, or...?"
no subject
"Makes sense, I suppose," she says. "Wild magic exists here, elsewise I'd be useless." That isn't entirely true -- she'd still be able to take animal shape -- but in a place like Darrow, that's the least useful of her abilities, more of a party trick than something she often uses to help anyone. "There's probably all kinds of other magic just... around," she continues with a flap of her free hand.
Granted, Eliot's the first mage she's ever met who seems to draw his magic from around himself and not within himself, but that doesn't mean he's taking what can't be spared. On a bit of a whim, she lets her focus turn inward, examining her own magic for any sign that it's been siphoned away. But nothing looks missing or diminished, and she blinks back up at Eliot. "You're not borrowing from me, at any rate. At least, I don't think so. I'd have to change my focus a bit and watch you do it to be sure." Brightening a little, she asks, "Should I? Maybe I can see where you're getting it from."
She sets Eliot's bat back down. "I'd have some tea," she agrees.
no subject
"I suppose it would be good to know for certain," he says, considering his options, and the possibility that the city would find some way to act against him if he used too much of what appears to be the latent magic of this universe. "Right, I'll try something a little more robust perhaps, and you can take a look? See if it's draining the life out of anything? I mean I hope not, obviously, wouldn't be able to live with myself if that were the case."
He's babbling a bit, but he starts to focus in on a spell and his hands form the shape of it, making minute adjustments to the configuration like he's playing a song by ear. After a false start he casts Fergus' Spectral Armory, and it seems to take: a brief opalescent shimmer covers his form for a moment. But he doesn't know how solid it is, and there's really only one way to find out.
"Martin," he begins, grinning, "There's a dust mop in the cabinet over there, would you be so kind as to get it and try to hit me with it?"
no subject
He's grinning as well when Eliot addresses him, but as soon as he understands the question the smile slips from his face.
"Wait, what?" he sputters. "I'm not going to hit you with a mop, Eliot!"