Eleven (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
bearshermark) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
westwhere2022-12-18 05:28 pm
bearshermark) wrote in westwhere2022-12-18 05:28 pm
dreading battlefields
WHO: Eleven and OPEN
WHEN: December
WHERE: The inn, grounds
WHAT: Catch-all
WARNINGS: none for now
I. Figs
Eleven doesn't have anything in particular against dates. He's pretty sure. They're rather rich in their sweetness, but they don't particularly offend his palate. He'd eat them, and gladly, if not for the sense of simmering distaste that hardens his jaw every time he so much as looks at them.
They were a gift. Eleven guesses the intent behind them had been somehow well-meaning, but he can't help but find it insulting for reasons that remain beyond him. He has the very uncharacteristic urge to swear incredibly colorfully whenever he thinks about the person responsible for them. Not that there's a name behind the gift, exactly. It's a title, and rather vague at that- Merchant.
His fingers curl into fists and he forces himself to breathe and relax. He doesn't have anything against merchants, either.
It's getting absurd really, the longer he thinks about it. There's nothing for it but to get rid of them.
To that end, Eleven gathers up the bowl of them, resists the wild urge to toss it out the window of his room, then pads into the corridor in search of a likely beneficiary.
"Ah, excuse me," he starts, "I don't suppose you know anyone that enjoys dates? They're too sweet for my taste."
II. Swords
The sword he pulls from the pit is wildly impractical for use, he thinks. It's twice as long as the weapon on his back, and at least twice again as broad. Even by Zwaardsrustian standards, Eleven is quite sure Hendrik would have trouble wielding it.
He worries it might be largely decorative at first, and spends several minutes turning it over on the ground, inspecting the material it's made from with careful taps and scrapes over separate parts of it. But it's made from solid steel, with a multitude of nicks and a dulled edge that speak of disuse and lack of care.
It's perfect.
Eleven grins over the find and tugs it farther away from the pit. It's something of a struggle to lift in a meaningful fashion, as the weapon's weight and balance are at odds with his stature, but as he hauls it upright against the wall and rests, he realizes how odd it must look for someone of his size to try and wrangle it.
He laughs, a touch self-conscious as he catches the eyes of anyone nearby. "Don't worry; I only plan to melt it down."
III. Meditation
The winter cold stings his nose with every inhale. With each exhale, he breathes heat. It isn't nearly enough to warm the chill air for longer than a moment, but neither is that the purpose of this exercise.
A lifetime ago (or two), a young man (a friend) had taught him to harness the energy of his inner spirit and direct it to flow through his chest, limbs, and extremities to keep warm even when drenched to the bone in ice water. The ability is steadily returning to him, heat reaching further with each bout of practice while also allowing him to endure the outside for longer stretches of time.
It's useful, and potentially life-saving, but it's the feeling that matters. Light and heat- a gentle warmth that reminds him of something sacred.
Life. The way he reaches out with a marked hand and brushes the snow frosted over the ground to reveal a patch of green clover. The simple joy of feeling that he's made a difference, if only on the smallest and most insignificant of scales. The clover will wither and die again in a matter of hours once he's left, but it feels like the start of something.
IV. Wildcard
[feel free to hit me up with anything adjacent to these prompts, or if you'd like to work out something specific, Eleven's plotting post is here!
Happy to adapt to action tags or prose!]
WHEN: December
WHERE: The inn, grounds
WHAT: Catch-all
WARNINGS: none for now
I. Figs
Eleven doesn't have anything in particular against dates. He's pretty sure. They're rather rich in their sweetness, but they don't particularly offend his palate. He'd eat them, and gladly, if not for the sense of simmering distaste that hardens his jaw every time he so much as looks at them.
They were a gift. Eleven guesses the intent behind them had been somehow well-meaning, but he can't help but find it insulting for reasons that remain beyond him. He has the very uncharacteristic urge to swear incredibly colorfully whenever he thinks about the person responsible for them. Not that there's a name behind the gift, exactly. It's a title, and rather vague at that- Merchant.
His fingers curl into fists and he forces himself to breathe and relax. He doesn't have anything against merchants, either.
It's getting absurd really, the longer he thinks about it. There's nothing for it but to get rid of them.
To that end, Eleven gathers up the bowl of them, resists the wild urge to toss it out the window of his room, then pads into the corridor in search of a likely beneficiary.
"Ah, excuse me," he starts, "I don't suppose you know anyone that enjoys dates? They're too sweet for my taste."
II. Swords
The sword he pulls from the pit is wildly impractical for use, he thinks. It's twice as long as the weapon on his back, and at least twice again as broad. Even by Zwaardsrustian standards, Eleven is quite sure Hendrik would have trouble wielding it.
He worries it might be largely decorative at first, and spends several minutes turning it over on the ground, inspecting the material it's made from with careful taps and scrapes over separate parts of it. But it's made from solid steel, with a multitude of nicks and a dulled edge that speak of disuse and lack of care.
It's perfect.
Eleven grins over the find and tugs it farther away from the pit. It's something of a struggle to lift in a meaningful fashion, as the weapon's weight and balance are at odds with his stature, but as he hauls it upright against the wall and rests, he realizes how odd it must look for someone of his size to try and wrangle it.
He laughs, a touch self-conscious as he catches the eyes of anyone nearby. "Don't worry; I only plan to melt it down."
III. Meditation
The winter cold stings his nose with every inhale. With each exhale, he breathes heat. It isn't nearly enough to warm the chill air for longer than a moment, but neither is that the purpose of this exercise.
A lifetime ago (or two), a young man (a friend) had taught him to harness the energy of his inner spirit and direct it to flow through his chest, limbs, and extremities to keep warm even when drenched to the bone in ice water. The ability is steadily returning to him, heat reaching further with each bout of practice while also allowing him to endure the outside for longer stretches of time.
It's useful, and potentially life-saving, but it's the feeling that matters. Light and heat- a gentle warmth that reminds him of something sacred.
Life. The way he reaches out with a marked hand and brushes the snow frosted over the ground to reveal a patch of green clover. The simple joy of feeling that he's made a difference, if only on the smallest and most insignificant of scales. The clover will wither and die again in a matter of hours once he's left, but it feels like the start of something.
IV. Wildcard
[feel free to hit me up with anything adjacent to these prompts, or if you'd like to work out something specific, Eleven's plotting post is here!
Happy to adapt to action tags or prose!]
CLOSED to Marcos
Eleven wreathes the sword in fire magic with a wordless spell, then slams the blade down into the ice. He feels it drive through, then stop, and with an air of satisfaction, watches the ice crack under pressure. But that's the extent of his success. He pulls the blade free, steaming off droplets, and observes the slotted fissure with a frown. It's deep enough to have breached the water beneath, but not anywhere wide enough to allow for fishing.
His eyes trace the thinly veiled cracks, then follows them with careful prods of his fire-tipped sword. After a few moments, he repeats the exercise. It's not the brightest idea he's ever had, but there's something to be said for determination.
Probably.
so sorry for the delay!
A short jog later, and he's near enough to tell that his methods aren't exactly proving to be as effective as he'd like. Gathering from what's around them, he guesses what he's trying to do. If he'd known, Marcos would have offered to help sooner. As it is, he waits for him to take his next blow before he decides to interrupt.
"Need a hand?"
III.
Sizhui is also fully aware that the clover will not survive long, it is not the esason for the to be green. But... he can see the joy in Eleven's face, and given ... many, many things, including the fact that Eleven is here, but Lily is not, every bit of joy is precious.
And the spiritual energy that the meditation brought is bright and vivid, Sizhui can feel it even now.
no subject
His memories are stronger now, and he can recall many hours spent in quiet company with this young man. They were restful, studious companions, and.. they shared an interest in the healing arts, if he's parsing those memories correctly.
His name comes to him after a few more moments.
"Sizhui," he breathes, pleased to conjure it so quickly and with certainty. "It's good to see you."
no subject
Are you well can wait.
no subject
"I was," he says with a nod. "I did everything I needed to."
Everything.
"..How have you been? Five mentioned some difficulties."
I
I'm not much for sweets myself, but I'm sure you'll find someone who will enjoy them.
I would say 'Welcome back', but coming back here cannot be joyful.
no subject
On quiet reflection however, he feels a faint sense of companionship toward the man.
Eleven glances about, then gives a mild shrug and sets the bowl down to take a seat himself. The figs will certainly keep]
This place isn't so bad, at least. I've been able to gain my bearings some.
no subject
I assume your memories of your previous time here are not... clear?
My name is Beitang Moran. Please to make your acquaintance again, Master Eleven.
no subject
They aren't. It gives me something of a headache when I pursue them too long. But I've found meeting familiar people helps some..
[He watches Moran for a steadying moment in an attempt to glean more from the vague echoes of memory]
..We knew each other for awhile, didn't we? Just Eleven is fine.
no subject
[Sorry, Eleven, it's not the done thing, unless... well who knows, you are younger than him after all, so if you insist.]
We did have a few difficult conversations when you were facing some moral dilemmas. I like to think my words helped a bit even if they didn't bring the solace you hoped.
no subject
He's slumps a bit in his seat with an indolent gaze and turns his attention back to those vague memories, frowning faintly]
I imagine they did. I needed a lot of guidance, then. Thank you for that. I hope I wasn't too much trouble.
no subject
[Oh, an by the way....]
This is actually our second time having such a conversation. You were gone for only a few minutes the first time though. I hope, whatever happened back in your home, you did not leave problems behind that will make you anxious.