"May I have my whiskey back?" Solomon asked in Deuce's general direction, and knew from the knell of the hearth before the man spoke that he wasn't going to get it.
"No. Can't afford to have you choke and die on your first day."
"Pity." He tilted his head, closing his eyes to escape the clarity of his Sight and reduce it to the dull swirl of colour so he could remember more easily. "Light, mostly. Light reflecting off a window, and turning the panes opaque, but in a way that sharpened the details in the rest of the window. It's ... hard to explain."
He wasn't even sure how it worked. It was a mixture of sight, sound, smell, taste and texture. His mind gave them descriptions he could understand, but he suspected it was, truthfully, nothing like them all over again.
He heard footsteps, and a ripple moved under the door which sent colours arching upward like a billowing veil. "Someone's coming."
Barely a moment later, a knock sounded, and Deuce answered, sounding just a touch bemused. "Come in."
"Grand Mage. Elders." Tipstaff. Of course it was Tipstaff. Tipstaff was more like a smell than anything else. Papyrus and wood and leather, and when he saw the scene in the office, something in him cooled. If that specific turn of warmth was amusement, then that sort of cool regard was probably disapproval.
Which, given that the new Grand Mage and Elders were drinking before noon on their first day, Solomon supposed he could understand.
Or he would have been able to understand, had his attention not been caught by the Cleaver which entered silently behind the man. Solomon looked away, trying not to pay attention to the way the ripples rebounded off each other. Cleavers weren't Necromancers, he told himself. They weren't alive enough to even be damned. They just came from someone who had been.
"The American ambassador is here, Grand Mage," Tipstaff said with equanimity, "and I have the Journals for your perusal." The man came close, paused for a moment, and then apparently put the books down on one of the tables to the side.
"Thank you, Tipstaff." Corrival's voice was a mix of disconcert and resignation. Solomon watched the lazily snapping eels, trying to summon amusement.
"I've also found someone who can install a voice-activated computer into Elder Wreath's office, though having the Journals transcribed will take a little longer. Elder Wreath, given your, er, limitations, may I present one of the Cleavers to act as your guide through the Sanctuary? It seems the most prudent course of action, given your situation with the Temple and--"
A bolt of visceral objection ran through Solomon so hard that he actually twitched. "No," he said flatly before the man could even finish, and Tipstaff cut off with a waft of dusty surprise.
"I'm sorry, Elder Wreath, but you need someone to guide you--"
"I'd rather walk into walls." His heart was pounding and he knew the reaction was an overreaction, but he couldn't help it. He was still rattled and just passing the Cleavers unnerved him. To have one of those giant sink-holes of metaphysical soullessness at his side, every moment of the day? No. "Cleaver, you're dismissed."
"I ... see." Tipstaff sounded disconcerted. "I'll--see what else I can come up with, then."
With that the man bowed and left, taking the Cleaver with him, and there was a moment of silence in which Solomon forced his grip on the chair's arms to relax and exhaled slowly, trying to regain control of his heart.
"He's right," Corrival said abruptly, breaking the silence. "A Cleaver's the best option."
"I'll resign before the week's out." Solomon said the words flatly and without even a hint of humour. The Temple had been Hell through pain. The Cleavers, Solomon could already tell, would be Hell through apathy. Best if he could minimise contact.
no subject
"No. Can't afford to have you choke and die on your first day."
"Pity." He tilted his head, closing his eyes to escape the clarity of his Sight and reduce it to the dull swirl of colour so he could remember more easily. "Light, mostly. Light reflecting off a window, and turning the panes opaque, but in a way that sharpened the details in the rest of the window. It's ... hard to explain."
He wasn't even sure how it worked. It was a mixture of sight, sound, smell, taste and texture. His mind gave them descriptions he could understand, but he suspected it was, truthfully, nothing like them all over again.
He heard footsteps, and a ripple moved under the door which sent colours arching upward like a billowing veil. "Someone's coming."
Barely a moment later, a knock sounded, and Deuce answered, sounding just a touch bemused. "Come in."
"Grand Mage. Elders." Tipstaff. Of course it was Tipstaff. Tipstaff was more like a smell than anything else. Papyrus and wood and leather, and when he saw the scene in the office, something in him cooled. If that specific turn of warmth was amusement, then that sort of cool regard was probably disapproval.
Which, given that the new Grand Mage and Elders were drinking before noon on their first day, Solomon supposed he could understand.
Or he would have been able to understand, had his attention not been caught by the Cleaver which entered silently behind the man. Solomon looked away, trying not to pay attention to the way the ripples rebounded off each other. Cleavers weren't Necromancers, he told himself. They weren't alive enough to even be damned. They just came from someone who had been.
"The American ambassador is here, Grand Mage," Tipstaff said with equanimity, "and I have the Journals for your perusal." The man came close, paused for a moment, and then apparently put the books down on one of the tables to the side.
"Thank you, Tipstaff." Corrival's voice was a mix of disconcert and resignation. Solomon watched the lazily snapping eels, trying to summon amusement.
"I've also found someone who can install a voice-activated computer into Elder Wreath's office, though having the Journals transcribed will take a little longer. Elder Wreath, given your, er, limitations, may I present one of the Cleavers to act as your guide through the Sanctuary? It seems the most prudent course of action, given your situation with the Temple and--"
A bolt of visceral objection ran through Solomon so hard that he actually twitched. "No," he said flatly before the man could even finish, and Tipstaff cut off with a waft of dusty surprise.
"I'm sorry, Elder Wreath, but you need someone to guide you--"
"I'd rather walk into walls." His heart was pounding and he knew the reaction was an overreaction, but he couldn't help it. He was still rattled and just passing the Cleavers unnerved him. To have one of those giant sink-holes of metaphysical soullessness at his side, every moment of the day? No. "Cleaver, you're dismissed."
"I ... see." Tipstaff sounded disconcerted. "I'll--see what else I can come up with, then."
With that the man bowed and left, taking the Cleaver with him, and there was a moment of silence in which Solomon forced his grip on the chair's arms to relax and exhaled slowly, trying to regain control of his heart.
"He's right," Corrival said abruptly, breaking the silence. "A Cleaver's the best option."
"I'll resign before the week's out." Solomon said the words flatly and without even a hint of humour. The Temple had been Hell through pain. The Cleavers, Solomon could already tell, would be Hell through apathy. Best if he could minimise contact.