milliways_bar | (no subject)

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There's an inkstained gentleman, writing furiously in a booth. His fingers have ink on them, his hand has ink on it where it's been brushing the page, his shirt cuff has ink on it where it's been dragged. His forehead has ink on it where black fingers pushed hair out of his face.

He hasn't eaten because he's been writing and he looks incredibly excited to be nearly finished-- not even nearly-- here. We. Are.

Yes.

Telemain puts down the pen with a triumphant 'hah' and straightens up for an immediate head rush from sitting one way too long. He looks like he's about to die, possibly. But! He'll die happy.

First things first, the waitrat is flagged for more tea. Someone tell him to take a breath and eat something, for heaven's sake.

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"Aye, sir,"

That doesn't make any sense to Will but clearly Telemain is proud of it, so there is nodding.

"It's... would you charactarize a sword as good or bad, Will?"

Lets see if he can explain this.

"Tis a tool an a weapon, sir, all depends on who's wieldin' it."

The grin has faded as Will looks more serious as he thinks on this question.

"That's the assumption we had about magic. It's a safe one. However, if a sword were to, say-- no, the metaphor's done. In a clearing near my home, a magical balance has shifted. There are apple trees. If you harm them, the magic in the area will enable them to launch apples at you, whip branches, etcetera. It has naturally evolved to fill a constructive purpose.

More than that, there are cases all over the map; only those who are worthy may pass through this stream. Do not drink this water or be turned to stone, and of course, each man without patience drinks. Cases of magic as not a tool, but as a positive force. Or at least, an aligned force, or at least, a balance."

"Aye, 'memeber ye speakin' o''em 'fore, sir, so magic doesna fit any known rules, tis just itself then?"

"More complicated than the simple sword we'd thought it was, at least."

He's still hashing it out.

"Aye, an ye 'avena found a better way to 'xplain it?"

"It needs some work."

He pats the papers affectionately.

"Aye, sir, so ye just write out all yer thoughts an questions to fill all those pages?"

The concept of paper writing is still quite strange to Will and Telemain is perhaps not the best person to explain it.

"Sort of."

Telemain... no, wasn't meant to be a teacher.

"There are different sorts."

"Aye, sir, what sorts?"

Well he's got a curious young man with lots of questions so perhaps he should learn.

"You can write proofs of something new. Disproofs of something accepted. Combinations of the two. You can write comparisons of one or more ideas. You can write any theory you can come up with. You can write relationships and experiment results."

Anything.

"'ow can ye write a relationship, sir, dinna e'en understand women when I'm talkin' to 'em, tryin' to put what's 'appenin' in words just seems strange."

"Relationships between variables, Will. When the sun rises, light fills the sky. The higher the sun, the more light. When a man consumes said amount of liquid, he can fly this high, and this far. When he consumes twice as much, half as high, twice as far. The same amount again, half the increase of each."

Telemain can't imagine why on Earth you'd want to write about something like love.

There is understanding sort of from Will and a nod,

"Aye, sir, like knowin' 'ow 'ard to swing a staff or a blade dependin' on 'ow much ye wish to 'urt someone? Though would be useful if twere guides for 'ow women worked since askin' other women just seems to make it worse."

"I wouldn't know."

Duck away from the topic yet again.

"Those are more difficult, they require precise measurements."

"What do ye mean, sir? Ye canna measure the strength ye use to swing a blade or staff just learn the proper feel o'it. Doesna yer friend Morwen e'er talk to ye o''er relationships, most o'the women I've met 'ere seem to take great pleasure in talkin' 'bout romance an other stuff."

They do this becuase they know it makes Will blush, which is a bit of a sport for modern women at least some in Bar.

"Morwen is far too sensible for such gossip. And you can measure it if it's flight, for example. The distance one goes."

Will is not focusing!

"Aye, sir, sure she is, but many o'the women 'ere arena that sensible. Ne'er thought o'measurin' an arrow's flight, but guess yet could if ye wished. Tell me more 'bout yer Morwen, sir, know she's a witch an a fine brewer an she's sensible, but tisna a lot."

"She has ginger hair and square glasses, and wears black robes. She keeps an abominable number of cats. She paints a sign above her door that says 'none of this nonsense, please.' If you measure how far back your arm pulls the string, yes? In relation to how far the arrow flies when pointed on a constant flat plane."

"Aye, sir, sounds like ye'd make a fine pair since ye're such a sensible man."

"You're not listening, Will."

Morwen is not the point, here.

"I think it would be best if I went home. I should sleep."

"Aye, sir, probably would do ye good, 'ope yer paper goes well."

Will is still grinning but he's not going to tease anymore, at least not tonight.

Telemain... isn't. In fact, he just looks tired.

He leaves quietly.

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