[ It does seem to be out of nowhere — up until Melisandre explains the purpose behind the little sacks, at which point Rafe is very interested in these little gifts. He isn't surprised that Melisandre has been holding out on him, he always expects as much, but he is impressed that she's willing to share one of the aces up those voluminous red sleeves. ]
Guessing this one [ fingers tracing the thread outline of flames ] to deal with fire.
[ The implications of which are certainly not lost on Rafe. It'd taken a while to fully appreciate the lantern, recognize its value. Its importance. Its potential cost. (There are moments he thinks back to that first day, with the bratty waterboy. The deluge of water had managed to miss his lantern just barely— But what if it hadn't? He'd have been first to sit in those pews as the trapdoor clanged after him.) Yes, these may prove very useful. ]
⟪ She traces the patterns of her own lantern – it's hot to the touch, but it doesn't bother or pain her. ⟫
It's common for me to tend to the nightfires, and there are some powders needed for certain rites. It isn't common to lose control, of course, but you know well and good how quickly some other fool can cross through one's best laid plans.
⟪ For someone who happily touted another murder powder, she is still quite uncomfortable with the possession of the purely fire-snuffing one. Maybe because fire is closer to life than her than breath? ⟫
[ Rafe murmurs in an echo, idly watching her hands move as his mind chugs along. Wouldn't take a lot, but then again it would take a certain amount to ensure it in any kind of attack if one was out for a lantern. Unless it was a subtler one, done without the owner knowing what was coming. Hm. He'll have to test this with some more disposable dust, see how it goes.
In the meantime, these pouches go to the loops on his belt, tied on either side of his holster — opposite side of where his lantern hangs, of course. That dealt with, his eyes slide to Melisandre's, stare to stare. There's nothing else to say of the powders. He'll use them when he needs. ]
⟪ Melisandre isn't opposed to companionable silence –– her presence at court had been frequently required, but quiet, by the fire, used as an unveiled threat. It's strange, long-term, to be looked at so directly, but pleasant, too. He's not breakable, Rafe, and it's a quality she enjoys.
Still she blinks, when he poses his request. Complies, too, yes, but she's not exactly used to interest in her faith beyond the visions it bestows her. From Selyse, yes, but that was some time ago. ⟫
They are meant to keep the darkness at bay. ⟪ Her eyes flicker to his torch. It'd be beyond what they are, to express gratitude for its presence, but she relishes it all the same. ⟫ In a way, they are the heart of the faith. It's where we pray, but also where the congregation gathers for celebrations –– most all things to do with the public part of weddings take place by one, and both groom and bride must jump it. Well, the groom twice, once as a manner of a proposal.
⟪ so, y'know. careful about any stunts by the bonfire. ⟫ Offerings are made by them, too. Little things, more often than not –– you recall the herb wreaths? I know how to burn them so they hold true power. Visions, too, come from the flames. In Asshai, they were the only light allowed past the afternoon.
[ They've had some talk like this — bits and pieces of each other's worlds to pick over and store away in between more substantive, more here-and-now conversations — and Rafe files it away with the rest that he's learned. Religion has never been a mainstay in any of the houses his parents flitted between depending on the season so it reads like some odd ethnography folded away between aged parchments and forgotten journals. Just another pagan tome to pick through for practicality behind the pomp. Or it could if Rafe weren't full aware of the real power behind it, weren't learning to wield it himself.
So he files this away with all the rest to be fully annotated later. ]
Guess that's one way to make sure there's no cold feet at the altar.
[ Tell anyone he made a pun, Melisandre, and he'll deny it to— Well. Past the grave.
But dry humor aside, he mulls it over a while longer before his head cants to the side, eyes suddenly probing. It's one thing to dismiss the constant talk of heat and loins and fiery swords (and the grasping thereof) but there's a running theme that can't be ignored, which leads to his question-that-isn't. ]
You can't be that thrilled about the setup here, then.
⦑ She must let him live the wordplay down, of course, but he can see the corners of her mouth curve up as she lowers her head to conceal it.
Quickly enough, she sobers again –– they have had talks like these, of his world, of hers, but some things were avoided, safe for the saying she can't seem to keep to herself. ⦒
The Night is dark, and full of terrors. ⦑ She nods, says it to give him certainty of her knowing what he is aiming for. ⦒ In death, we are meant to ascent to a Hall of Light. No darkness, anymore, no pain, no fear. Easy to tell it did not work out quick like this. ⦑ Her own attempt at a jest. ⦒
The war I was fighting... Some of the faith is talk. All faith needs stories and rites, and not all of them are true or serve purpose beyond communal rejoicing, strengthening of the congregation, somesuch thing. But the war is real. The Others – dead creatures of ice –– are rising, after ten thousand years, and they make for one final attack. Some of the men I knew have already fought some –– well, some of the men I knew managed to narrowly escape as their weapons shattered against undead skin and their brothers were turned to the same kind of beast before their eyes.
⦑ She meets his eyes, blue to red, earnest. ⦒ They will march on Westeros, and if they are not defeated in the war for the dawn, they will march on the rest of the world, and then, the Long Night, the neverending darkness, will come and devour all.
[ Sure, it's wild. Melisandre's sincerity is plain on her face, in her tone, with every word she says but it'd still be easy to chalk up to insanity or drugs or some other logic were he anywhere else but here with all the things he's seen so far in less than a month. All the things he's since learned to do himself. And so he listens with the gravity due the situation, due her.
He still can't help the stray thought that it'd make for a hell of a film pitch. Tolkien meets Romero, score by Hans Zimmer for the appropriate level of drama and suspense.
It's easier to think of that than any of Melisandre's religious slant. Rafe had never thought about what had come after dying. Had never thought about what would come after Avery. Still refuses to think on such things and ignores the quiet part of himself that threatens to unravel if he did. ]
What, you're carrying one around in your pocket?
[ It's the barest hint of sarcasm, the lingering accent of a language spoken fluently that can't be shaken. ]
If I had ever touched on, our encounters would not have been half as pleasurable for you.
⟪ Easier to make a snide comment back, easier to leave the melancholy behind, especially with what she is about to do. More often than not, far more often than not, she forgoes this: most are untouched by magic, do not understand it, and if she bothers to sue it like this, if she bothers to share a vision at all in more than words, they would think she's poisoned them, fed them some drug of a kind.
But... he has studied. He is a practitioner himself, and while it is still early in the day for him, it can't be taken back now. It is within him, magic is, set to shape him for all of his life – or, in this case, death.
She reaches for her lantern, sets it down in front of him, and opens the little window so he can see the flame inside. Then she stands, shifts so she is behind him, resting her hands on his shoulders. ⟫
I can share a vision with you. Who knows, maybe you are so inclined yourself?
[ There's a joke to be made there, something involving the word frigid. But Rafe has used up his quota of stupid jokes for the next decade and so refrains, an easier concession with her warmth at his back and the promise of more magic to come. He leans back into her hands, a deep breath to center himself and be ready for whatever comes next. ]
Let's see what we can see.
[ He twists his head to flash a small smile at her, quiet and confident before he settles and fixes his gaze on the flame before him. ]
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
SOUNDS LEGIT
Guessing this one [ fingers tracing the thread outline of flames ] to deal with fire.
[ The implications of which are certainly not lost on Rafe. It'd taken a while to fully appreciate the lantern, recognize its value. Its importance. Its potential cost. (There are moments he thinks back to that first day, with the bratty waterboy. The deluge of water had managed to miss his lantern just barely— But what if it hadn't? He'd have been first to sit in those pews as the trapdoor clanged after him.) Yes, these may prove very useful. ]
no subject
⟪ She traces the patterns of her own lantern – it's hot to the touch, but it doesn't bother or pain her. ⟫
It's common for me to tend to the nightfires, and there are some powders needed for certain rites. It isn't common to lose control, of course, but you know well and good how quickly some other fool can cross through one's best laid plans.
⟪ For someone who happily touted another murder powder, she is still quite uncomfortable with the possession of the purely fire-snuffing one. Maybe because fire is closer to life than her than breath? ⟫
Fire can be so fragile.
no subject
[ Rafe murmurs in an echo, idly watching her hands move as his mind chugs along. Wouldn't take a lot, but then again it would take a certain amount to ensure it in any kind of attack if one was out for a lantern. Unless it was a subtler one, done without the owner knowing what was coming. Hm. He'll have to test this with some more disposable dust, see how it goes.
In the meantime, these pouches go to the loops on his belt, tied on either side of his holster — opposite side of where his lantern hangs, of course. That dealt with, his eyes slide to Melisandre's, stare to stare. There's nothing else to say of the powders. He'll use them when he needs. ]
Tell me about them.
no subject
Still she blinks, when he poses his request. Complies, too, yes, but she's not exactly used to interest in her faith beyond the visions it bestows her. From Selyse, yes, but that was some time ago. ⟫
They are meant to keep the darkness at bay. ⟪ Her eyes flicker to his torch. It'd be beyond what they are, to express gratitude for its presence, but she relishes it all the same. ⟫ In a way, they are the heart of the faith. It's where we pray, but also where the congregation gathers for celebrations –– most all things to do with the public part of weddings take place by one, and both groom and bride must jump it. Well, the groom twice, once as a manner of a proposal.
⟪ so, y'know. careful about any stunts by the bonfire. ⟫ Offerings are made by them, too. Little things, more often than not –– you recall the herb wreaths? I know how to burn them so they hold true power. Visions, too, come from the flames. In Asshai, they were the only light allowed past the afternoon.
no subject
So he files this away with all the rest to be fully annotated later. ]
Guess that's one way to make sure there's no cold feet at the altar.
[ Tell anyone he made a pun, Melisandre, and he'll deny it to— Well. Past the grave.
But dry humor aside, he mulls it over a while longer before his head cants to the side, eyes suddenly probing. It's one thing to dismiss the constant talk of heat and loins and fiery swords (and the grasping thereof) but there's a running theme that can't be ignored, which leads to his question-that-isn't. ]
You can't be that thrilled about the setup here, then.
no subject
Quickly enough, she sobers again –– they have had talks like these, of his world, of hers, but some things were avoided, safe for the saying she can't seem to keep to herself. ⦒
The Night is dark, and full of terrors. ⦑ She nods, says it to give him certainty of her knowing what he is aiming for. ⦒ In death, we are meant to ascent to a Hall of Light. No darkness, anymore, no pain, no fear. Easy to tell it did not work out quick like this. ⦑ Her own attempt at a jest. ⦒
The war I was fighting... Some of the faith is talk. All faith needs stories and rites, and not all of them are true or serve purpose beyond communal rejoicing, strengthening of the congregation, somesuch thing. But the war is real. The Others – dead creatures of ice –– are rising, after ten thousand years, and they make for one final attack. Some of the men I knew have already fought some –– well, some of the men I knew managed to narrowly escape as their weapons shattered against undead skin and their brothers were turned to the same kind of beast before their eyes.
⦑ She meets his eyes, blue to red, earnest. ⦒ They will march on Westeros, and if they are not defeated in the war for the dawn, they will march on the rest of the world, and then, the Long Night, the neverending darkness, will come and devour all.
⦑ She knows it's a wild story. ⦒
Would you like to see one? One of the Others?
no subject
He still can't help the stray thought that it'd make for a hell of a film pitch. Tolkien meets Romero, score by Hans Zimmer for the appropriate level of drama and suspense.
It's easier to think of that than any of Melisandre's religious slant. Rafe had never thought about what had come after dying. Had never thought about what would come after Avery. Still refuses to think on such things and ignores the quiet part of himself that threatens to unravel if he did. ]
What, you're carrying one around in your pocket?
[ It's the barest hint of sarcasm, the lingering accent of a language spoken fluently that can't be shaken. ]
How you figure to swing that?
no subject
⟪ Easier to make a snide comment back, easier to leave the melancholy behind, especially with what she is about to do. More often than not, far more often than not, she forgoes this: most are untouched by magic, do not understand it, and if she bothers to sue it like this, if she bothers to share a vision at all in more than words, they would think she's poisoned them, fed them some drug of a kind.
But... he has studied. He is a practitioner himself, and while it is still early in the day for him, it can't be taken back now. It is within him, magic is, set to shape him for all of his life – or, in this case, death.
She reaches for her lantern, sets it down in front of him, and opens the little window so he can see the flame inside. Then she stands, shifts so she is behind him, resting her hands on his shoulders. ⟫
I can share a vision with you. Who knows, maybe you are so inclined yourself?
no subject
Let's see what we can see.
[ He twists his head to flash a small smile at her, quiet and confident before he settles and fixes his gaze on the flame before him. ]