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Maggie returns from doing the Ship's Captain's duties and looks over the poop deck with a concerned air. As things seem to be more or less as they should be she drifts closer to Moire. With a gesture and a smile, she invites the Queen to join her a few feet removed from the patients.
Moire is crouched studying a jar from Murdoch's satchel, the murky green water within parting for a fat wriggly tail every few seconds. Looking up, she smiles at Maggie, puts the jar down on the bag, and stands to walk beside the rail to join her.
Maggie waits for Moire to join her, a smile touching her lips and sparkling in her eyes. As the Queen moves closer, her gaze lifts to keep her husband's eyes in view. Turning to rest her forearms on the railing, hands clasped in front of her. When she speaks, her voice is pitched low to keep it from carrying.
Moire sets one hand on the rail nearby but hesitates before trying to assume the same easy posture as Maggie; forward leaning does not come naturally, even with the full force of gravity above the waves.
Maggie stands against the railing a few feet from where the patients are. She is talking to Moire, their voices pitched low enough to not disturb the wounded. There is fresh food and drink set out on a table-tray for those who wish to refuel.
Murdoch rouses from all the gorging and odd recuperative efforts. The pie-eyed expression replaced by more alert look. Blinking and rustling, he starts to free himself from the comfortable cot. His attire is not up to standards anymore, and after he's more or less upright, finds displeasure in his appearance.
Moire, standing off to the side of the poop deck with Maggie, hears the creak of the cot beneath Murdoch as the patient stirs. With a last smile in response to Maggie's recent remarks, she turns to look at the Rebman, convalescing with the fresh sea breeze still flowing across the ship as she sails into Amber port to moor somewhere discrete yet still respectable. "Lord Murdoch.. your colour is back," the Queen Incognito observes. Green included. She pays particular attention to the wrappings at his throat.
Maggie returns Moire's smile, then leans to one side to look beyond the Queen to the Rebman yonder. Pushing from the railing, she stands taller and begins to walk back to the poop deck, "You do look much improved, Lord Murdoch. Welcome to the Wave Dancer, by the way. And yes, you do have my permission to come aboard." The light notes in her tone may intend adding sparkle to the mood though hopefully without seeming flippant. "How do you feel?"
Murdoch reaches up to prod gently at the bandaging. "How invigorating to be under the ministrations of others." With his chin tilted up, he could be assessing a recent shave for quality. "Ah, this must be why I leave the fighting to the fighters." he croaks. His prim posture returns slower than his healthy color. He bows stiffly to Maggie and nods to Moire. "Thank you for everything. I feel a little dry, but glad to be all in one piece."
Moire approaches to liberate a knee-length dressing gown from a peg, and offer it to Murdoch in lieu of his sickbed blankets. "Out of water is not my own preference, either," she nods sympathetically. "Though you have received assorted care from mundane, magical, and alchemical treatments, you shall certainly have the option of an examination by a Mandrake if you so wish it," assures the Queen.
Maggie's smile is a little strained but it could be due to a persistent buzzing in the back of her brain. "Please excuse me." Taking a half step back, she nods once to no one, "Hello?"
"Apparently my father was one, you know. Thank you." Murdoch accepts the gown, doing a slow turn to replace blankets with something far more socially acceptable. "Mandrake that is. Quite respected, but his colleagues, from another House you understand, could never quite accept him as their own." He tutts and robes himself. "I will have to thank everyone involved before I even think of venturing towards the Hospital."
Maggie walks a few feet down the deck from where she was standing when the call came in, her attention turning to someone or something nearby, "Lord Murdoch is here, Giselle. And Mr. Templeton. They are recovering on the deck. But, if you do not mind their company while we do the thing, that's fine with me."
Maggie actually pauses as something is said on the other end of the trump call. "That is true. I will have to warn them. But, come on through then. We can get this show on the road." As she speaks, she extends a hand.
Giselle accepts Maggie's hand, appearing on deck. She looks around, and smiles to people. She looks like she hasn't a care in the world.
The Queen's gaze is steady on her sworn servant from the Badlands. "Before all else, you shall have my thanks, and that of Rebma's, for whom I speak. You have averted an injustice and a tragedy beneath the waves, and I shall see to it your name is known in my Court." Or Martin's, depending on how well things go in the next couple of weeks... And she extends a hand, whether for a Wardenly handshake or expecting something more Monarchly, is hinted at from the angle of approach: palm down, wrist slightly bent.
Murdoch cinches the belt tightly on his gown and remains quite still while he's given praise. Taking a step or two to bring him within range of that handshake, he defers, after consideration, to take it as one would a subject. Going for the courtly route, despite the vessel that the Queen inhabits. A light clasp instead of a bro-shake. Lowering his mouth to it, but not touching. A symbolic gesture. "It's was an honor. I am no seer but I'm confident predicitng it would have been much worse if it wasn't for the other.. Templeton. The one who has such an amazing rapport with the Kelpie."
Maggie draws Giselle through the rainbow sparkled arch of Pattern and Trump magic that bridges the distance between where she is and where she was. Turning, she squeezes Giselle's hand briefly, then turns to gesture to the two cots, one minus a Murdoch and the other with a Tembleton, on the deck. There is a standing tray of food and non-alcoholic drinks nearby as well as the tableau of Merrisol looking fabulous with a man, berobed with a bandage 'round his neck, kissing his hand. Yes, it is all very confusing. But, the sun is bright, the sky is Amber-blue and there is currently not a cloud in that azure vault. Even the sea seems calm. "Giselle? That is Lord Murdoch." Easing forward, she smiles at the pair of them, "Lord Murdoch? This is my cousin Giselle."
Moire looks satisfied with Murdoch's choice of handclasp, though after that bit of honour bestowed it is doubtful she'd have minded if he'd gone for the bro-shake after all. Manicured and buffed or not, it's still a big ol' man hand she has these days. Still smiling at her fellow Rebman, she nods, "Arthur Templeton is a man of surprising resourcefulness. The bond with the Kelpie was forged from the moment of her hatching. Although in time you will be known to all seven of the yearlings, they will always respond best to those who nutured and raised them." Giselle's arrival is looked to with mild inquiry, and the Queen turns fully once disengaged from Murdoch to offer the woman a gentle nod. She remains quiet while the introductions play out.
Giselle apparently accepts confusion easily as she looks around at the scene. Arthur is given a very bright smile and then a wave in his direction. When introduced to Murdoch, he gets a bright smile, too. "Hello!" she says to him, then remembers to curtsey to Moiresol. She can be polite sometimes. Apparently, Moire merits polite. She then bounces on the balls of her feet with excess energy.
Murdoch turns politely to look upon Maggie and Giselle, the latter having such a wonderful amount of hair that he must pause to admire just a little bit longer. He offers a small bow, blinking, and wishing he had an earlier chance to rake through his hair with a comb. "Lady Giselle, a pleasure." He reaches up to fidget with his neck bandaging, trying to resist fussing too much.
Maggie releases Giselle's hand and steps back a bit. Speaking to the patients and Queen, she smiles a tight smile, "Lady Giselle is here to conduct a bit of an experiment. I am to imbibe a potion that will exaggerate the traits that I have inherited from my grandfather." She touches her lips with the tip of her tongue, turning to Murdoch and Templeton. "My father is mad Prince Brand." Then she abstracts a bit to include Moire, "I do not know exactly what this will reveal. My branch of the family is prone to madness, it is true. But that can manifest in many ways. Some show artistic talent, others receive visions of the future. Grandfather was known for... Being arrogant, intractable and entrenched. I will offer an apology ahead of time in case I do or say anything obnoxious."
Moire takes that explanation in quietly, without offering approval or protest to the redheaded Royals. Finally, as Maggie apologizes in advance, she lets slip a reassuring smile for the test subject. "Sadly, I cannot bring centuries of experience to bear in absolutely confirming the character of absent King Oberon," she says, while matter-of-factly moving various pieces of furnishings incidental to the recovery process of the ship's guests, to clear a space on the poop deck. "In my current state, I can claim a strong *feeling* of what I have known, but not much else, unless I were to consult the royal archives."
Giselle smirks, then says to Murdoch "There is nothing Ladylike about me. Just Giselle." She nods then as Maggie explains the plan, then says "It's not like it's going to make you really nuts or something. I mean, no more than we're all already nuts. But yeah, some interesting personality traits could come out while we're focusing on the Oberon bloodline." Moire gets a nod then, and she says "I wouldn't mind a look at anything in the archives about him, if that would be okay. To see what's there about him. I'm guessing there's no items in Rebma that were actually his or might have impressions of him, that might be useful to me for this."
Murdoch registers some surprise. His cultured eyebrows raising and a question almost voiced from his lips. "Mmm." A neutral sound, non-committal, as some of these topics are rather beyond his depth. "I have a healthy respect for experimentation. It's how anyone gets anywhere or gathers answers."
Maggie nods, though she turns it into a half bow for both Moire and Murdoch, "Precisely. So, if you will excuse me. One thing that I did get from my grandfather is the ability to paint trumps. I will be painting while under the influence of Giselle's potion. Let me just get my easel, paints and tools." Turning, she strides off to head down the stairs.
"Queen Moins in her time of rule had a more directed political relationship with King Oberon's Court. His sons and daughters were coming into their own during my own reign," remarks the Queen evenly. No comment on whether dealing more with the Oberspawn was a better deal than the Biggest Bad Himself. Moire checks on the sleeping(?) Mercier's cot, casually adjusting the pillow here or tugging the blanket there. The man took a real beating, judging by the wrappings, but now seems to only require copious rest and food. There's a tray of munchies and drinks waiting right by the bedside. "Much of history is held in catalogues of mirror shards, to be scryed by our magi for truth and wisdom. Once it is understood what of your grandfather you must experience in order to work your distillation, Giselle, we shall see what mirror magic can offer you. Otherwise, unfocused browsing would prove a mountainous undertaking."
Giselle grins at Murdoch, at his comment about experimentation. "True! And so far, I've only blown myself up a couple times. That's pretty good, for an alchemist." She nods to Maggie as her cousin goes to get her supplies, then her eyes return to the queen. She looks very interested, and says "I don't know a thing about mirrors. But if there's anything of Oberon in shards, that would be awesome to see. I mean, not really awesome. The man was a ginormous prick. But, important for what I'm trying to do."
Murdoch peers upon Mercier's form for a purely visual inspection. His eyes taking on a sharpened quality as pupils narrow to something closer to pinpricks. Something Giselle says has him widening his eyes and breaking off from Life-sight. "Oh. You seem to have recovered from any past accident quite well." Mirror talk has him pressing his lips together firmly and skirting furtive glances between those on deck.
The sailors are off doing their 'we're in port and have to off load cargo, and stuff' duties. Maggie returns carrying an easel folded into an awkward bundle, a stretched canvas, a paint box and a rolled bundle of what will turn out to be brushes. A palette has been snugged up under one arm. Walking to where the others are, she begins setting up. She notes the attention floating from Mercier to Moire, Giselle and Murdoch. Her smile turns a bit nervous, but she does not try to figure out where things went weird. "Uh. How long do the effects last, Giselle? In case?"
Moire only headtilts in further consideration of Giselle's request to grab those reflected glimpses. She takes up an observational spot, remaining closer to her injured companions unless called upon to directly assist by Giselle or Maggie.
Giselle laughs. "Yeah, well. I heal quickly from a lot of things. I haven't actually done myself serious harm yet." She looks like it's really only a matter of time. And she doesn't look all that worried about it. If she is aware that mirror things are an 'issue' in Rebma... well, she doesn't look aware. Then Maggie returns and she smiles at her fellow redhead again. "Oh, the longest is about two days. I had to water it down a little, so to speak. It was going three days and that's a lot to have to be anything like our ancestors."
Murdoch takes a cue and keeps a respectable distance from the experiment to take place. "That's a long time for an elixir to remain in the system. I'm glad there's been efforts to refine the process." He adopts a pleasant pedestrian smile. Lingering on the sidelines. Becoming a bit more clinical. "This is very interesting. I wonder how deep one could go in a family tree, to coax out the heritage passed on from elders. Just how much is imprinted and embedded. How much everyone carries on and on."
Maggie finishes setting up her easel, listening. She frowns, "Two days?" Her gaze strays to Moire, then returns, "Okay. Are you going to be staying for the entire time, Giselle? I can ask Mr. Anderson to prepare a cabin for you, if so." When she has finished, she steps back to look the area over. Easel, canvas, paints and tools are all set out so they can be taken up with an economy of motion. Lifting her eyes again, she nods to Murdoch and Moire, concern still showing as her attention slides down to Mercier. Then back again. "That is hard to say, Lord Murdoch. Part of what we hope to find out, I believe." She takes a slow breath, shadows those around her one final smile, then nods to Giselle, "Okay. I'm ready when you all are."
Moire nods once to Maggie, slow, her calm presence sure to be a benefit if things begin to spiral down the drain.
Giselle replies to Murdoch "I'm still relatively new to alchemy." Though clearly she has some skill and lots of ambition. And, a talent for it. "I'm still refining what I make. I absorb as much as I can of each idea of Oberon because I do lose a good bit of it in the distillation process." She says to Maggie "I can if you want, but I don't have to. I don't need that whole time. It's a strong effect, though. Had to be, considering the people using it. It doesn't just shake off after a couple hours." She rifles through a pouch, and brings out a small vial with a clear liquid. Which is offered to her cousin.
Murdoch looks on thoughtfully. "Isn't Prince Brand the fellow who has a reputation for..." He trails off with a small exhalation of breath. "Mmm." He drops it like a stonefish. He raises his voice to comment more diplomatically to Giselle, "I'm sure you're just being modest. Your confidence sounds to me like is speaks from a deep well of talent."
Asleep, awake; It was good to get practice mingling the looks of the two. There was enough deniability in the action. A close examination might show the resting merchant as conscious, but otherwise, he does a fairly good job of sleep-looking; How long might be something to guess, but no use entering company of so many of the Kingdom's importants without getting a loose grip on how good or bad things might be. But, with a hesitant, slow motion, finally, the merchant sits up, giving a wince at the pressured complaints of healing skin (quite possibly against stitching). He takes a moment, taking a moment to glance under a nearby dressing at one of the worser cuts. "She's always a step behind, Izzy." He says. Its mostly inaudible, and clearly to himself, before he carefully, stands, testing his previously blood-letted form, and gratefully finding more mental alacrity and less nausea.
RPG: Maggie declares she is consuming token fda:
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Author: Giselle Held By: Maggie
Date: Fri Jun 16 10:08:21 2017 Focus: 3
Title: A Look Within
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Created via Alchemist (ALC-AL): power-token token-3 type-magic
Gift description:
This character can brew potions for a variety of effects. A potion may be given to anyone, and used by anyone. Each individual potion is represented by a 3-Focus token; the token must be consumed when the potion is used.
Specifically, a potion affects the drinker for up to the duration of a scene. It can generate a single effect, similar to a 5-point chargen-available RPG gift that affects the body. Examples of such effects include temporary immunity to fire, the ability to breathe underwater, and the ability to move exceptionally quickly. It cannot grant mystical abilities that do not manifest themselves in a direct physical manner (for instance, it can grant the ability to breathe fire, but it cannot grant the ability to create a glamour, speak with the dead, or sense the presence of magic). It is not mind-influencing in any way (with the exceptions of sleep, uncontrolled hallucinations, and the like, which are treated as strictly physical effects). If this is used for shapeshifting, only mundane animals that grant no combat advantage and have no special abilities are permitted, and the animal must be determined at the time the potion is created.
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Secondary gift used: Natural Philosophy (ALC-NP): token-0 type-magic
Gift description:
The character is capable of distilling the essence of things - not merely the physical properties, but the symbolic and ephemeral qualities of them as well. He may capture ideas as physical things, and imbue them with the smokey flavor of bacon if he so desires. This cannot be done on any large scale, but this allows the creation of some very unique tokens.
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Token Description
This potion is designed to enhance a person's bloodlines for a few days. It is *not* about enhancing blood gifts, so much as enhancing the personality and metaphysical (though not powers) traits of those bloodlines. This is meant as an aide in identifying what makes a person who they are, in terms of their ancestry. How much it affects the character is up to the player, of course, but the hope is to make this an interesting and enjoyable RP opportunity for a study into the character's deeper nature as granted by blood. Examples might be a Mandrake becoming more dragony or a royal becoming more... uh... of a dick. :)
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Maggie accepts the bottle from Giselle. She smiles at her cousin, then lifts the vial. Tugging the stopper out of the bottle, she nods to Moire, the smile quick and easy. Nodding, she turns a glance to Mercier as the man rises, "It is good to see you, Mr. Templeton. Please excuse me for anything untoward that I do in the next 48 hours or so." Lifting th ebottle in a slight toast, she upends it into her mouth. Should she have taken it with food? Water? What result is expected? She swallows and lowers the bottle. Her expression turns slowly thoughtful as she stoppers the thing and sets it down. Stepping forard, she takes up her pencil and begins to work on the canvas.
Standing near the cots, Moire quickly notices Mercier's stirring and readily offers him a robe to toss on over his dressings. What's left of his clothing, probably bagged and sent to a tailors to see what can be accurately replaced. Billed to Rebma Palace, naturally. One might be expected to bleed for the Sea, but ruined ties are another matter entirely. With a meaningful glance towards Maggie and the presence of the potion-wielding Giselle, she advises hushed conversation. "So you are aware, Arthur.. Captain Flame will be painting a trump, while under the influence of a certain potion to exaggerate the legacy of her grandsire and bring it to the fore," she murmurs. "You needn't depart. There will be a doctor from Mandrake to examine the progress of your injuries, if you wish it."
Murdoch peers upon Mercier with some concern as he gets to his feet. There's a positive sounding, "Hrrn." as the fellow looks like he is steaming under his own power. "You've tenacity, sir."
Murdoch gets another grin. "You're sweet." Giselle says to him. "Everyone in my family pretty much always sounds confident. It's because we don't fear consequences." she explains. "For one reason or another." Then Arthur's up, and she bounces on the balls of her feet again. "Good morning, sunshine! How are you feeling?" she asks him while Maggie takes the potion. Mwa ha ha... There's no way this can end badly. Bouncing might not be helpful for being painted, but will hopefully stop as she focuses on Maggie. "So, the Pattern makes the Oberon bloodline really strong. That helps. Sorting through the other ones can be a pain, but I'm getting better at it."
Working with the pencil to begin with, Maggie has sort of tuned the others out. As Giselle does not sit still, like a proper subject, Maggie has to keep looking over at her. This does not really help. She calls the Pattern to the forefront of her mind, letting it embue her artistry. And, by extension, the potion she took. Her expression looses its sparkle, settling into a stormy, deep emerald that glitters with a sharp, hard attention rather than glowing with humor. Her smile fades from a warm friendliness to a thin lipped smirk. Her gestures slow, becoming languid, but focused. When she speaks, her tone is as sharp as a whip, "Mr. Anderson." Though the first mate is not near the poop deck, the words carry back across the ship, rumbling with purpose and the force of the Storm born.
Giving a glance down to his bandaged, if disrobed form with a frown, Mercier's neck cranes to the side as he's approached by Moire, accepting the robe gratefully, slipping it on. "I suppose this is why I left my hat at home. Thank you kindly, Captain." He says, naturally. New folks meant some caution of course. He stands up, giving an off look towards Maggie at her request, before nodding his head, "Of course, Captain." He replies simply, before the matter is explained. Though that certainly doesn't seem to settle him, "Oh? Why do I have the feeling-ah..." He winces as he stands, bare feet on the wooden deck, "That I should subtly find something to stand behind." Giselle's presence gets her a wide smile, despite any discomfot, "Quite better in your energetic presence, m'lady! I'm a little surprised to see you aboard but..." He glances to the potion bottle, "Ah hah... yes, I'll just..." True to phrase, its a subtle shift as he takes a careful position near the mast. Murdoch gets a simple nod at the complement, "I'm sure its more luck and fear, masquarading as such. Such harrowing events did well to injure a fragile soul of a tradesman." He says, with polite, feigned innocense, "But I must return to gesture, m'lord has a frank capability. And a sleek swimsuit."
Moire glances at Mercier, offering the merchant a gracious nod for both the words and intent. But her attention settles back onto Maggie, watchful interest peaked by that intensity and her carrying tone of Minosian command.
Now that they're doing the important stuff, Giselle's focus is on Maggie. She watches that humor fade, and there's a look of curiosity as she does not stop bouncing entirely. Not yet, though it lessens. It's possible it's a little intentional, though. Maybe a little jump-start. "You don't think you ever met him, right?" she asks.
Maggie pauses briefly in her sketching to look at her cousin. "Oberon? No. I was born the yeare father was stuffed in that tower." Her gaze narrows, pinning Giselle to the deck like a butterfly on a board. "I was raised in Minos by my mother and her people. I only came to know about father's family after he was freed."
A crisply professional First Mate moves to salute Maggie, "Yes, Captain?"
She does not look at the sailor, but visibly tries to modulate her tones to something less... crisp. "Mr. Anderson." It is no use. "You have fifteen minutes to give every crewman a two day pass. I want this ship emptied."
Mr. Anderson looks confused, but reads something in the tone, the manner or the way the others are looking at Maggie, "Aye aye, Captain." Turning heel to toe, he moves off. Soon the ship is a-bustle with sailors cheering, clapping and vacating the ship. All, that is, but the First Mate himself. Though he does not show it to the crew, he is suddenly in fear for his Captain or her sanity.
Maggie straightens, her attention focusing in on the art, the Pattern, her grandfather. "Oberon, from what I have heard, was an unmittigated, unrepentent, lascivious prick." Looking up, she begins to choose colors.
Giselle mmms as her bouncing finally slows to a stop. "Brand and I talked about the tower." she says, but doesn't give any specifics. She watches Maggie with fascination as the crew is sent away, and nods slightly to the decision to excuse them. "He was everything people say he was. But he was also never, ever to be fucked with."
Mercier leans a robed, bandaged shoulder on the mast, his eyebrows rising at the firm command, as his arms cross, with another slow wince as he works slowly to avoid ripping anything. The harsh words against the former (or absent) King causes an uncomfortable fidget, as the republican bites off political analysis from the peanut gallery. Forgiving the Captain of transgressions wouldn't protect him from the unexpected consequences of one in the moment.
Maggie's pencil snaps in her fingers and she throws it down in aggitation and frustration. Her right hand reaches out to look for another and when she does not find one, she snaps her fingers and extends her hand. Nothing happens and she looks at her hand, then up and around. It is almost as though she expected something to happen right then. Frowning more deeply, she snatches up another pencil and begins working again, "Mmm. No, you don't screw around with the god who made you and all you know." Looking up over the top of the canvas, she nods when she sees that Giselle has stopped moving. "Good. Stay that way." There is no humor in her tone now, no warmth. It is not empty, however, for something begins to grow within both her voice and her eyes. Arrogance lives there, yes but tempered with madness. "Did you?" Giselle's words register anew and she no longer looks at the drawing though her hand continues its movement. The drawing will be perfect. She knows it. "Nice of dad to talk to you about it when he's refused to talk to me." Sting. She looks over her shoulder, hand stilling as she hears some soft sound from the Peanut Gallery, "Ah, Arthur. You should find somewhere comfortable." Comfortable. Where he can see her work? Watch her magnificence? Did Giselle give her too much?
Besides... When has Maggie ever called Templeton 'Arthur'?
Oh, yes. Fascinating. Giselle's eyes don't leave Maggie as she drinks in what her potion's drawn out of the other redhead. "Nice?" she replies, then mms. "No. No, it wasn't. Some things, it's better not to know. But I needed it. I need to know every part of him." She makes a face over that. Not pleasant, at all. "It must be so hard for you, holding all of this in all the time. Playing nice, when people aren't doing what they should." She, too, might need to apologize to the others later for encouraging this side of Maggie.
Mercier's neck cranes, as he returns Maggie's words, at first, with a placidly neutral expression, drained of much emotion as he considers the options presented to him. Perhaps one of the few people without a drop of blueish blood aboard (now that the crew had vacated at least), he hides more then a bit of caution, as he gingerly pushes off the mast, "Magnanimous of you, Captain, of course." His steps take him around the deck, towards a position next to Giselle, at a spot where he could see the Trump being painted. During the approach, Maggie does get a curious, if reproachful look. "I'm not quite sure mad psychologist is a wise vocational choice." He mumbles, quietly, to Giselle, as he leans close for a moment.
The potion swirls within, drawing more of who Maggie might have been out into the open. Or, perhaps was? Wasn't she an amnesiac? Who knows what lurks in the depths of her soul? She snaps Mercier a frown, "Don't be stupid. If you fall in your ocndition, you might hurt yourself even more. We can't have that." The royal 'we'? Not quite. Poor Mercier. But he does get a bit of a once over even so. Then her gaze flashes to Merrisol-encased-Moire. Once there, the look lingers, dips, lifts, flashes away again. Now, she focuses on Giselle, eyes narrowing, "I am at least as strong as you are, cousin. If you can handle it, so can I." Her eyes lower to the drawing and she sets the pencil aside. Standing back, she lifts the palette and selects the first colors. Red, mostly. Then hints of yellow, gold are added. Some of each are added to the surface she works with and are swirled together. The resulting red is bright and shimmering. Stepping close again, she begins with a wide brush. Swooping strokes outline, then begin to fill in, Giselle's hair. Finally, she addresses her cousin's points. "Hard." Her eyes flicker up to Giselle, slide to Mercier, Moire and Murdoch then back again, "No. Not really. They do their best," is said with infinite patience. "It is not their fault that they are not Of The Blood. We make allowances. Pick and choose our battles. Choose when to strike. Or not."
The days after the potion wears off should be very interesting ones for poor Maggie. There's none of that concern in Giselle's expression, though. Her eyebrows rise at the claim she's as strong, and then a quiet laugh. "You don't know anything about my strength." Her job here is to draw in what Maggie's giving off, after all. "Oh, you're fine for someone so young, don't get me wrong." she adds off-handedly. She does agree with the other point, though. "They do." their best, that is... "And it's important to have at least a competent supporting cast, as much as possible." Yeah. There will be apologies later. "And hope that they manage to keep up."
Moire stands with her usual measured out poise above the waves, her eyes sliding between Giselle and Maggie as one baits and the other snaps. The interplay is not unexpected, and with the intentions of the experiment laid out beforehand, there is no reason to be alarmed or offended by the opinions expressed. When their eyes meet, however briefly, Moire smiles a bit reflexively, not to provoke. This isn't one of her tests. Gaze falling to the portrait as it takes on bold colour, she examines the changes to technique brought on by self-assurance ramping to arrogance.
The spy is perceptive enough to notice a particular example of untowardness that he so kindly agreed to not hold against the drugged Captain. Perhaps he hadn't been as awake as he thought, "I'm one of the little people, Captain, I'm sure I'll hurt myself eventually. Might as well get it out of the way." His tone is flat and even; It wasn't an icy monotony, but rather an attempt at emotional stealth, opposite the red-headed drug intoxicantress' purposeful prodding. Recognizing the deliberate nature of it, he takes a single step away from Giselle, rob fluttering a bit as its grabbed around his wounded frame. The merchant's eyes don't linger on the painting, but take a glance towards the disguised Queen, then back to Maggie. Then a subtle tilt towards the nearest gangplank and then the nearest manrail, as he gathers one or two escape resources.
Maggie stills with her paintbrush held just an inch or less away from the canvas. She looks up at Mercier, eyes narrowing. "Don't say that. Not ever." Giselle is sent a sharply pointed, dagger-like glance. Speaking softly, she continues, "Arthur. You are a valued ally and friend. I so hate it when you intentionally sell yourself short." Turning to Giselle, she scoffs as she rises from her painting, "You." her voice is softly slithery. "Just because our friends are not born of our family, do not have our blood and, therefore, do not share the gifts that our family takes for granted does not mean that they are lesser." Still, even with the softness of her voice, her words are co clipped as to be bitten off and left to die. She flares her nostrils, the look she gives her cousin hauty and intent, "Everyone takes a turn as supporting cast and everyone spends time in the spotlight. Those who are good at whatever it is we need to do is the leader. Those who are not good at it follow, no matter who their parents are. Thinking otherwise is foolish and lacking in strategic comprehension." The paintbrush in her hand is rinsed with care and attention to detail. It is set carefully, handle down in a tin with its friends. She dusts her hands together, fingertips touching. Lifting her hands, she runs them through her hair, leaving a streak of emerald paint running from her temple to the hairline. Exhaling, she turns from the group, "I'm going to take a bath." Walking back toward the stairs down, she clenches her hands at her sides, flame whispering around her hands.
How Maggie reacts to her words is just as important to Giselle, and she continues to take it all in. She smiles, and nods to that reaction. "Do you think Oberon felt like that about his allies and friends? Well, if he had friends." Allies, sure. "That poem about the seven Knights has them calling him brother. Close enough to a friend, maybe. It's wise, not always thinking we need to be the star. Seems rare in the family, though." And then Maggie wants to go, and she shakes her head and follows. "Where you go I go until we're done, cousin. This matters more than a bath. If something happens to the Pattern in Amber you won't have one at all to use unless this works."
Maggie stops dead and whirls to stare coldly at Giselle, "Fine. Though there is no way I am taking you into the bath with me." Her gaze flashes to Moire-inMerrisol's shell. After a moment, she chuckles looking back at her cousin, "Oberon? Friends? No. Don't make me laugh. Allies? Sure. Friends, no. No. I can't see it. Oberon was the elitist's elisist. No one but Dworkin would measure up and perhaps not even him. And Dworkin is supposed to be crazy. But..." Again her eyes narrow and she fixes Giselle with a stare, "But... he could certainly convince those he needs that they are important to him. The poem recalls that the Seven called him brother. But there is nothing at all to tell us whath he called them. He probably called them suckers. Or... Pawns. Like the Houses. He probably gave the Houses their Duties so that they would do things that he did not want to do. Which meant that he would have free time while others were doing the onerous tasks. What was left for him? Watch and see what his children did with his creation." The fire continues flaring and fading around her hands.
Though she doesn't move to follow as well, Moire watches Maggie's every step and struggle. Compassion for the woman is tempered by an underlying knowing that fighting against the impulses of one's nature is counterproductive to the needs of the experiment. When Maggie's eyes fall on her a second time, confirming a significance lingering from the first, Moire's borrowed skin does heat in a blush. Old soul she may be, but the body is what it is. Even so, she allows herself a long deep 'Gettin' Too Ancient For This' breath during Maggie's scathing critique of her grandsire, then lifts her voice to be heard by the redheads: "Do not disregard in your haste to discredit that man's capacity, his charismatic power. You exude it even now, upon the target you choose," she says plainly, but not unkindly. "Many a Rebman, myself among them, has succumbed to this power, this compelling allure, at times to their folly. You may be certain he had his allies, comrades, and even true lovers and friends, as do you all, his descendants. And just as many enemies. Friends and enemies, switching places over the centuries as the strongest of emotions are wont themselves to do... Still," the Queen muses, gazing at Maggie, then at Giselle, "if there was good in him, the intention for good, and there surely was, this is what it looks like, and should itself become part of the mixture."
Giselle accepts Maggie's cold stare without even a hint that she's disturbed by it. Rather, she smiles. "No, I don't need to bathe with you." Her attention might be on Maggie, but it's not her words that seem most important. Those are opinion, after all. "That's a weird combination, isn't it?" she asks then, her head tilting a little to the side. "Being such a control freak, but giving important things to others to do instead. She glances towards Moire then, as the queen speaks of him. That's interesting, too. "Oh, yeah. He had charisma. Lots of it, considering how much we all inherited." As to any good in him? She considers that for a moment, frowning slightly. "If he had any, he hid it really well. I'd need to know it too, though. If any really saw that kindness."
Maggie sniffs, once. Precisely. Then clears her throat. Turning to look fully at Moire, Maggie considers the woman within and the man without. A slow smile blooms on her lips as she analyses what is said, what is meant. The knowledge of it flickers in her eyes for a long, focused moment. The look lingers until she tears her gaze away and focuses out over the cold ocean. She breaths in the salt air, then turns back to Giselle, "Alright. I will stop fighting our grandfather's influences." She flashes a look back to Moire, then looks back at Giselle. Her expression shifts slowly. Passion flickers in her gaze, her mouth retains its sensual mobility and her body relaxes into a confident swagger. Consideration turns inward, compassion fades, then dies. She touches a gleam to her lips as she glides toward the painting. A brush is claimed, colors mixed. She begins to paint again, adding flesh tones to the rendition of Giselle's face. For a while she does not comment but when she does, her voice is low, the alto touched with a faint burr and pitched to carry, "As for giving others things to do? Important things... Repetitive, boring, tedious things that matter mostly in the long run. As an experiment. After all, if they fail, all he has to do is start over."
Giselle watches Maggie again, and when her cousin chooses to embrace the horrors of Oberon she looks very pleased. There is a slow nod, then she returns to where she was standing before, as her fellow redhead glides back to her canvas. Not that she looks like she thinks Maggie still needs her to pose. For the most part she seems content just to watch again, a smile playing about her mouth as she drinks in all that attitude. It is reflected back in her own expression. The comment about starting over is a very interesting thought, and gives Giselle pause before she replies. "Huh." she says quietly. "True. He made it all. If others ruined it he could probably just do it again. Assuming pride didn't give him a vested interest in seeing it last. A monument and testament to his genius."
Moire's gaze is familiarly gentle in the face of Maggie's intensity, and the responses are subtle as she works through that stare. Yet she stands by what she's said, sparing Giselle a tolerant glance as the other redhead expresses skepticism. "It is ever the next generations who believe themselves the brave discoverers of greater morality and conscience," she comments without a trace of venom. She smiles as Maggie returns to the easel, looks about herself, and moves slowly to sit on one of the recently vacated cots, to now observe for the long haul.
Maggie chuckles softly, "Why would he care?" She looks up at her cousin, then back to the canvas, then up again, "You moved." Duh. "Just... sit somewhere. I don't need you there but will try to paint what I see. That will ruin this one." Looking only at the canvas, she continues painting. She fills in Giselle's features, taking her time to get the expression just so. Only when the face is as lifelike as she can possibly make it does she move to begin the body. "If this was truly a testament to his genius, it would be perfect." She pauses for a heartbeat, then chuckles, "Try this on for size, Giselle. He saw that his creation was flawed, so gave the Houses their Duties, not to save him the trouble of doing the tedious things, but because he saw the flaws, knew that this creation could not last and wanted s scapegoat. He can claim that Amber is failing, not because he is less of a genius but because the Houses failed in their Duties. No... NO, that's not right either." Lifting her hand, she considers the painting, then shrugs, "Perhaps it is just funny this way. He could return, see what a mess everyone has made of his creation. He can play the wounded creator, then destroy everything and have the fun of doing something different."
Maggie slides a glance over to Moire for the sound of the sip or the action taken draws her gaze. Briefly. Another brush is chosen, other colors mixed. Her attention is on the painting again, though she also notes when Giselle moves. A faint smile touches her lips then, for of course her cousin moved. Good. The arrogance in her gaze and manner ramps up a few notches. Her hips shift into a more comfortable, slightly cocked position that lets her pivot more smoothly between palette, table and canvas. The question registers and she pauses, "Benedict." Inhaling, Maggie tastes the name, eyes narrowing farther. "Benedict was an imperfect child, or he would never have died. He would have shoved aside his sister's meddling with the Pattern in Rebma and made it his. Or maneuvered Fiona into taking him to the center via trump. He did not have to tell her anything about why he wanted to be there or where he wanted to go. Why waste time mourning the imperfect? And why bother caring what happens to people from Shadow? If they die and you need them then all you must do is find another in Shadow to take their place." Pursing her lips, she seems to concentrate more on the painting than on the subject, as though the answers should be patently obvious. "As for laughing with someone?" She avoids a shrug, putting the final touches on the painting instead, "If he did not have anyone to hand, he could make someone. Or find someone. Not that there is much difference between the two." Looking at Giselle with a piercingly emerald gaze, "Dworkin? Maybe. Possibly. If he is alive."
Giselle laughs. To Moire, she says "I really, really don't think myself particularly moral. Or contientious. Both those things require way too much effort for me to get much practice." She looks back to Maggie, and says "I don't need to sit." She's standing quite comfortably. She listens to Maggie, and again seems very interested in what's said. "Huh." she says again, in a way that suggests that makes an awful lot of sense to her. "And in the process, he gets to look down upon all his children and grandchildren as failures for not stopping it. Even though they couldn't have. Interesting. Brilliant and sick, but interesting."
Maggie frowns at being contradicted. Even though it was by a cousin. She narrows her eyes as she looks up at Giselle, "Fine. DOn't. But move." Which is not really a request this time. Her focus shifts to the easel and her hands move a little faster. She is either fleshing out the painting's body or she is working on the background. Hard to say. "Right. Though I don't think he would have put it that way. He even might share a laugh with one or two. Depending on where the advantage lay. I wonder if he is dead, as some say. Personally, I doubt it." Her voice ticks up a bit, words and ideas flowing from one to the next more quickly, "I think he is off somewhere watching the experiment run its course."
Moire nods to Giselle, a response brewing there, but she sips on her lemonade straw instead. The process seems to be playing out hot and heavy between the cousins; it behooves all others to be silent spectators now.
Giselle does move, at least, since she's still not inclined to sit. When the suggestion is made that he's out there watching all of this, she frowns again. Deeply. And looks more than a little unnerved by the thought. It takes her a moment to pull it together, and focus on something else. "If true, I wonder how he reacted to Benedict's death. Think he'd care who dies during the process?" She seems very interested in encouraging the line of thought. "And I wonder who he might laugh about it with. Family, or old allies? Dworkin, if he's alive, too?"
Maggie slides a glance over to Moire for the sound of the sip or the action taken draws her gaze. Briefly. Another brush is chosen, other colors mixed. Her attention is on the painting again, though she also notes when Giselle moves. A faint smile touches her lips then, for of course her cousin moved. Good. The arrogance in her gaze and manner ramps up a few notches. Her hips shift into a more comfortable, slightly cocked position that lets her pivot more smoothly between palette, table and canvas. The question registers and she pauses, "Benedict." Inhaling, Maggie tastes the name, eyes narrowing farther. "Benedict was an imperfect child, or he would never have died. He would have shoved aside his sister's meddling with the Pattern in Rebma and made it his. Or maneuvered Fiona into taking him to the center via trump. He did not have to tell her anything about why he wanted to be there or where he wanted to go. Why waste time mourning the imperfect? And why bother caring what happens to people from Shadow? If they die and you need them then all you must do is find another in Shadow to take their place." Pursing her lips, she seems to concentrate more on the painting than on the subject, as though the answers should be patently obvious. "As for laughing with someone?" She avoids a shrug, putting the final touches on the painting instead, "If he did not have anyone to hand, he could make someone. Or find someone. Not that there is much difference between the two." Looking at Giselle with a piercingly emerald gaze, "Dworkin? Maybe. Possibly. If he is alive."
There's another quiet chuckle as Giselle watches Maggie's reaction to her doing as told. Yes, she is enjoying this. Or, maybe it's the reflected arrogance. Her own stance comes to reflect someone who is humoring the others. "There's that." she agrees, about Benedict. "I suppose it's no loss at all, then. Paring the weak, to make room for the stronger. Of course, I'm not sure any of the others are much better. There are so many imperfections among Oberon's children. Like Amber, they're flawed."
Moire studies the play of light on her glass for a few moments after listening to the subject as it shifts from Benedict's death to the rest of the Elders of Amber, and, in one case, Rebma. She quietly discards her lemonade on the side tray, drained not yet halfway. Not enough of a kick to it, probably.
Maggie is going to be horrified soon enough. Soon enough. Not soon enough. Tossing her hair over her shoulder as she stands away from the painting, Maggie turns to cleaning her brushes and putting the paints to rights. "None of the others are Oberon." As if that says it all. Her tone settles into impatience, "But, they were all created by Oberon. So, the potential for perfection is, or was, there. And Amber?" She chews on ideas for a while before trying, "Amber. It could probably be argued that the underpinnings of Amber are still sound. Maybe it would be worth it just to raise it and rebuild rather than start over. Unless the Jewel of Judgement can be found." Frowning, she adds, "When did the Jewel go missing? Was it before, after or at the same time as Oberon's disappearance? Do you know?"
Giselle most likely isn't giving any thought to any insult they might be offering to Moire, given Llewella's part of that 'flawed' group. Fortunately, it's going to be far more awkward for Maggie later, than for her. She really doesn't see Moire that often, after all. Now that the painting is done, she walks over to have a look. "We really should compare this one later, with your usual work." she notes. "And that's true. None of the others are Oberon. Eric seems to think he's as close as they get." Her voice shows some amusement at his own arrogance. "I suppose the potential is there, but then if he couldn't make Amber perfect, and he had a lot of control over making it, why would we think he'd do any better with his children?" She considers as the Jewel is mentioned, then she says "I never followed that path of study. I don't know where it is, or when it vanished. Fiona would know, of course." She considers further, then says "So, what level of razing would it be? If the Patterns are part of the underpinning, two of those are already broken. Of course, I'm trying to make it possible to fix the two, but the alternative is to zonk the last one and make new ones entirely. Which would suck for most of the family, of course." She shrugs, not that worried about them at the moment.
Maggie glances up at the painting as Giselle comes around to look at it. She almost gives it a sneer as she admits, "It is the best painting that I have ever done. But, not the best that I ever will do." It is very lifelike, the hair almost seeming to float on the breeze, the skin glowing with health. The eyes snap and sparkle as the paint dries. She finishes with the brushes. Her gaze drifts toward Moire, then over to Mercier and Murdoch where they remain. When she looks back again, she frowns, "THough... Moire may be right." Moire, not Her Majesty. "Oberon did feel passions. Strong, almost uncontrollable passions. It is likely that he did love with the same fire as he did everything else. If so, it is just as possible that he would mourn Benedict and wish to take bloody vengence on those responsible. It is possible that he sought out his Queens in order to try and assuage the emptiness within. I could see him loving them deeply, up until they proved their independence of thought. Then, they might be seen as inferior. Independent thought, conflicting ideas or ideals might irritate him. I could see that love burning away and turning to contempt. Then another Queen would be needed. I can't say, I fear. Both impulses are terribly strong within." She said that she would not fight it and she is trying to give in to her grand sire's call. But, like ther father, Maggie hears conflicting sirens. Luckily for her, she does not hear them all the time.
Moire's attention has drifted, over the bustling harbour and the hazy rooftops of the Lower City, and up the towering cliff face to the even less distinct shapes of the Upper City, framed by the slope of Kolvir. Higher still, the sky with its curling clouds promising a breezy evening and clear cool night. Contemplative, she lowers her gaze and just flickers distractedly back to those on deck, hearing her name. Upon deciding it wasn't an address requiring reply, she smiles placidly at them and looks out to Sea now.
Giselle smiles as she studies the image on the canvas. "I never had a talent for painting. Sculpture, sure." Earth mage, and all. "I mean, I can draw if I really want to, but it's more effort than I'm usually willing to put in." And then there's more talk of Oberon. "He did give us all passion, I'll give him that. Our sex drives are things of legend. I wouldn't know about love, though. Never been interested. A lot of you seem to go for it, though. People out in shadow have much shorter lives. Seems like love's better suited to not living so long that it turns into something else." There's another shrug. It's not a subject she really understands. "Fiona said she remembers good times between him and Clarissa, when they weren't fighting. So, there's something to that."
Maggie shrugs about the artistic distinction between the two redheads. It is what it is. She glances at the painting again, then speaks quietly, "I will resize it once it has dried and give it to you." Leaving the painting stuff now that the brushes are perfectly clean and the paints put away, she turns to look toward the harbour, toward the city. Toward Amber. "Love is intense. I recommend it. But you should not worry about it unless you find someone who completes you. It isn't worth the pain otherwise." Now, that was said with hints of mirth that tinge the wash of emotion like the whitecaps that crest the ocean's waves from time to time. "And what about this? What if Amber is precisely what it is supposed to be, flaws and all?"
Giselle looks like love is nowhere in her game plan. It's not even a whiff of a thought. "No, thanks. I mean, about love. The painting is amazing. Thank you." She then also looks towards the city. "Then it'll do what it's meant to do, right? If it fails, it was meant to fail." She hms, then says "What if he meant it to fail? I mean, put these flaws in on purpose? He gave it a shelf life, and left when it was about to expire. Maybe he's busy making his next thing somewhere else?"
Murdoch comes back along the railing from watching the surface of the water, and adjusting the bandages along his neck. No matter how he tries, it's hard to look rakish or attractive with the equivalent of a veternarian funnel around his neck. "What a troubling thought." Dabbling with this conversation, and injecting his opinion. He stretches his neck to avoid the tightness around his throat. "It would make sense though. The artist must produce. One can't repaint over the same canvas forever? If I take your meaning.. You do your best, warts and all, and acquire a new canvas or medium. How.. sad. One might feel discarded or put on display to collect dust in some great hall of.. others."
Maggie draws her gaze away from the harbour and the delights on the landward side of the ship. She grins at Giselle despite the inherent despair in the observation and question, "Amber. Well, that is entirely possible, but I don't think it is that simple, Giselle. Oberon never bargained for us, did he." There is no question in that statement. Just certainty. "Amber will fail if we do not care enough to do something about it. And here we are. I'm allowing Oberon's blood a chance to speak in me, you are gathering those truths. We can fix the Patterns and save Amber. As long as we do not give up and succumb to ennui, how can we fail?" She turns to glance at Moire questioningly, then addresses Murdoch, "Oh, he could indeed be off creating some new something out of Chaos and Order, or whatever. But, I, for one, am not sad about it. If that is what he wants to do, fine. Do it. I will be annoyed if we fix this one and he thinks that he can just waltz back in and take over again." Possibly murderously annoyed. Her tone and the snap in her gaze herald the truth of that.
Giselle hmmmms quietly, at Murdoch's observation. "Amber as a living art project, and Oberon has moved on to his next. Perhaps in another universe entirely. It makes one wonder whether there was another project before this one, and whether it fell or is still out there." She seems to be enjoying the discussion as it moves through alternative theories. She considers Maggie's points, and says "I discussed that with someone else, too. Oberon might have crafted his children by choosing their mother's carefully, but what of all of us? He must have had less control in our creation." Hopefully. Because that alternative is deeply disturbing. "His children can't save us, because they're too much a part of him. They can't think outside the box, like we can. The looks I've gotten, for the idea of distilling his essence to fool the Patterns. Unheard of. Certainly, none of his children thought of it."
Murdoch smoothes down his robe with more care than is necessary. Canting his head so he can be thoughtful and look thoughtful. "I suppose without a body, he can only be declared missing rather than dead. Perhaps he's visiting a sick elder relative and tending to their homestead." Murdoch has somehow acquired his satchel, and wearing it despite the clash of current fashion. He slips a hand inside to do a tactile check of supplies. He muses on Giselle's perspective. "I cannot claim your heritage, but of those that carry it, I can understand the fear of what your theory represents. I myself am meticulous in how I breed and raise livestock and creatures of utility. It's challenging to oversee multiple projects and things tend to go wild if you're not.. doting. I'll go out on a fin and assume that the idea that Oberon's kin can be distilled to components or they can have what they feel is unique about themselves, might render them somehow lesser. The theory threatens their sense of being a one of a kind. And the Princes and Princesses fated and positioned for a purpose? Not comforting if one feels a utility, as those have an expiration date when their purpose is served." He coughs. "Goodness, this must be the results of me consuming three times the usual meat after Lord Quinlan's aid."
Mercier, for all his spyful ways, had noted the particular danger of being an out spoken republican around someone under the influence of something that might enhance the notes of dismissively-autocratic-creator-god in said subjects genepool. Robe tightened about him, he'd taken the opportunity to walk the deck, as much as he might be allowed. After all, he might not get the chance to do such in-depth research on the vessel's flaws (if any) to exploit (if needed). Finally, he lands back down at the painting, "The fault of castes." He responds, quietly, to Murdoch's analysis, "Shove a man in a box, tie him to the land, or a castle, or a foremast... Its the best proof of people that neither prince or pauper take well to slavery, however gilded." He shakes his head, "Then again, the Oberon's kin can just go find a place with happy slaves, can't they?"
Moire eases back on the cot, into a languid slouch, while she takes in the discussion now coming in from several fronts. She blinks slowly over at Murdoch, amusement forming as she murmurs, "Lacking an identifiable body ceases to be a problem in this age. Appearances will hide the truth until it chooses to reveal itself." Story of her life? Her glance moves on to Mercier, and she studies him for his offhand critique. Provoking, yes, but is it a deliberate bait? Her gaze encompasses Maggie and Giselle next, but to Mercier she says, "If revolution you seek, you would best look elsewhere, for now, Mr. Templeton. For Amber, the ripples move outward, but like the tides, those ripples shall return, though in shapes or forms unrecognized." The Queen sounds lulled by her own cryptic words.
