Big Book Of Parvill One Shots

Beneath The Proud Veins (S)

TW: Blood Magic, Manipulative Behavior, Mildly Dubious Content, Memory Loss, Violence

Will has a visitor. Normally he is heralded and surprises are difficult for him, but Will hasn't exactly been... attentive, of late. He doesn't notice the clouds form outside his window, doesn't take in the gentle rumble of thunder that grows increasingly near and increasingly loud. In fact, he's unaware of any guests until his current one makes himself known with a word.

"Strife." It's not a question, not a greeting, but an accusation. Will knows exactly what it's implying.

"Kirin. Pleasure to see you, as always," he says, hoping to convey with a flat, toneless voice just how pleasurable it is. He doesn't even look up from his task. "I'm not sticking around. I'm just stopping by to pick up some things, and then I'll be leaving. You should do the same."

Kirin Dave sighs, hugely, far too full of exasperation to be from anyone but an immortal being. "Leaving for where, William? Is this not your home?" He turns, his sage robes flaring with the motion, creating arcs of static electricity in their wake as he gestures to the entire room, the whole building. "Did you not spend precious time and materials to craft this dwelling? And yet you are barely here. Why?" It's still not a question.

It pricks uncomfortably at him, this pseudo-concern, this facsimile of human emotion. A veritable god does not generally have time to care about the emotions of mortals, let alone their living habits. "When did you suddenly become my mother, Storm Sage?" Will asks instead, knowing a deflection when one falls out of his mouth, but finds himself lacking the energy to care.

There's an empty silence that follows, and finally Will hears the accompanying storm, the roll of ominous thunder punctuating the pause. Kirin sighs again, easier this time, and turns to prod at one of Will's machines, the power-gauges nearing overload at his proximity. "How's Parvis getting along?" he offers, an invitation to talk about something else that Will is only too glad to take.

"He's coming along. He's let me work on his frankly atrocious sorting system, and I've been doing some more decorating. Parvis is... less-so interested in the interior decor of Castle Parv but, well, I can't help myself, and he lets me run wild." Will returns to the work he was doing before Kirin arrived, packing a few necessary tools and sundries into an Ender Pack connected to a chest in Castle Parv. "Well, and he's been working on some larger spells, finding trouble wherever it lurks. The witches are barely even enough to sustain him anymore, he's talking about finding a more powerful source. I mean, what's more powerful than witch's blood, I don't kno--"

"The blood of a thrall is, William." The interruption startles him, and Will looks up to see that same concern welling up in the demigod's eyes. It must be fake, it has to be fake. Nothing out of this man's mouth should be trusted. "You can't be that oblivious, you're too smart for that..." he says, though quieter now, less something for Will to hear and respond to, more something spoken to himself in disbelief.

There's something still niggling at him, running like a current under his skin. It burns, and it frightens him, but Will can't put words to it. "Smart for what? Oblivious to what?" The burning turns furious, and Kirin's presence suddenly feels hostile. "What do you want here, Kirin Dave?"

The sage takes a step forward, and another, the smell of petrichor and ozone hitting Will's nose like a wall as Kirin steps into his personal space. Frustrated and angry, Will turns back to the chest he was raiding for items, only to be briefly blinded by a flash of white lightning that gradually fades into Kirin's shape. Before Will can take a startled step backward, Kirin has a hand around his wrist that pulls at his shirt, rolling the sleeve back, up his arm. Will manages to struggle for only a moment before he feels a shock run through his system that locks his arm in place, frozen in Kirin's grasp. "William, tell me where you got this," he demands, his finger running up the side of his forearm, parallel to a deep, red gash.