Re: Journal of Sociology [S!6] - [Fulfilling Reserves...]
03-10-2013, 10:26 AM
Originally posted on MSPA by Wojjan.
Miss Blacklight climbed the stairs like a convicted woman. Her hands were either clasped or folded together, resting her palms on her dress, and she walked with her head staring just above eye level, and gladly turning to notice every little detail she'd pick up about the building. The three had decided to continue single file, due to their current poor footing, and the sorceress had insisted – in her typical, gentle way – to follow last. The paces Simiel took echoed through the floors, attracting a bit of commotion from employees bold and stupid enough to set foot in the office's stairwell, and each one of the men, who all wore white or pinstripe, and who all smelled of cologne and new watches, were subject to Jean's questioning of where she could find her friend a blacksmith. And for a moment, the young lady behind the pair appreciated the humour of these workaholics deciphering Jean's ramble.
And, five steps behind on her company, along came Miss Blacklight. With a taut, dolled-up cordial smile, she examined the workers who had come out and just now made first impressions of the other two. And she read things, prying. Mostly body language, and nervous tics, but the flicker of a “get out”-plan helped. And she lavished in the gazes as she trod by, some close to marvelling if they hadn't been so terribly confused. She didn't speak, it would be out of place.
Scientists, the thelomancer noticed, were not at all fond of Jean. Not in a threatening way, but more out of pride: there was no place for an aloof golem in this building. It would prove a lot harder to persuade any person in this building invested in science of her right with Jean near her, and she momentarily considered the option of dumping her over the advantage. Managers and businessmen didn't mind her as much, but this seemed to be more due to the golem's personality: these people were dressed and groomed, and fit her magazines, and she took time to compliment each outstanding outfit she passed. Somehow, every single outfit stood out. This made Miss Blacklight retract her previous train of thought: every man of science in this building must respond to a man of power, and a chatterbox like Jean that played to their egos would prove more than valuable, no doubt.
The scientists reacted predictably to Simiel. The officemen, however, were in doubt. They were having trouble considering her as something worth having a conversation with (one even started to want a Simiel of his own, and was already formulating the order to his lab boys) but regardless acknowledged her to be sentient enough to pass for something, if only a polite automaton.
“Perhaps,” Blacklight laughed in her own mind, “it was the sweater.”
The stairs had an air of going in circles: every corner felt broken and rusty and the same, and with no light from the outside it was impossible to tell how low or high they had gotten in the meantime. It was... an inconvenience, yes, but the magician couldn't bring herself to get frustrated over it; as if windows could make the Spire coherent. She decided, then, that ascending endless stairs would very literally lead them nowhere. She opened the first door she passed after this decision, but found the hallway on the other side to be completely dark.
This, of course, stirred questions to the magician. Office buildings were no dungeons, and she remembered seeing the broad daylight just moments ago. Was she underground? Was this floor left in the black with a purpose? The map she had made of the building had ran out, and as little Miss Blacklight knew about the science at play, she was aware of it being absolutely useless now, regardless of its expiry.
“There is a door here,” she muttered. “Yes,” came the robotic reply.
“Simiel, what floor are we on?”
“We have ascended eleven flights of stairs from floor 244. We are on floor 255.”
Miss Blacklight tugged her scarf tight to her neck, the open door let out a draft. “Above ground. Then why is it dark and cold in there?”
“The balcony you're facing is not dark. It is purple. It is cold, because it is windy outside, and the room you are facing has no windows.”
Miss Blacklight opened her eyes and straightened her very purple scarf with purple gems on it, watching pure, unrefined magical prowess seep through the doorway in which she was standing. The ley line crawled into the stairwell and, like smoke, dispersed against the wall.
-
Every wizard worth their salt knows that much like density and colour, every material has its own magical radiance, mana. To train magic is to pick up on these, make them one's own sense. It takes a lifetime of practising to simply identify wood as wood in this fashion, and the actual interpretation of this radiance differs individually in humans as they have no inherent way of receiving these signals and have to focus rigorously to accomplish this. Most often – this is because it is the easiest way – the abstract radiance is translated into other senses, an autodidact's synaesthesia.
Miss Blacklight, in saying her vows to become the Saint Desirée, had skipped this arduous process entirely. With the transformation came eyes of youkai, beings and beasts that are magicians by species rather than by trade: she didn't have to search her way into understanding mana, the knowledge was thrust upon her. But youkai are beings who became of magic's source, and can only perceive what exists of magic, not magic itself. When confronted with akasha the mind blocks it out, much in the way a torch cannot illuminate itself. In sight it is black, in hearing it is noise. In beings that do not particularly respond to any sense, it is unease. (Smell, if such a magician would defile the art, would likely be something sulphuric.)
-
Miss Blacklight recognised a disadvantage when it was introduced. The smoky purple mist billowed its way around the sorceress, shrouding her in impermeable cancellation. To make matters worse, Simiel showed such significant interest in the spectacle that she picked up on it without having to see it inside her, going as far as to once calling it a 'conundrum'.
Inside, her senses were dimmed out and she struggled to rely on sight without its ensorcelled complement. She ordered Simiel to go first, to pave the way for her in these barren circumstances. The first few steps she took with her hands childishly outstretched in front of her, as if blindfolded, though slowly but surely her vision returned. Or, her vision never went anywhere, she moreso made sense of it again after having used a different kind for so long. First, she found the walls again. They were easy to recognise because they still held the light back, only now not expressed in black swirls, but in bright taupe with a glossy sheen to it. She turned a corner, only barely bumping into it.
She noticed, when Jean tugged on her scarf and the magician had to comfort her gut feeling that something terrible was about to happen in here, that the cloth golem wore her heart on her sleeve. Very literally so. While there were less than usual, gems were still brilliantly visible on her clothing, without special eyes to see them, amidst barren purple mist that clouded their shine. Out of habit, she tried to read them.
green black blue red blue green black black red
To little avail. She made a mental note of giving Jean's thought a once-over, because while she had written of her companion as a harmless, chatty burden, she was interested in finding out why there were so many of them. And why some of them stood out so obviously that she could read them now.
Simiel took advantage of leading the troupe: methodically, she combed through every room of the floor, intent on ignoring all men who wouldn't directly address her, but ending up not needing to ignore anyone. Blacklight again followed, but meekly and without spine. Jean followed suit. Minutes passed without a soul. The plate on the door Simiel opened read “Exophysical Contamination.” It was left to the reader to affix a word of warning.
Nemo stood in the centre of the conference room, in a bed of shards of glass. One foot suspended over the edge of the building, looking down into the street beneath. He tapped his foot around in the open air like one would to check footing. He felt the dizziness rushing amok inside his head. His parachute was splayed out on the floor somewhere, but he was sure it was still attached to him, and it would likely still function. He heard the thumping of footsteps, a creak from a handle, and the click-then-shove of a door opening. He spun around, and leaned back, half-hoping he would lose his footing and scare the crap out of who was entering, but the mechanical whirr in the voice that entered, as she told people behind her that someone was inside, reminded him of a contestant's. Or, rather, it reminded him of what he assumed what would be an entirely typical voice for that contestant. A down of white blanket around him, hair fluttering slightly as he was set to fly, Nemo might have looked like an angel, but he lacked the serene grace (to be in lieu of shit-faced grin) to pull the look off entirely.
He smiled, warmly, and started: “Oh, hello. I was just about to leave, actually.”
Miss Blacklight climbed the stairs like a convicted woman. Her hands were either clasped or folded together, resting her palms on her dress, and she walked with her head staring just above eye level, and gladly turning to notice every little detail she'd pick up about the building. The three had decided to continue single file, due to their current poor footing, and the sorceress had insisted – in her typical, gentle way – to follow last. The paces Simiel took echoed through the floors, attracting a bit of commotion from employees bold and stupid enough to set foot in the office's stairwell, and each one of the men, who all wore white or pinstripe, and who all smelled of cologne and new watches, were subject to Jean's questioning of where she could find her friend a blacksmith. And for a moment, the young lady behind the pair appreciated the humour of these workaholics deciphering Jean's ramble.
And, five steps behind on her company, along came Miss Blacklight. With a taut, dolled-up cordial smile, she examined the workers who had come out and just now made first impressions of the other two. And she read things, prying. Mostly body language, and nervous tics, but the flicker of a “get out”-plan helped. And she lavished in the gazes as she trod by, some close to marvelling if they hadn't been so terribly confused. She didn't speak, it would be out of place.
Scientists, the thelomancer noticed, were not at all fond of Jean. Not in a threatening way, but more out of pride: there was no place for an aloof golem in this building. It would prove a lot harder to persuade any person in this building invested in science of her right with Jean near her, and she momentarily considered the option of dumping her over the advantage. Managers and businessmen didn't mind her as much, but this seemed to be more due to the golem's personality: these people were dressed and groomed, and fit her magazines, and she took time to compliment each outstanding outfit she passed. Somehow, every single outfit stood out. This made Miss Blacklight retract her previous train of thought: every man of science in this building must respond to a man of power, and a chatterbox like Jean that played to their egos would prove more than valuable, no doubt.
The scientists reacted predictably to Simiel. The officemen, however, were in doubt. They were having trouble considering her as something worth having a conversation with (one even started to want a Simiel of his own, and was already formulating the order to his lab boys) but regardless acknowledged her to be sentient enough to pass for something, if only a polite automaton.
“Perhaps,” Blacklight laughed in her own mind, “it was the sweater.”
The stairs had an air of going in circles: every corner felt broken and rusty and the same, and with no light from the outside it was impossible to tell how low or high they had gotten in the meantime. It was... an inconvenience, yes, but the magician couldn't bring herself to get frustrated over it; as if windows could make the Spire coherent. She decided, then, that ascending endless stairs would very literally lead them nowhere. She opened the first door she passed after this decision, but found the hallway on the other side to be completely dark.
This, of course, stirred questions to the magician. Office buildings were no dungeons, and she remembered seeing the broad daylight just moments ago. Was she underground? Was this floor left in the black with a purpose? The map she had made of the building had ran out, and as little Miss Blacklight knew about the science at play, she was aware of it being absolutely useless now, regardless of its expiry.
“There is a door here,” she muttered. “Yes,” came the robotic reply.
“Simiel, what floor are we on?”
“We have ascended eleven flights of stairs from floor 244. We are on floor 255.”
Miss Blacklight tugged her scarf tight to her neck, the open door let out a draft. “Above ground. Then why is it dark and cold in there?”
“The balcony you're facing is not dark. It is purple. It is cold, because it is windy outside, and the room you are facing has no windows.”
Miss Blacklight opened her eyes and straightened her very purple scarf with purple gems on it, watching pure, unrefined magical prowess seep through the doorway in which she was standing. The ley line crawled into the stairwell and, like smoke, dispersed against the wall.
-
Every wizard worth their salt knows that much like density and colour, every material has its own magical radiance, mana. To train magic is to pick up on these, make them one's own sense. It takes a lifetime of practising to simply identify wood as wood in this fashion, and the actual interpretation of this radiance differs individually in humans as they have no inherent way of receiving these signals and have to focus rigorously to accomplish this. Most often – this is because it is the easiest way – the abstract radiance is translated into other senses, an autodidact's synaesthesia.
Miss Blacklight, in saying her vows to become the Saint Desirée, had skipped this arduous process entirely. With the transformation came eyes of youkai, beings and beasts that are magicians by species rather than by trade: she didn't have to search her way into understanding mana, the knowledge was thrust upon her. But youkai are beings who became of magic's source, and can only perceive what exists of magic, not magic itself. When confronted with akasha the mind blocks it out, much in the way a torch cannot illuminate itself. In sight it is black, in hearing it is noise. In beings that do not particularly respond to any sense, it is unease. (Smell, if such a magician would defile the art, would likely be something sulphuric.)
-
Miss Blacklight recognised a disadvantage when it was introduced. The smoky purple mist billowed its way around the sorceress, shrouding her in impermeable cancellation. To make matters worse, Simiel showed such significant interest in the spectacle that she picked up on it without having to see it inside her, going as far as to once calling it a 'conundrum'.
Inside, her senses were dimmed out and she struggled to rely on sight without its ensorcelled complement. She ordered Simiel to go first, to pave the way for her in these barren circumstances. The first few steps she took with her hands childishly outstretched in front of her, as if blindfolded, though slowly but surely her vision returned. Or, her vision never went anywhere, she moreso made sense of it again after having used a different kind for so long. First, she found the walls again. They were easy to recognise because they still held the light back, only now not expressed in black swirls, but in bright taupe with a glossy sheen to it. She turned a corner, only barely bumping into it.
She noticed, when Jean tugged on her scarf and the magician had to comfort her gut feeling that something terrible was about to happen in here, that the cloth golem wore her heart on her sleeve. Very literally so. While there were less than usual, gems were still brilliantly visible on her clothing, without special eyes to see them, amidst barren purple mist that clouded their shine. Out of habit, she tried to read them.
green black blue red blue green black black red
To little avail. She made a mental note of giving Jean's thought a once-over, because while she had written of her companion as a harmless, chatty burden, she was interested in finding out why there were so many of them. And why some of them stood out so obviously that she could read them now.
Simiel took advantage of leading the troupe: methodically, she combed through every room of the floor, intent on ignoring all men who wouldn't directly address her, but ending up not needing to ignore anyone. Blacklight again followed, but meekly and without spine. Jean followed suit. Minutes passed without a soul. The plate on the door Simiel opened read “Exophysical Contamination.” It was left to the reader to affix a word of warning.
Nemo stood in the centre of the conference room, in a bed of shards of glass. One foot suspended over the edge of the building, looking down into the street beneath. He tapped his foot around in the open air like one would to check footing. He felt the dizziness rushing amok inside his head. His parachute was splayed out on the floor somewhere, but he was sure it was still attached to him, and it would likely still function. He heard the thumping of footsteps, a creak from a handle, and the click-then-shove of a door opening. He spun around, and leaned back, half-hoping he would lose his footing and scare the crap out of who was entering, but the mechanical whirr in the voice that entered, as she told people behind her that someone was inside, reminded him of a contestant's. Or, rather, it reminded him of what he assumed what would be an entirely typical voice for that contestant. A down of white blanket around him, hair fluttering slightly as he was set to fly, Nemo might have looked like an angel, but he lacked the serene grace (to be in lieu of shit-faced grin) to pull the look off entirely.
He smiled, warmly, and started: “Oh, hello. I was just about to leave, actually.”
quidquid Latine dictum sit altum videtur.