(Untitled)

[necklaces]

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[wigglesalong]

[ Although he isn't allowed to spend too much time here, Tristan probably feels far more at home in the magical realm than he does in the human. Too long spent with magic coursing through his bloodstream has made him almost unnaturally magical; he wanders slowly through the tall grass, meandering, wiggling along, brushing his fingers against the tickly blades. His touch leaves behind subtle sparks of light, and he is followed by new flowers, new life. Here he can speak to all the plants, every animal, not constrained to simply trees as in the human world. His shirt is loose, linen, flapping in the light breeze. His smile is bright, loving, revelling in the magic, the nature. ]

[fearsomefaith]

[Gideon has his trusty - if still unfortunately new - journal out again. He sits in a flattened circle, cocooned as it were by the wealth of tall grass that made up the warm little meadow. The journal lies splayed across his folded legs as he keenly inspects a handful of delicate wild flowers before bending over the pages to make quick, scratchy sketches, with his brow furrowed and his lips parted in concentration. Drawing isn't exactly his forte but he knows his memory isn't quite what it should be when it comes to these details.]

[On hearing the soft rustle of someone approaching Gideon cranes his head up to peer over the tufts of long grass. He smiles loosely at the impending figure and realises he knows this man from a previous conversation ...about living in trees, he remembers.]

Ah. Hello there!

[wigglesalong]

[ Tristan's reaction is slightly delayed, the look in his eyes hazy and bemused for a short moment before the voice registers and he recognises the face. His wobbly course changes, and he waves a slow, almost sleepy hand at Gideon. He wonders how this man came to be in the magic realm, but chooses not the ask; it is probably the mysterious workings of whatever it is that switches their locations so often. ]

The man who'd rather live in trees... hello. [ He smoothly drops down into the grass near to Gideon, practically sprawling immediately onto his back, though he momentarily restrains himself. Small flowers burst around his fingertips, where he touches the ground, an array of unnamed pinks and purples. ]

[fearsomefaith]

[Gideon shifts a little to allow Tristan a little space in the grassy enclave and with one broad hand wedged between the drawings he half-folds the book closed]

[he opens his mouth to reply but his breath is caught in abrupt fascination as he stares at the flower bursts elicited by Tristan's touch. Gideon unashamedly stares with a half-confused, half-wondering smile before leaning towards the little flowers with a hesitantly pointing finger]

Sorry, but how on earth are you doing that?

[wigglesalong]

[ Staring down at his hands, the ground and the flowers, Tristan cannot discern for a moment what Gideon is referring to. He twigs eventually, though, angling a broad grin at the other man, leaning in a little, his hands raised and fingers wiggling.

In a giddy stage whisper: ] Magic. May I?

[ Before waiting for an answer, Tristan takes Gideon's hand in his own, and presses it against the earth. With a little concenration, he pushes the magic out of his fingertips and through Gideon's... and daisies appear in a joyous flurry beneath Gideon's fingers. ] Can you feel that? Magic and life, inexplicably and beautifully intertwined.

[fearsomefaith]

[Gideon laughs a little uncertainly at the mention of magic and wonders if this man is mocking him and his ignorance. But his laugh dies on his lips and turns in to something altogether more breathlessly fascinated as Tristan performs his little demonstration. He only shifts his hands to let the daisies escape from beneath it and curls his fingers around them delicately as they grow]

That - was that you? How did you...

[the journal falls limp and forgotten as Gideon pulls his other hand away from it to press it fervently against the earth to try and recreate the effect - but it fails, much to his disappointment, and he glances aside at Tristan]

Can you teach me?

[wigglesalong]

[ Intoxicated with happiness and magic, Tristan shakes his head slowly, sadly, reaching out once again to take Gideon's hand in both his own, squeezing it tightly. He's a surprisingly tactile sort of man, and usually in a manner that often weirds out other people. His voice is soft, his tone apologetic. ]

It isn't a skill, more of an inheritance. I'm terribly sorry, but it's not something I can teach, which is an awful shame... you're a man who appreciates the wonders of the natural world. [ His smile is lopsided, fond. ] I have spent over two hundred years drifting between here and the human world; I defy all reason, magical and human, because no human has ever spent long enough amongst these fields to be enveloped in magic like those who make their home here. Yet here I am!

[fearsomefaith]

[Gideon doesn't mind at all - he's always been rather flexible when it comes to adjusting his own actions to reflect his company, and if Tristan is going to set the bar for tactility then it is nothing to Gideon. He lets the other man take his hands and tries to hide his disappointment as he quietly agrees under his breath:]

Ah. That is a shame.

[he listens curiously to Tristan's speech before piping up with hesitant questions that cut in to the other man's exclamation]

Wait, this is your home? [he shakes his head a little, as if he has misheard] And you're two hundred years old?

[wigglesalong]

Oh, no! [ Tristan shakes his head, laughing brightly. ] I often wish it was my home, but as a human I am not allowed, regardless of how much magic I have absorbed over the years. [ He pauses for a moment. ] I am two hundred and sixty eight, actually, to put a more specific figure to it.

[fearsomefaith]

[Gideon finally pulls his hands away, just so that he can reach over and retrieve his journal from where it has slid away from his lap. It gives him a brief chance to take stock: between the magic of the flowers - little short of a miracle - and the bizarre confidence that Tristan seems to declare that he is two hundred and sixty eight years old, Gideon is a little flabbergasted. But equally delighted, too. He glances back up at Tristan curiously as he opens his journal back to the page he had been on before]

Would you show me it again? The flower magic, I mean. Can you make anything else grow?