(Untitled)
Wells, being busy with other things, couldn't take Arithon to his daughter's house for the warding thereof. He could, however, set the fellow on the right course without disrupting his day's activities too much. It's not far to Philippa's house, after all, and the route is fairly straightforward.
This time he didn't give the modern clothing back to Bar, so the person who knocks on the door is, well. To all intents and purposes, he's a really long-haired teenager in a green and black leather jacket, green shirt, and black jeans with several necklaces tucked under the collar, more than a few rings, carrying a small duffel bag that bulges in interesting places.
Reply
The person who answers the door bears a strong resemblance indeed to the Wells that Arithon knows, but he's visibly older and has considerably more hair. Exactly why anyone would do that to perfectly good hair is something of a mystery, but- Well, maybe it'll look better after he washes it out. It's still got plaster dust and other things in it from working in the basement.
"Ah. Can I help you?"
Reply
His voice is quite cheerful, and he avoids staring at the hair. Somehow. He offers a hand after a slight hesitation,
"I am not, as you see, Harry." pun resisted. Barely. "I am a friend of his, however, here to assist as I may with keeping his kin safe in the coming months."
The voice sing-songs in a decidedly not-English manner.
Reply
He's not letting the stranger across his daughter's threshold without a name.
Reply
The hand has calluses in odd places. Odd, that is, if you don't sword fight, play several stringed instruments, and sail on wooden ships. They overlap in strange places, and give his skin the texture of old, well-worn leather.
Reply
It's a bit hard to get a real read on Mr. Wells' hand by the shaking, but the overall impression is of someone whose hard physical work- if any- is years in his past. Also of someone who washes his hands after getting them dirty, since there's none of the plastery muck on them.
Reply
Like this is the weirdest thing about him? Eh. He's a strange, strange little man,
"I would be pleased to enter, however, I must admit that I will need to walk the grounds as well. I have many layers of Wards which I would like to place on the house and grounds, the external to warn and the internal to tangle and confuse."
Reply
"Exactly how extensive is this- ah- work of yours going to be?" he inquires, glancing at the bag Arithon has with him. "Philippa won't be home for a few hours."
Reply
Reply
Reply
"We begin with the understanding that all things are a piece of the Prime Vibration. This is known, on my worlds, as Ath or Ath Creator but does not have a sentience. I have read of the vibrations of atoms, you may consider Ath to be those vibrations ( ... )
Reply
If it seems strange that he accepts the prospect so easily, bear in mind that his second son is the sort of man who believes in full disclosure (when he's not living through two years of subterfuge and cross-country flight). After being told flat-out that your boy is a werewolf, and having that fact confirmed by his wife, there's not really much room for reflexive skepticism. Oh, perhaps there ought to be, perhaps he ought to be arguing about science or rationalism or something like that- but really, just now this is interesting. And he quite wants to know.
Reply
He says in return,
"And should she not desire them strongly enough they would revoke the permissions granted. However, as she has given at least tacit approval to my assistance, stated that I will do whatever is needed, this grants a broad range of permissions which I may use to my advantage. In this case, to protect. I would, however, suggest that you watch your words carefully around any Sorcerer not s'Ffalenn.
To continue, my other form of magic is Elemental Mastery. This is inborn, not learned. One either is, or is not, an Elemental Master. My Mastery is shadows, all forms of purely physical darkness. Not, and I can not stress this enough, evil or moral ambiguity. Darkness ( ... )
Reply
"I see. When you say 'your worlds', do you mean that in the sense of planets, or-"
As he's groping for the words to describe what he's trying to say, the shadow-flooding starts. That knocks the words right out of him. He jerks slightly, startled and wide-eyed, but freezes in place. Moments later there's no sign of what had gone before.
"Oh my."
Reply
He says quietly, and cheerfully, as he snags the next carefully marked bundle and starts toward the next room,
"I was born of the splinter world Dascen Elur, mostly islands and water. More water than islands. Due to an unfortunate series of events I was exiled to the desert world of Mearth. Through one rather unfortunate event and some rather good timing on the part of Asandir of the Fellowship of Seven, my brother and I were rescued from there."
He takes in the layout of the next room, sighs just a little and rolls his sleeves back;
"I would rather get no wax on the carpets. There is not much, but still. Carpeting is expensive."
Is all the explaining that he does. Which means that the thick, heavy, and really rather gruesome scars decorating both wrists are not explained. Summed up, they look like his wrists were bound in rope wrapped with a thin wire, then he had heavy manacles fastened over those for several weeks while he struggled, and at some point years later he had red-hot chains wrapped around the old scars ( ... )
Reply
Instead he turns his attention to the historical construct that's the best Arithon can offer. "Ages, is it?" he says. "Sounds a bit like something you'd see in Tolkien, if you don't mind my saying so."
Professions aside, he's more well-read than his son.
Reply
Leave a comment