This one looked like an actual mage, which Selvetarm hadn't had truck with often unless they used their magic to augment their physical beatdowns.
"Then what is a jock?" He did his level best to infuse the question with a measure of "and why should I care?" instead of a measure of "because, you know, I'm completely clueless."
This voice was not disembodied. It was also not Lenneth's. Huh.
Last-ditch teleportation in emergencies did have its risks. Where was he?
"Sir dark elf." The mage bowed slightly. He had learned to perform such courtly gestures perfectly, long before his time in the royal palace of Dipan. It was another of those things that required long hours before the mirror to perfect.
And he knew a lot about elves, dark and light. Did he ever. Thanks to his ... experiments.
He also knew a lot about gods, thanks to the same experiments, and especially thanks to some up-close-and-personal time with Odin. He could sense that this particular dark elf was not one to be trifled with.
"Jock is a crude term, I admit, but one well-suited to the sort of man it describes. A jock is the kind of man who prizes muscle above all else. I seem to remember that Carrot Top is one such.Lezard had once described the Philosopher's Stone as a vast codex filled with millions of pages of knowledge. It had not been enough to attain the stone, he
( ... )
Severus wandered by the sorting room, or rather he strode slowly. Wait, that couldn't be... He recoils, recovers, approaches, his back stiff and straight, frowning. No, it isn't, he realises when he hears the quill's words, but... he carries on regardless. "You do know, don't you, that there is no 'Lelleth Valkyrie' to whom you are addressing yourself? Does you very... generous impossible without the caveat offer extend to anyone, should you wish, or only this persona, who may surely exist in whichever world from which you've come but is completely imaginary here?"
Lezard turns his bespectacled gaze upon the newly arrived mortal. Ah, a fellow mage, perhaps? The man smells of laboratories and potions. Lezard himself does love to experiment, and knows some of those scents.
"There is a Lenneth Valkyrie," he informs the man flatly. "You may not see her, nor know her proper name -- though I advise the learning of it -- but she exists, now and forever, and she will hear me throughout the ages, across space and time. She will hear me. And," he adds, with pride, "my offer stands. Ask of me what you will, if you would test my prowess!"
Mentally cursing himself for his inattention, Severus does not repeat the name. Perhaps he really is speaking to someone in his mind. Wishbone can speak to him that way after all. The world is different than it had been. Yes, this boy is just like Potter - either Potter. Putting himself forward and first. Probably without deserving it. Very well. For what should he ask to prove him wrong? A clean handkerchief? He laughs a little bitterly within himself. A horcrux, for when he dies? No, there is one thing he really wants, even though it is hard to speak of it to a boy that looks like Potter. If he is genuine, Severus should not waste such an offer. "The former headmaster's hand was poisoned by magic beyond the redemption of my powers. I slowed the poison. But, if you can, I would ask that he be healed."
"To heal poisons is well within my power." Lezard might as well have added duh. But he did not, for that would make him sound unintelligent, and also, people did not say duh in Midgard. "I could do so sight unseen, of course, but I would prefer to see the hand of this headmaster of yours. Working with the flesh of the living is a delicate process, if preserving the integrity of the flesh is a requirement."
"A mangosteen tree..." Lezard repeated the words as though he were tasting the syllables. "Yes, yes. Mangosteen."
He spread his arms wide again. A whirling sound arose around him -- a sound like the blades of an industrial fan sucking sluggish air.
"Invoke Sylvan Tropics!" he shouted.
No, he wasn't talking about a sunscreen.
The mage lowered his arms and the whirring died to nothing. "There is a field not far outside these walls. I have moved a grove of mangosteen trees to that field, protected by a climate-controlled stasis field. Select the tree you like. Do what you wish with the rest."
"The stasis will last until you enter the grove. After that, the trees will be subject to the natural weather of this place." Lezard shrugged. "It could remain that way for thousands of years until a mortal enters."
After a moment's thought, he added, "The field should be permeable by lesser souls such as those of animals, without breaking the climatic stasis."
"You're rather stuck on yourself, aren't you?" I drawl out from the door. "Pompous, arrogant, over bearing, stuff-shirted, half-witted twit." Those who think so highly of themselves are the most fun to put into place. I pull out a bar of chocolate, my wand in easy reach, the 22 under my jacket. He's dead easy, of that, I'm sure.
A narrowing of his eyes is the only response Lezard will deign to give to such taunting. When you grow up a skinny bespectacled kid with a name like Lezard Valeth, you get used to a lot of teasing, and you learn pretty quickly that an angry retort will only please your tormentors.
"Test me and you will find my pride is not unjustified. Ask of me a bribe, if you will. More candy, perhaps?"
"I don't want your 'candy,'" I say, twisting the word back at him. "What I want, you couldn't give, regardless if your claims are true." Though, what exactly I want has become muddled. When I arrived, it was easy. I knew exactly what I wanted. Since then, everything has become complicated, not that I'd give any of it up.
Inwardly he wonders whether this fellow is going to ask him a real question, a good one; or whether this is going to be a stupid test. Lezard always hated tests. He was always the kid who couldn't be bothered to do the homework because the homework was busywork; the kid who couldn't be forced to show the steps he used to reach a mathematical problem's solution, because he simply saw the solution in his mind and didn't have any steps to retrace.
"Ask if it suits you, and I shall answer if it suits me."
Provenza gave Lezard the low whistle that indicated one was very, very impressed. Crazy was a dime a dozen around LA and Hogwarts, but whack jobs like this were hard to come by!
"So you got any winning lottery tickets up those sleeves of yours" he asked.
He could probably fit a lot up those sleeves, and even more inside the cloak.
Lottery, however, was a term of vague and flexible meaning. Lezard focused (awareness searching among worlds, ah, yes, divine nature still flickering within, and the powers that were all his own before ever he entered Asgard).
Yeah, yeah, blah blah blah. This guy actually produced!
Provenza had been asking unlucky waitresses for winning lottery tickets for years (Can I get you anything else? Yeah, winning lotto ticket.), but this was the first time he'd actually gotten anything.
He took the tickets. "So, uh..." He was still a bit surprised. "You want a house with that?"
Lezard took his meaning. "Slytherin and Ravenclaw have both been popular choices, with a minor but significant voice for Bitchiwitch. I think we can agree that whatever may be said, I am no squib."
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"Then what is a jock?" He did his level best to infuse the question with a measure of "and why should I care?" instead of a measure of "because, you know, I'm completely clueless."
Reply
Last-ditch teleportation in emergencies did have its risks. Where was he?
"Sir dark elf." The mage bowed slightly. He had learned to perform such courtly gestures perfectly, long before his time in the royal palace of Dipan. It was another of those things that required long hours before the mirror to perfect.
And he knew a lot about elves, dark and light. Did he ever. Thanks to his ... experiments.
He also knew a lot about gods, thanks to the same experiments, and especially thanks to some up-close-and-personal time with Odin. He could sense that this particular dark elf was not one to be trifled with.
"Jock is a crude term, I admit, but one well-suited to the sort of man it describes. A jock is the kind of man who prizes muscle above all else. I seem to remember that Carrot Top is one such.Lezard had once described the Philosopher's Stone as a vast codex filled with millions of pages of knowledge. It had not been enough to attain the stone, he ( ... )
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Either way. He considered the bribe. "Can you make an enspelled two-handed sword?"
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"There is a Lenneth Valkyrie," he informs the man flatly. "You may not see her, nor know her proper name -- though I advise the learning of it -- but she exists, now and forever, and she will hear me throughout the ages, across space and time. She will hear me. And," he adds, with pride, "my offer stands. Ask of me what you will, if you would test my prowess!"
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It'd need spells to keep it alive in this climate once it got too big for the greenhouse, but it was worth a try.
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He spread his arms wide again. A whirling sound arose around him -- a sound like the blades of an industrial fan sucking sluggish air.
"Invoke Sylvan Tropics!" he shouted.
No, he wasn't talking about a sunscreen.
The mage lowered his arms and the whirring died to nothing. "There is a field not far outside these walls. I have moved a grove of mangosteen trees to that field, protected by a climate-controlled stasis field. Select the tree you like. Do what you wish with the rest."
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"How long will they be climate-controlled?"
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After a moment's thought, he added, "The field should be permeable by lesser souls such as those of animals, without breaking the climatic stasis."
Such a nerd.
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"Test me and you will find my pride is not unjustified. Ask of me a bribe, if you will. More candy, perhaps?"
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"I have a question, though."
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Inwardly he wonders whether this fellow is going to ask him a real question, a good one; or whether this is going to be a stupid test. Lezard always hated tests. He was always the kid who couldn't be bothered to do the homework because the homework was busywork; the kid who couldn't be forced to show the steps he used to reach a mathematical problem's solution, because he simply saw the solution in his mind and didn't have any steps to retrace.
"Ask if it suits you, and I shall answer if it suits me."
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"So you got any winning lottery tickets up those sleeves of yours" he asked.
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Lottery, however, was a term of vague and flexible meaning. Lezard focused (awareness searching among worlds, ah, yes, divine nature still flickering within, and the powers that were all his own before ever he entered Asgard).
He reached up his sleeve and pulled out some cards with pictures on them, followed by a card with squares of dull gray film covering unseen numbers (winning numbers, no doubt; the value of the prize would be another question), and finally, perplexingly, a slip of paper with nothing but a single black spot on it.
This handful of ticket-like things he proferred to the curmudgeon.
"I cannot bestow luck upon the unlucky," he warned. "Your luck is your own."
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Provenza had been asking unlucky waitresses for winning lottery tickets for years (Can I get you anything else? Yeah, winning lotto ticket.), but this was the first time he'd actually gotten anything.
He took the tickets. "So, uh..." He was still a bit surprised. "You want a house with that?"
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