| Opening Log

[shadowqueen]

Everyone's waking up at once, covered in bits of rubble, temporarily without abilities and with a lurking headache. The castle looms around them, irrepressibly gray, huge and silent. The only noises are the people, rustling as they extract themselves from their sarcophagi and look for exits along the arching walkways.

Better take a look around, and see if anyone else knows what's going on.

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[permutant]

[she manages to make it through his whole speech before she laughs, coming further away from the wall naturally now. she loses her skittishness and it's noticeably more like she's... just a girl.]

Not that good, no. ... Westchester County. I spent a few years with my brother in Oxford while he went to university, but our home is always New York. Not that you'd know, with him; he picked up the accent in Oxford and he hasn't lost any of it, the traitor. I stayed true to our home.

[feigns]

[ a flicker of relief passes across his features as she steps further away from the wall — he's glad, on the one hand, that she doesn't appear as nervous as she had previously, and more than that, he's glad that she's proved a good enough distraction so as to stop him from dwelling on events at home.

at the mention of oxford university, though, he hums in acknowledgement — a good family, then — and his gaze flits briefly up towards the ceiling. he's only visited oxford once or twice, and never the university. the libraries, he hears, are impressive, and he imagines he'd like to visit them, but he won't ever have the fortune of being an undergraduate. ]

I've been assured by countless women that a good accent is the hallmark of an attractive gentleman. [ he leans forward, lowering his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. ] Perhaps your brother discovered the same thing.

[permutant]

Oh, boy. [she rolls her eyes, but good-naturedly, with a grin.] Did he ever. He was bad enough at Oxford, don't even get me started on him and girls when we got back.

You can ask, by the way. About the... [she indicates herself with a sweep of her hand. it would normally be uncomfortable, she'd normally hate for someone to ask, but he hasn't even been staring beyond the first look; he's probably curious and polite enough not to say anything. it makes it feel more like the other mutant kids asking what she could do than a human gawking at her and asking what's wrong with you? - and it's a far stretch from being called a monster.] I know it's not... normal.

[feigns]

[ he opens his mouth to respond to her first comment, but stops when she gives him permission — in essence — to comment on the fact that she's blue. ]

I'd assumed you were a warlock. [ frank, and to the point. ] Or a demon, but they're generally somewhat less humanoid, and when it comes to it, all that's different about you is the fact that you're blue. —And you haven't attacked or threatened me which, whilst generally not a primary indicator of what one is, manages to help with pleasantries to some extent. I shouldn't think there's much to ask, at the end of the day. What would I ever need to know?

[permutant]

I... [she's quite genuinely taken aback. he's wrong about what she is, of course, but he still doesn't care, which is not normal at all. she could have been the perfect little girl back when she was younger, and she knows that everyone still would have come at her with pitchforks.] Humans aren't usually so okay with it, that's all. Actually, they completely freak out. But I'm not a warlock. Or a demon. It's just a mutation. I'm a shape-shifter.

[a very groovy mutation, she thinks, and tries to ignore the sharp pain that comes with thinking of Charles and of home right now.]

... Or I would be, anyway, but I can't shift right now for some reason. I guess it's something about this place.

[feigns]

[ he lets out a huff of breath at her remarks about humans. it's not quite a laugh, but nor is it quite a scoff; it does, however, contain a hint of amusement. ] Humans, people, beings — whatever you prefer — are afraid of the unknown. If they don't know it, it's dangerous because it might hold power over them. [ he shrugs, the amusement all but leaving his expression. ] I'm not familiar with mutations, but shape-shifters? I've met one or two. [ one, truthfully, also from new york — but not blue, as far as anyone's aware. he knows, though, from reading tessa's letters that she's afraid that her default appearance isn't truly her, that the her she believes she is, that she grew up believing in, is nothing more than a construct.

perhaps underneath it all, she was blue as well. it's doubtful, but—. ] I'm not human, not entirely, [ he adds after a few moments. ] Nephilim, not that I imagine it to be of any importance, not when I'm essentially human now. [ she couldn't shape-shift and he was weaker, both mentally and physically. ] I imagine it's this place.

[ another pause, and he shoots her a sidelong glance, a thought occurring to him. ] —Raven, yes? And a shape-shifter? I don't suppose you were named after Puck, were you?

[permutant]

[relief takes over after the surprise has faded; mutant or not, she's finding herself much more comfortable around any sort of non-human now, and this boy quite clearly understands the kind of human fear and hatred that mutants have to struggle with.]

Okay, I don't know what a Nephilim is. [she pauses and adds helpfully,] But it sounds cool.

[she shrugs.] If I was named after someone, I don't know about it.

[feigns]

[ it's not a matter of understanding, as such — and he'd say as much if the topic were to come up verbally. after all, shadowhunters as a general rule, as an group, consider themselves superior to downworlders and, in a way, even mundanes. will has always thought of himself as being somewhat more accepting than, say, the lightwoods, but he — they, those that lived at the institute — had still been called on it on occasion. that said, he can't quite hide the distaste at the idea of being a shadowhunter being considered 'cool' (the word's not used in a manner he's familiar with — american slang, he assumes — but it sounds like a compliment, and there are many words he'd used for the lifestyle, but positive ones tend to be few and far between. ]

You've read the bible, I assume? [ a bored, dismissive hand wave: ] 'There were giants on Earth in those days, and also afterward, when the sons of God came in to the daughters of men, and they bore children to them. Those were the mighty men who were of old, the men of renown.'

[ his lips twitch. ] I have an almost ceaseless amount of free time, and when I do not, I still manage to do precisely what I wish. If nothing else, my life is rarely dull and that is perhaps the most accurate description. And as for dear old Puck, I suppose it's for the best. If you had, I'd have had to start calling you variations of 'Robin' and 'Goodfellow' and perhaps even 'Hob'. I've discovered, too, that women tend not to like unflattering nicknames, and I think I'd like to try for five minutes passing before getting slapped.

[permutant]

[she knows that distaste from her own face well enough to recognise it, but she's not sure which part of it set off the reaction, and... well, if it were her, she wouldn't want to be asked about it. so she lets whatever it was drop. —hold on, he's quoting the Bible at her. ugh, what's with boys and their being obnoxiously smart about stupid things she doesn't get.]

Wait, sons of God, so like... angels? Half-angel, half-human, is that it?

[she laughs, easy and relaxed now - she can hardly be offended by nicknames she doesn't understand, whether he says they're unflattering or not, but his comments are charming and funny. it's surprisingly nice to talk to someone like that who isn't her brother.]

Well, I promise not to slap you for at least the next five minutes, okay? But after that, it's free game. Try not to do anything too horrible.

[feigns]

[ he smiles at that — a pleased, ostensibly genuine smile — and he inclines his head slightly in acknowledgement. ]

That's right. Although I was mostly recently described as being 'half-Mundane and half-Welsh,' and as 'having the worst traits of both.' Evidently, to be Welsh is to be less human, although if I'm half-human and half-Welsh, I'm not entirely sure where the other half fits in. [ he leans forward for a moment, dropping his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. ] Of course, the man that described me as such is getting on in years, and whilst he's known to have a weakness for a pretty face, he was utterly uninterested in me. If I'm to be quite honest, I think he's losing his faculties. [ he seems to consider something for a moment, straightening back up and speaking at a more leisurely volume. ] That said, it may simply be that he could see in me a certain uniqueness, and failed to translate it adequately into words, choosing instead to settle on an awkward bastardisation of maths.

Young William, if I do say so, you are of stock unknown to this aged eyes, stock I can barely comprehend! A half and a half and a half— more than man, but less than angel — something in between, perhaps!

[ he stops again, eyeing her for a moment. it's nice yo talk with someone unfamiliar with him, someone without expectations and beliefs of who he is and how he ought to act. ] If you could, I'd prefer you not to slap my face. I seem to have walked into something in the night — a wall, a chair, the edge of my bed, someone else's fist — and that aside, I'm feeling quite delicate. An arm, I could cope with, I think.