Steepling his fingers together, the mage watched his niece speak. It was less in the words she spoke but in her movements, the dramatics of her gesticulations that caught his attention. Kit, like him, was a performer. But sometimes he forgot that she was also a mage, and a curious one at that. Of course she might have begun to notice the sickness that followed him like a blanket, perpetuating in every corner of his life and her memory.
Once upon a time he might have become defensive, cried coincidence, but somehow it felt as though a lie would no longer serve as proper here. Instead he waited till she had finished talking to nod slowly, appreciatively.
"Very well then, I won't intrude on your father's legacy...but I cannot afford to wait till winter to travel, nor could you travel with me in that perilous time." Her eyes held pointed questions, small daggers. If she could travel in fall, why not winter?
He clasped his steepled fingers together to elaborate.
"The winter, combined with travel, will strip you of the strength necessary to fight sickness. I do not have faith that you would survive a trip from Ravok to Syliras in my company. You're a strong girl, Kit, but mostly in personality...but to risk so long in my presence may be your undoing."
Quirking an eyebrow at her he cocked his head to the side.
"You are not the only one among us marked by a god. Four gods have met and marked me in my lifetime, though I doubt you would be comforted knowing which ones they are."
Releasing his hands, he smiled faintly, "You really have nothing malicious to fear from me, Kit, and you're right...I spoke more of anger than logic. I have offered to you, freely, and I would again in any other circumstance. You're less a niece to me and more a sister, always have been in Alvadas and now...certainly you don't always afford me the respect of an elder, and that's fine." He chuckled, "I'm not so old as to need it."
Leaning over the desk he transfixed her with his eyes, offering no hypnotism but instead completely honesty.
"When I was a boy of ten, my father's wagon was lost in the Kalea mountain range. It was a cold winter and I grew ill quickly. Back then I was not nearly so healthy, a frail creature of skin and brittle bone. My father was trying to get to Alvadas and left us to scout ahead."
Leaning back in the chair, he averted his eyes toward the ground. "He never came back, and I was coughing blood. I knew what death was, Kit, I could feel it in my lungs with each gurgling breath...but I was visited by a god who promised me eternal health in exchange for carrying his mark."
He caught Kit in his gaze again, unapologetic, open. "I will not make excuses. I was ten years old and did not want to die, I still don't. My god calls for the strong to triumph over the weak, a sort of natural selection, if you will. Sickness in my presence will flourish, grow stronger, deadlier...but I do not cause sickness, simply augment existing illnesses." He held out his hands in a shrug, "It is not something I can control yet, I have not been favored with that ability...but as a child I was terrified of my own prowess. My friends and family withered around me, I roiled in my guilt. Once I nearly threw myself from the walls of Lhavit into the gorges below...but..."
He stood and confronted Kit casually, seeping gaseous green res into his palms and beneath his cloak. If she reacted harshly to this, especially over her own father's health failure, he would need to counteract her abilities.
"But since then I've come to accept a certain truth about myself. I treasure that fighting spirit in people, that strength of will that so dominates the truly exceptional. If Mizahar is to rise to what it once was, become better, than weakness should be carefully excised, gradually, in order to make way for those innovative and charismatic leaders to bridge the alliances of city-states and work towards the establishment of an empire."
Slowly, a hand rose up to Kit, extended, open.
"I do not sense sickness on you, Kit, so you have nothing to fear from me. Take my hand and know me better than any others have before." He smiled at her, it was sad, expectant of reproach, "I cannot make an excuse for who I am, but you are family...and I will not lie to you any longer."
Once upon a time he might have become defensive, cried coincidence, but somehow it felt as though a lie would no longer serve as proper here. Instead he waited till she had finished talking to nod slowly, appreciatively.
"Very well then, I won't intrude on your father's legacy...but I cannot afford to wait till winter to travel, nor could you travel with me in that perilous time." Her eyes held pointed questions, small daggers. If she could travel in fall, why not winter?
He clasped his steepled fingers together to elaborate.
"The winter, combined with travel, will strip you of the strength necessary to fight sickness. I do not have faith that you would survive a trip from Ravok to Syliras in my company. You're a strong girl, Kit, but mostly in personality...but to risk so long in my presence may be your undoing."
Quirking an eyebrow at her he cocked his head to the side.
"You are not the only one among us marked by a god. Four gods have met and marked me in my lifetime, though I doubt you would be comforted knowing which ones they are."
Releasing his hands, he smiled faintly, "You really have nothing malicious to fear from me, Kit, and you're right...I spoke more of anger than logic. I have offered to you, freely, and I would again in any other circumstance. You're less a niece to me and more a sister, always have been in Alvadas and now...certainly you don't always afford me the respect of an elder, and that's fine." He chuckled, "I'm not so old as to need it."
Leaning over the desk he transfixed her with his eyes, offering no hypnotism but instead completely honesty.
"When I was a boy of ten, my father's wagon was lost in the Kalea mountain range. It was a cold winter and I grew ill quickly. Back then I was not nearly so healthy, a frail creature of skin and brittle bone. My father was trying to get to Alvadas and left us to scout ahead."
Leaning back in the chair, he averted his eyes toward the ground. "He never came back, and I was coughing blood. I knew what death was, Kit, I could feel it in my lungs with each gurgling breath...but I was visited by a god who promised me eternal health in exchange for carrying his mark."
He caught Kit in his gaze again, unapologetic, open. "I will not make excuses. I was ten years old and did not want to die, I still don't. My god calls for the strong to triumph over the weak, a sort of natural selection, if you will. Sickness in my presence will flourish, grow stronger, deadlier...but I do not cause sickness, simply augment existing illnesses." He held out his hands in a shrug, "It is not something I can control yet, I have not been favored with that ability...but as a child I was terrified of my own prowess. My friends and family withered around me, I roiled in my guilt. Once I nearly threw myself from the walls of Lhavit into the gorges below...but..."
He stood and confronted Kit casually, seeping gaseous green res into his palms and beneath his cloak. If she reacted harshly to this, especially over her own father's health failure, he would need to counteract her abilities.
"But since then I've come to accept a certain truth about myself. I treasure that fighting spirit in people, that strength of will that so dominates the truly exceptional. If Mizahar is to rise to what it once was, become better, than weakness should be carefully excised, gradually, in order to make way for those innovative and charismatic leaders to bridge the alliances of city-states and work towards the establishment of an empire."
Slowly, a hand rose up to Kit, extended, open.
"I do not sense sickness on you, Kit, so you have nothing to fear from me. Take my hand and know me better than any others have before." He smiled at her, it was sad, expectant of reproach, "I cannot make an excuse for who I am, but you are family...and I will not lie to you any longer."
