#th; necromantic placements

[eritvita]

"None in long Throats hath I so Wandered in those libraries of Restoration," admits Roland bashfully, as his is still, obsessively, wondrously, fascinated with the tendons of his own hand; curling his palm into a fist, tightening and then loosening, flexing each long finger and admiring the colors of his skin beneath the chill of balancing saturation.

And such in circumference for that Topic of gorey details dost Roland's immediate curiosity borne onto a twist of disgust, rampant to flee that urge to envision visceral amounts fit for the Swoon.

"Perchance is there a kinder Path," offers he in murmur, pressing that puppet'd knuckle to his own mouth in so for Pondering. His eyebrows rise. "Were naught for asking if in supplicant to those open Individuals--- those Daedra that were amiable and pleasant with which to speak, yea, as art they all far and few betwixt their cracking pools of Mana--- wouldst thus be more efficient than to split wide that Core of their physical blood? I cannot stand the sight of it," admits he finally, burst as like a gust of heated air; his sigh pluming in an icy cloud.

"Hast thou e'er tried to speak to thine Conjured acquaintances?" inquires Roland; born to connect and to make gestures for Amiability. "Hast thou Conjured, verily?"

Part of Erosandros felt like he was disclosing too much. That the extent of his knowledge would pierce through his apparent youth, rupture his mortal disguise. But, despite that seed of paranoia and uncertainty blooming thick betwixt the valves of his beating heart, vines and thorns prompting palpitations—he was enjoying this. Teaching. Seeing someone genuinely intrigued by the mechanisms of his work, rather than simply getting their cure and waltzing away.

"It does breach, to some degree, Alteration. But not all fields of magick are cut and dry, separated by oceans and seas of difference. You can mix and match, shift and meld," his smile remained, curled. "All it takes is a bit of curiosity, and a bit of imagination."

"But," he ran his fingers languidly through the thick tufts of fur that crowned his coat, "to answer your latter query: you need to have anatomical knowledge of a fairly in-depth degree. Most magick does not simply fill in where there are gaps. It will work how you think it to work; making what I just did a very sensitive and dangerous utilisation. If I did not know the bones, the joints, the tendons, I could have torn a ligament or twisted your fingers how they ought not. For those of absurd geometry, as you put it, or otherwise staunchly different anatomical structures ... you either have to acquire the knowledge, through vivisection or autopsy, or make an educated guess and hope to Oblivion that it sees through."

[eritvita]

And, bursting with knowledge and that sweetest amiability to make friends and companionable gestures 'pon every Turn, dost Roland merely grin in peaking, handsome teeth, widening hard at that playful notch in Eros' shoulders, and dost his eyebrows bounce in thrice.

But the implications and the sheer physicality of his own fist balled and performed to strike him 'pon his own face hast him floored. Those twists of ethereal, impossible shackles hast released him, yea, but his own hand hovers close to his face, his eyes blown wide in this chilly, crisp exterior, and yet his hand loosens. He gawks. "Remarkable," breathes he, and bursts into cackling, gay laughing, thrown his head back and clutching at the front of his robes.

"Thou art mentioned of side-eye'd twists a'fore Alteration, forsooth?" asks he, glinting within his eyes for more, for better meals with which to Consume. "To break the barrier and better the Understanding of long Words and eons of the Inner Ear? How wouldst thus be applicable 'twards those tendons of absurd geometry?" inquires he confusedly; impatient in his fraught to learn, to experience immeasurable secrets.

Rare for someone to be so ... open about how their friends lay beneath the arching wing of Daedra. Erosandros found it curious. Very curious.

"Friends? I can only presume you mean such individuals as vampires, lycanthropes ... or perhaps even conjured Daedra. Regardless, I should note that the academic pursuing of the workings of Daedra is far from safe," another small, lopsided smirk, "but, then again, when were academia meant to be safe? We are meant to hunt the unknown, to dance whence proverbial darkness lurks, serving to illuminate it for us and for all. Sometimes that means flirting with danger a little."

Playfully did his shoulders jump in alternating bounces, smirk dimming to a smile.

"Hm. Where to start ... I guess I will reiterate. A lot of the art of restoration—in fact, most magick—is knowing it more capable than conventional beliefs. Most people, including a saddening amount of mages, believe it only useful for mending wounds and curing pain. That, in itself, restricts its potential. It is not enough to simply read a book; you need to interpret it within yourself and apply your own vein of creativity to whatever you learn." A pause floated betwixt them; short-lived. "For example, restoration is incredibly powerful in offensive fields. If you know what you are doing. A small demonstration ..."

He flicked his wrist skyward, fingers crooked. Mana flowed through. Roland's right hand abruptly, without will of his own, bound into a tight, knuckle-bulged fist and thrust towards his own jaw—but stopped inches before collision. Erosandros held it there for a beat, two, before relaxing his control of muscle and tendon.

"I could make you punch yourself. I will not," he chuckled deeply, amusement escaping in puffs of white-silver, "no need to worry, but I could."

[eritvita]

He beams and closes the door behind, to better allocate that fluff of his robe's collar to protect his ears of this unending, frozen weather, married for the Morning in clear, fraughtfully-blue skies.

He truly claps whence that show of sublime capability flits the snow from the stone'd seat, bounce'd upon the balls of his clothe'd feet for that similarity of societal Cues. "Art many of my Friends and working acquaintances borne of that sprawl for the Outer Planes of Beings," confirms Roland freely, sitting down with his hands settling courteously upon his lap; lyrically naked and marvelously unashamed in this plucked String of a golden Lute, now that the worry for peeking eyes and ears art artfully begone for the closed Door.

"I take my leave of the College in many fascinations upon ruins of both Nordic and Dwemer, and sometimes a'fore those Walls what berth the dovah letter'ng for better Notes of blessed History; mine own hobbies art also berthed onto the Daedra," says Roland, and bounces he his brows, and confers not to better reiterate of what couldst possibly spiral On with those hobbies, whence blooming profound inside the Third Eye.

"Roland," he bobbed his head amicably, curled locks bouncing in tow, "a pleasure. You may call me Eros—though the fact that you are asking implies my introduction at the lecture hall fell on deaf ears." Erosandros smirked thinly then, amusement riddled betwixt his rich olive features. "No matter. You likely have guest lecturers come every other week."

Their feet found the lofty second floor, the chill from winters yonder dimming only marginally. Stone never kept the cold at bay for long. Small, flame-crowned candles kept light and clarity in a fixated tango; airborne tomes bathed in the illuminated aftermath, floating a good distance away from the candles themselves lest they flirt with a fiery death.

They traversed swiftly through the arcanum, soon approaching a door; peeks of light blue visible around its wooden silhouette, foretelling their future back out in the cold.

Roland, in quite a niche, gentlemanly manner, opened the door wide and yawning for him, he mouthed a thanks and stepped outside once again. As promised, the balcony was dead; not a student in sight. Erosandros' gaze settled upon a thick, stone-laden bench, protruding as an extension of the inner wall. A motion of his hand, and mana served to scoop up whatever snow and ice had accumulated and left it as a lump on the side. Promptly, he assumed his seat. He swept his hands along the length of his dress, hoping to shed whatever snowflakes felt deemed to cling on.

"Sit with me. Tell me, why do your interests lie with the restoration of beasts of Oblivion? Daedra—if you do not mind me using their proper title."

[eritvita]

He nods understandably, and bobs his palm for companionable Gesture. "Know I those wreathes of flowers for sad, sudden Movements. Naught shalt I encourage the spread of those open wounds," mentions he in a sweetest sympathy, and ne'er meant for that patronizing Curl.

"Oh!" and starts Roland, his eyebrows rising high for the offense of his own banality. "Gods of Glory and rings of Fire! I beg thy pardon! I am Roland," introduces he, and snorts laughing through this cramped space of the staircase. He beams o'er his shoulder, borne great and wide. "Merry Meet and fortuitous afternoon! Thus is a gladdening Day to hath these halls shine'd by thine own Knowledge, Goodly Stout! What is thine?" inquires he, fleet-footed and circumference from the stairs upon flat ground, the second layer of the middling tower.

Books fly and yawn through open air in Urag's Great Arcanum, and Roland passes a friendly, excitable wave to that surly Orc hidden away at the back of his College desk. Aft grunting and staring at them both suspiciously beneath his heavy, furled brows, dost Urag wave back in beautiful return, surly and grumbling above his own tome.

"Here," says Roland, offer'ng the door to that brisk outside, whence the rampants crawl in moat. "Shouldst the weather be fine and the clouds clear and fluff'd, and best with which to Speak."

His escort was taller than he was, even with his elevated, fur-laden boots. Each footfall of Erosandros spoke a distinct click upon these ancient tiles, though he kept his pace moderate in hopes that he were not to to slip upon sleet into an ungainly heap.

Wouldn't be the first time. Oh, the pains of preference in such a frigid land.

Violet eyes swirled around him as they begun their ascent, curious of the carved railing that loosely, rhythmically coiled round and round. Shortly did his gaze return upon the student.

"I have been immersed within the world of restoration for as long as I can remember," not exactly a lie, either. While he strove to keep his mind whetted and sharp, sometimes memories fell to the wayside when you were as old as he. Sometimes, they melded together, glued in the hot, sticky mess that was immortal life. "My inspiration, however, is ... a long, sad story. Surely none I would wish upon another. I would rather not dull you with it."

His fingers only skimmed the stone-borne railing. It was ice-cold to touch, even with his sheathing gloves.

"May I enquire your name?"

[eritvita]

The skin at the edge of Roland's eyes wrinkle for that connection of gentle amenity, and bobs he his head and leads, his strides long and the length of his College robes shorn across that freezing, dusty floor of the ancient tiles.

"Prithee, as thou art within the throes of polite silence in the middling of this Walking," says he, grasping at the etched railing within the wall up those stone staircases. "--- of how long hast thou inquired upon the nobility of Restoration? What were thou inspired For, if thus is passable amidst thine own privacy?" And he looks o'er his shoulder once, his handsome eyebrows bouncing in thrice.

Goodly Teacher. He couldn't say he'd been called that before. The sheer absurdity of it prompted a little smile to unfurl, one which he quickly shielded behind a hand.

Hopefully, it came across as an act of sheepishness, rather than the very deliberate, very calculated motion to ensure no shard of his elongated canines would unveil to those unsuspecting.

"The cold should be fine. I may be wearing this dress," a downcast gesture towards the highly embellished emerald-green gown he donned, followed with a little, modest jump of his shoulders, jostling the thick, fur-laden coat that crowned, "but I did bring this coat for a reason. Please, lead the way." Erosandros swept his arm out in a wide, outward gesture, beckoning escort.

It was his first visit here, after all.

[eritvita]

Roland listens intently, his eyes direct and impossibly exhilarated at his theories not only humor'd, yea, but brought Upon and drawn onto new, curling Paths for the ephemeral Vines, bursting with flowers and gentle antiquities. He all but bounces 'pon the balls of his feet, clutching at his books and sheaves of scribbled notebook paper, a piece of a broken quill saddled behind his ear.

And so he squints, thus, for the cunning sly of these Double-Meanings.

"If thou art unbothered by the cold," so comes advertent Roland, borne his voice low and Knowing in that arch of his handsome eyebrow. Roland the Sooth-Sayer, the Quick, the Triple-Ankle'd, nods his chin 'twards a long, sprawling staircase aftways, beyond in a corner and begone of apprentices and acolytes. "--- is there a balcony above the Arcanum what shouldst be left bare at this particular Hour. Art there awnings and arches to keep from the snow, and bits of tenure for candlelight and warming bonfires. Wilt thou join me to deliberate our discussion, Goodly Teacher?" And that shard of mischievousness twinkles within Roland's eyes, and he cannot keep the Scholarly elation 'way from his face, deepening within twin dimples.

Healing of the undead. An interesting topic to broach; it came as no surprise that the other had sought his presence in a place secluded, enigmatic curtains keeping them from distant from eyes too prying.

Part of Erosandros wished to bite big and deep into a lie, to claim ignorance and relent from conversation, if only to return to the comfort of Markarth. Markarth itself was by no means a gentle city, built on stone and spilled viscera, but it was familiar.

...

Ah. Fuck it.

"Healing of the undead is different, yes. Should they be born from mortal grounds—that is to say, from Nirn as opposed to Oblivion—it takes less change than one might think. After all, they still wield the same base as you or I. Typical restorative knowledge is still applicable, to a large degree. One of the biggest hurtles to overcome is less so skill related, but rather, the mental barriers in one's own thought, believing that one's restorative magick will work nil. It does take skillful adjustments, yes, but also a change of thinking and belief as well. The mind is a powerful, powerful thing."

He paused, turning his next choice of words over and over in his mind.

"Beasts of Oblivion, however ... is another thing entirely," again, did his eyes flicker towards the exit, but then they swept further still, glancing around their persons. He couldn't hear any heartbeats that flirted too close. Good. "Perhaps it best we do not speak so openly about such topics, hm? Do you know somewhere more ... appropriate?"

[eritvita]

"Nothing 'twould bore thee onto circumspect Verse, prithee," comes immediate Roland, bobbing companionable palms in a quiet Gesture. His Form comes as the underkemipt Scholar, the sleepless Zealot a'fore opened tomes and the glorious smell of linseed oil through those endless Midnights and owl hoots for Glory, and his eyes shine with that dawning Gleam for new Ideas.

"--- but the conformational Gesture 'twards the healing of the undead, as am I Conjurer," reaffirms he, placing his palm to his noble breast. "--- couldst be sanctimonious onto other endeavors, of healing and to keep the sleek of the beasts of Oblivion for far longer onto this Plane, whence scoped upon the Mortal ground. To heal brimstone, cacophonous skin, sealed forever by the ides of Time shouldst be clairvoyant upon this future of olde magicks. If naught art thou too far gone into thine own plans," now comes Roland, bashful and unassuming a'fore that flick of the eye 'twards the College's doors.

@eritvita sent in.

❛  this is crazy. but, yes.  ❜ from eritvita, to eros? 👋

Erosandros had been cordially invited to the College. Time and time again, were students, teachers, and many more strive to yank him by cottony sleeve to set foot within its snow-crusted walls. Time and time again, he would decline, for ribbons of paranoia wound taut around his throat—he feared questions, exposure, worse. An ache it was, to be naught but an anomaly, a man with indelible youth inscribed into flesh, flesh that long since should've become one with the nirn beneath.

But this time around, it was an offer he simply couldn't refuse.

Fright needled his spine, pulled the tendons of his fingers. As he stood, perched on the crown of the lecture hall podium, he was met with a myriad of looks. Some intrigued, some bored, some humoured by how his stature were to be swallowed by the height of the lectern. Regardless, he took it all in stride, and he delivered a disquisition of restoration magick. He even briefly showcased how restoration can be used offensively, which piqued a flurry of curious chatter betwixt students.

Eventually, all was done. He stepped off the podium.

He'd hoped he could've simply trotted off, circumvented any interested parties, and beelined straight to the next available wagon. Alas, rarely did things go as smoothly as one would hope. A man, presumably a student by the garb he donned, cut him off and sought conversation.

Ugh.

He let him talk. The more the student spoke, however, the more the student's proposal weaved into the unusual and strange. Erosandros quirked a brow.

"Please, do reiterate what you intend for me to partake in. Preferably," his violet gaze glanced fleetingly to the exit that taunted him behind the student's form, "with more pertinent details?"