[Open] The life among the dead

[survival_isnt_living]

Characters: Gaius Septimus and YOU
Date: Catch-all for November
Location: Miscellaneous
Situation: Myriad; ping me if you want a threadstarter from me or to discuss aim of a thread. Else, tagging is an at-will power.
Warnings/Rating: PTSD, discussion of violence/possible violence, swearing; will update if necessary

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[survival_isnt_living]

Kyle's perceptive, and Septimus can't help the faint smile. His father would have liked Kyle, definitely, and there's just enough independence that there's a strong possibility Sextus might have wanted him for Cursor, or at least high enough commander to have that independence. He lets the smile grow a little.

"More or less accurate," he admits, "though whether or not they like it, the Legion captains often have to play a little politics at some level. Not by choice, as they're career Legion, but--our Legions are the sword and shield of the Realm, and answer directly to the High Lords, sometimes the Senate and the Crown."

He pauses, pressing his lips together as he reviews standard promotion trends. "And given our reliance on that talent, promotion due to rank is somewhat less common, and it is far easier for Citizens of middle of lower rank--even sometimes less furycrafting, if they are capable enough--to rise to that kind of command. On rare occasions, some freemen, though they generally end up being granted Citizenship at some point and likely before being made officer."

And he is well aware he's dumped a lot of information into that: that there's a lower class, but that even the class above them has enough convoluted social structures that even most of those are not upper class or even aristocracy; that there is legitimate room for rising based on merit, but it doesn't always happen; that sometimes less merit remains higher due to social stuff; and that somehow, the magic power plays into it and probably gets easier access to higher classes. It's a lot, of course, to pick up at once. But it's there.

[imaginate]

Approval is something he never asks for and rarely needs, and to get it unsolicited, he initially shoots Sep a wary look at that faint smile, and then crosses one leg over the other, a few fingers on his right hand rubbing his ring. He listens, attentively, and the pieces slowly fall together and form a complete picture.

'I know of something like that. We called it the Roman Empire.' He remembered just enough from his history classes to form a vague outline.

Then, he huffs, quietly. 'Lanterns are chosen and promoted through merit and valour. Anything else means death for the people we protect, or those we fight beside.' He hadn't been, but there were other ways to prove one's worth. 'Most people, looking at us, would wonder why we have the power we do, but the ringbearer's true colours show through.'

[survival_isnt_living]

Wariness of that faint smile is probably the correct reaction, especially from either Septimus' father or son. From Sep, it's less foreboding. However, at his comment his Septimus throws his head back and laughs, bright and genuine and yet a richer sound than ever.

"Aye. We've myths that we came from another place once, a single Legion and her followers, and slowly grew to the Realm that's stood a thousand years. One of my maestros used to insist they were called Romans. Until this place I never believed him. I wish I could apologize. We even still have a text by a Gaius Julius, De Bello Gallico," he adds merrily.

With a huff, he chews a lip. "Metalcrafters, in battle, often spark in color, but usually to that of their family, or the one strongest in them. Perhaps it's also a testament to their character. But our power also feeds the structure, and while some Citizens have up to three and mostly strong, only the greatest families have all six types of furycraft, and when they do, it's to varying levels but generally of great power. Different philosophy than your Lanterns, though some odd similarities."

[imaginate]

Kyle smiles. It's pure, and bright, and he rarely smiles like this, but today, it's easy. Septimus' words have an easy poetry to them, and he's strongly reminded of Guy reading to him.

'I've found that "odd similarities" accounts for most things here,' he replies, wryly. 'Which brings me back to the whole assassins point. Anyway. I'm not qualified to treat this sort of thing - they have special doctors for that, and I've never been to one if I can help it.' He has to give the appearance of invincibility, and now, he feels safe conceding that. 'I've got a portal to the Dream plane, if your mind is calm enough you can work it out there.'

[survival_isnt_living]

[[ooc note to any reading: a lot of this is close to lifted from the books. Worth every minute.]]

Septimus has a habit of inducing smiles like that, feelings like that. Still, he snorts. “Aye, cutters have no shortage of work, given the politics, the social climbing, the struggles between the leading Houses—bloody crows, how the territory wars can go,” he comments wryly. “Those with domains include the lands around their seats, their cities, larger and smaller, some kept within the family, much granted to other families and freemen holders. Arguably their struggles for power are civil wars, but those do not spread throughout the Realm.”

As he speaks his eyes have slid away from Kyle, down at first, deeply thoughtful and clearly caught in reminiscence. “Twelve High Houses stand beyond the rest, and grant status to the others. They rule our great cities—Antillus, Phrygia, Placida, Riva, Ceres, Attica, Aquitaine, Rhodes, Kalare,” a hint of deep distaste colors the last two, “Forcia, Parcia; each holding their seat since they were built. Perhaps councils carry some governance within the city, as the Senate does some for Alera Imperia, yet the High Lord is the authority of their lands. And sometimes they do make plays for the Crown, or other great cities. Those are our truer civil wars.” So much weight of Greece, Rome, the Gauls in those names. But those are only eleven Houses for twelve cities, and they imply a more fractured Realm than he’s implied so far.

“Our legends say we came to Carna from another place. A thousand years we spent, fighting the non-human races on our continent. And those that threatened us, we destroyed. With every battle won we grew. Even after the Realm formed, it ended only with the Children of the Sun, eight hundred years ago. Before it formed, sometimes those great cities warred for land; when we had no other races truly outmatching us—though the Canim, the Icemen, the Marat still try—given long enough our drive turned on each other.” Despite the sheer, unmitigated brutality he describes, his voice has taking on a different cadence, though it suddenly turns savage. “And yet, despite our weakened state in those times, no race can stand against us.”

However, it fades then. With every word he speaks his voice grows a little richer and deep, despite the low volume. With every beat of the return to that measured cadence, something else surfaces. It speaks of horror and dread; of energy and terrifying elation; of a depth of will and power; of an unshakable resolve, a devotion to not quite mad but not quite within the bounds of reason. That unnamable passion burns in those green eyes, now not unfocused but looking higher, far beyond Kyle.

It’s unclear that he’ll even hear any interruption. Maybe, but it is utterly unpredictable.

[imaginate]

Kyle's never been a man of words. His world is images, watercolours, acrylics, this shade and that blending together. The translation from mind to paper is what rankles him, but he hasn't had that problem since getting the ring. Not when it can create what he needs precisely.

It's why he doesn't pay attention to the exact words. Tone matters more, and Sep's clearly dreaming, so Kyle watches that, hawklike, interjecting only with hmms and I see when he judges it appropriate. Guy can talk, and so can Jim, but never quite so openly.

He thinks, not tangentially, of Tennyson. To strive, to seek, to find, and not to yield, and he leans forward, rapt at attention until Sep's done.