ataraxion | 001 ♕♗ video

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001 ♕♗ video

[ The camera flickers on to reveal the ceiling to one of the passenger quarters. There is the rustling of movement and then, after, the image jostles and then wrongs itself to show a wisp of darkly colored hair and the pale sliver of a young woman's profile. She doesn't seem to realize the device is recording because soon, the camera is covered up by her hand, as well as the microphone, so her voice comes muffled and at a distance. When she speaks, it's apparent she's speaking to someone else there with her and not the device itself. ]

Do you think it best we show our faces? Perhaps they would be more willing to help us, were they to see our entreatments. [ The image jostles again, from side to side. A hand here, an eye there. Bits and pieces of a person, blurred by movement and dimness.

A second of hesitation is the only reply, first. There are too many tales of enchanted objects lying in wait, to steal souls and work other mischief. And they are none of them true (probably), but even so— ]

Yes. But we should carefully show ourselves. Do you know how to work the device to show pictures?

[ There is a bit of primness to her voice when the young woman speaks again; something like pride, albeit tempered by an attempt at humility. ] I've not been idle during my time here, [ she says. ] All the things I know, you'll know as well. In time, I promise. But first—

[ More fumbling and, finally, the picture sets itself to rights to reveal a young woman with burnt brown hair and a young boy seated beside. Were someone to look at them both long enough, they would perhaps notice something of a familial resemblance (though each will deny it, if asked). Setting the camera to rights, the woman leans over and whispers something into the boy's ear, the murmur too low to be picked up by microphone. Then, she nods, smiling faintly at him.

He looks to her first, hesitating—but then finds his strength and turns back, his chin lifted higher. ]

I'm—I am Bran Stark of Winterfell, newly come to this ship. I have been told a great many things of this place, some of them strange—but I am pleased to have come, and pleased to make meeting with the people here. [It is a route and studied response, a lord's response, somewhat stiff, and he looks back to her to confirm that it was well said.] My—companion, Lady Stone, has said that I might ask things of this device, and be give responses in reply. I am seeking my wolf--my direwolf, Summer. He is large, but he will not harm anyone. You have my word of that.

And a lord's word is goodly. [ The lady 'Stone' interjects. It was a lie, she knew as much, but this lord was honest and good. ] I have heard talk of animals aboard the ship. Of cats and dogs, alike. If Summer is here, it is of great import that we find him. A wolf does poorly without its pack. [ A pause and the girl dips her chin, pressing a modest hand to her chest in an expression of earnestness. ] We have little to give in exchange for answers, though we do promise our thanks and a favor in kind. The ship is vast and we're loath to explore without proper company, though— [ Again, she turns to look at Bran, her gaze flickering imperceptibly to his legs. Should they ask for Hodor? ] —though any offer of help will not be turned away.

[ Again, he hesitates—he can read the question in her eyes, and it is one that they have talked of, but even so, now that it comes time to ask— ]

There is also my servingman, called Hodor, who is also quite large and harmless. I should find him as quickly as I might. He is simple-minded, but kind, and— [ He looks down at his legs a moment— another quick glance at his companion— ] I am crippled, and require his aid.

[ There. It's been said. His ears go a little pink, his shoulders slump—it's a weakness he'd sooner not have revealed, though it would have soon been learned—and still, he keeps his chin high, as much a lord as he can manage. At the very edge of the picture it is visible to anyone who would take notice— the girl touches the boy along the edge of his arm, a small encouraging gesture as her hand encloses the round of his elbow, patting. And, perhaps she is proud. It is not small thing to admit. He continues: ]

Any help that can be given would be met with my earnest thanks. With our earnest thanks.

[ ooc; Alayne and Bran. ]

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[There are so many things of this place that Bran does not understand--and even that which he thinks he understands seems strange and different. Words with changed meanings, objects that seem familiar but are more like foreign artifacts--

But what this man speaks of--this is magic. Surely it must be--how else could people change their faces? And werewolf--]

What curse is a werewolf? What do you know of wolves? [And he adds, after putting this together:] And that means your wife is a witch--or a sorceress. It is magic, and not this--science, isn't it?

Precisely right. She's a witch, my son is-- or he will be-- a wizard, just like myself.

[A beat. He pushes a bit of a strained smile on his face and adds:]

And a werewolf is an individual cursed once a month to change into a wolf. It isn't a pleasant process, I'm afraid.

[If there had been any bit of Bran's attention that was divided before, it's now all focused sharply on the device that they are communicating through--and on the stranger himself.

Change into a wolf.]

You're a warg.

A warg?

They can change from men into animals--or else they enter an animal's mind, and can control them. Or else they're part animal themselves.

The old ones--they could be wolves, if they chose.

That's . . . not precisely what I do, no. Those who have that ability are called Animagi. My own transformations aren't controlled; rather, I'm forced to become a wolf once a month.

Who forces you?

No one in particular. It's a disease, would be the best way to describe it. In the same way no one forces you to sneeze or cough when you have a cold, so no one forces me to become a wolf at the full moon. It very simply happens, whether I want it to or not.

[He considers that for a moment, trying to understand--there are no tales of anything like this, where men must become wolves, under some nameless penalty--]

You can never choose to be a wolf, not even if you want?

That's right. I change at moonrise and turn back at dawn.

But that isn't fair. And how do you change--you become a wolf? Where do you go?

Life rarely is fair. And I simply become the wolf-- my hands change into paws, and so on.

A werewolf. [He repeats the word with interest.] We do not have such things in Westeros--only wargs, and the stories say they could change into any creature that they wanted.

Do men fear werewolves, in your country?

[He winces a little.]

They do, yes.

Men fear wargs, too--even in tales, they are known to be unnatural. [He looks down, both out of respect for this man and because of his own uncomfortable feeling at that thought. Unnatural.] But I have never been afraid of wolves.

That's unusual, in one your age.

[It's a compliment. He tilts his head, studying Bran curiously.]

Is there a reason for that?

The sigil of my house is a direwolf, so I'm a wolf, too. [That is the simplest explanation, for all that it sounds slightly childish.] And we have wolves--my brothers and sisters, and me--Summer is mine, but each of us had one. You can't be afraid of what you are, or of what walks by your side.

A good observation.

[A beat. He hesitates-- but better to alienate this boy and keep him safe.]

Be that as it may, however . . . when I transform, you cannot come near me.

[He will be unable to anyway, except perhaps if one of these offers of legs should prove good--or if the wheeled chair turns out successful--but Bran doesn't say any of those things.]

But a wolf is a wolf.

[His expression is grave.]

If I were to bite you while I was a wolf, you would become like me-- unable to help transforming once a month, condemned to do it once a month.

Oh.

[And that does sound like something out of a tale, a strange curse--only would it work if you could already turn into a wolf, in a way? What he is learning to do with Summer, and this--they are different things, but similar.

He dare not say anything of his power, not just yet. Though it doesn't matter, with Summer gone.]

What if you were to bite a wolf?

That would have no effect on it. Animals cannot be harmed, only humans.

[He nods--of course, that makes sense. A curse would naturally occur in such a way.]

Then when I find Summer, perhaps he can accompany you for those times of your curse. He would be a good companion.

[He smiles.]

That's very kind of you, Lord Bran.

[He shakes his head--and though he knows he should not (should not trust this man whose name he does not know, who has said that he is cursed), he smiles. A wolf can be trusted.]

You can call me Bran, if you like. What are you called?

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