picknicking

[dark_light]

There's something unutterably pleasant about landing in a bit of woods in the middle of Nowhere, Manitoba, removing a sandwich and an apple from her backpack and having a picnic before she's ready to move on. She could eat in midair, but it makes it too likely that she'll drop something and find it unrecoverable.

Path's on her knee, and her cloudpine is propped up against the tree next to her.

Comments

[prodigal_miser]

"A pocket library is a pocket library, I am not a picky man when it comes to all knowledge everywhere stored in a handhold device," he replies, archly.

[dark_light]

Isabella laughs. "It's faster to get at from larger non-pocket devices, and it also costs money to keep your device - subscribed, and sometimes people put false information in the library. It's not perfect. But it is pretty great."

[prodigal_miser]

"I'm kind of jealous, even with the caveats it comes with," he says. "It sounds wonderful. Despite the false information."

[dark_light]

"Your world presumably has neat stuff too."

[prodigal_miser]

"We do have portals. They are indeed nice," declares Adarin, with a smile. It's no pocket library, but it is convenient.

[dark_light]

"Maybe witchcraft can do those too. I'll ask the alethiometer."

[prodigal_miser]

"Isabella. You have to give me some reason to not leave my world forever and go running off here for fantastic pocket libraries. Let me have something," he says. He's obviously joking.

[dark_light]

"You have to bring them chamomile," she suggests. She pulls a dagger out of the folds of her silks and cuts open the nearer of the cooking pigeons; finding it cooked through, she turns off the fire and sets about plating them for herself and Metis.

[prodigal_miser]

"Hm. True. But then I could just go back, throw it at someone, then immediately turn around and come back here," he replies. "Chamomile delivered, my job is complete."

[dark_light]

"Well, I'm not going to stop you if you want to immigrate, unless it turns out you're carrying horrible diseases or are secretly evil or something."

[prodigal_miser]

"As far as I know, I am neither," he defends. "Though- honestly I don't think I'm in a position to immigrate."

[dark_light]

"No?" Isabella goes into the kitchen, where she sprinkles rosemary and salt and pepper on both squabs.

[prodigal_miser]

"... Well. It would be screwing over various people that don't deserve it? But I suppose I'm physically capable of it," he explains. "Arrogant though it sounds to say that just me leaving would cause that, I realize."

[dark_light]

"How would it do that? Metis! Dinner!"

(Metis collects her squab; Isabella cuts a chunk off of hers and offers it to Adarin, then starts slicing the rest of it up for herself.)

[prodigal_miser]

Adarin takes his share of squab, "Thank you. Do you remember how I explained how magic works in my world?"

[dark_light]

"The diluting hereditary thing, yeah."

[prodigal_miser]

"Yes, well. There were only three sources. One of them was my mother. She is now deceased, and my sister has made it abundantly clear how little she wants to use her power for fixing purposes," he explains. "So I would be taking a very large portion of potential magic with me, considering I've never married or had children."

He shrugs, a little, looking sad. "So I have a lot of weight to throw around for fixing things, and no one else seems able to do it. They're all too intent on killing or outmaneuvering one another for power."

[dark_light]

"Eegh," says Isabella.

[prodigal_miser]

"Yes," he replies.

[dark_light]

"...I wonder if your kids will have daemons, now, even if you have them back in New Kystle."

[prodigal_miser]

"I... Have no idea. I do expect that I have quite some time before I'll find out, though," he says with a bit of amusement.

[dark_light]

"Not keen on being the ancestor of a population of Kystle-type-magic-people anytime soon?" (Om nom squab.)

[prodigal_miser]

"Not keen on having any of the mothers of said population of Kystle-type-magic-people be the type of people that have tried to uh... Help me along with that," he explains, nibbling on squab. Nom nom. "Apparently I am picky. It's almost like I find women trying to drug me unattractive."

He says this is a matter-of-fact manner. It's pretty normal, to him. He's careful, about his drinks and food. He's mastered it the the point of silent spelling. The squab, for example, is free from mind-altering drugs.

[dark_light]

"Trying to drug you? Seriously?"

[prodigal_miser]

"I wish I were joking."