This section allows you to view all posts made by this member. Note that you can only see posts made in areas you currently have access to.
Messages - Altair
41
« on: 12/07/2024 at 16:30 »
"I suspect titles are made by editors. Bad titles sometimes mean one less layer of philosophical self-gratification added to the content of a book."The ghost of a smirk flitted accross his face - he'd think it was the other way around, that an author this to the point would also be the composer of an uncomplicated title. But he made no effort of clarification, merely allowing himself a slight amusement at their disagreement. Instead, he nodded at the last comment - here they did agree. Also, a title was better than no title, most of the time. Then again, titles were not necessary for his system of organisation, anyway. "It's one of my favourites," he admitted, though left out that it had everything to do with the straighforwardness, and flipped the book open. The pages were an ashen black, but upon them, drawn in intricate golden lines, was the outline of a maze. "Layers is one strategy," he explained. "But the more dead ends, the harder it is to arrive from one point to another." He looked at the boy and gave his own temple a double tap with the middle finger. The book was full of these kinds of graphics. He left it there, pages open and inviting, as he turned to chase the sound of the bell, announcing the arrival of another customer. "And don't worry, I'm not a legilimens anymore," he added non-chalantly, disappearing behind a bookshelf. (He'd just deducted from the nonsensical answer - everything magical comes back to it eventually. Yet, most look outward - coupled with the interest in the mind, that this work might be of interest to the young Ravenclaw.)
Early July 1973
He was back, and he was welcome. And out of nowhere, Altair had appeared, placing a cup of steaming coffee on a small table where the boy was executing today's work. Considering that Altair had his own cup in his hand, it was obvious that this one was meant for Tigran. "Have you found what you were looking for?"
42
« on: 12/07/2024 at 13:02 »
7th July 1973
Ignis Fides ~ It has been twenty years. I like to imagine you in the corner of a bright red sofa, your knees to your chest, cradling a steaming mug of hot chocolate in your hands. I like to imagine you surrounded by your loved ones, and with children - a boy and a girl - with bright eyes and bright minds to match your own. I like to imagine you with someone less complicated, more stimulating, who inspires your questions and answers without bringing about your exhaustion. I like to imagine you happy, childishly mischievous, pouring my drink onto the carpet floor of Muspell. You were right - making myself vulnerable was the path to learning to love myself. I love you for trying to teach me. It is a love that extends to everyone that can make you happy. But I do not regret. M.
43
« on: 12/07/2024 at 00:05 »
20th June 1973
Ignis Fides ~ It has been twenty years. Your shadow still lingers. Your absence still pains me. Happy birthday.With love, M.
44
« on: 12/07/2024 at 00:04 »
THIS IS A JOURNAL OF LETTERS THAT WERE NEVER SENT.Tucked away in a black chest in a backroom of Muspell.
45
« on: 12/06/2024 at 20:21 »
He was unsurprised to find that he'd hit right on the mark.
Though they appeared clearly different - Tigran did not immediate strike him as having the air of arrogance, or the intensity of the drive,, that Altair had once thought would certainly have landed him in Slytherin.
As their hands wrapped around each other, he tried to decipher, brow furrowed, what kind of case he was dealing with. Whether the apparent passivity - or avoidance - meant that he was dealing with someone in need of being led.
Or whether Tigran was merely making observation.
The reaction from the spirits indicated the latter.
"What about--" he started, taking back his hand after the proper greeting had been settled, and turning to the shelf just accross from them, stroking a finger along the spine of an old leather-bound book with slim, golden letters.
He put it down on the table.
The letters read, simply, LAYERED.
"Bad title," commented Altair. "But with clear language, unlike some of the other philosophical self-gratification I have lying around," he continued, not without humour.
46
« on: 12/06/2024 at 14:55 »
He had not seen them. He had not seen them. Now their presence hit him like a small eruption, a tidal wave that started with the raising of hands and the potent magic threatening to burst from the tip of their little playthings. One hand to the wooden surface, palm down, he used the table for support as he turned his head to look at the guards that had somehow gone undetected and his glance was not kind - yeah, you better be scared, said the little voice in the back of his head, and he sent a dark thought to the assassination of one Jean-Claude Ouellet, once upon a time in the era of the Social Reconstruction Committee. He needed no wand to work his magic, but it was also not his style to attack anyone in the open, and least of all a Minister. It was a moment of sheer stupidity from the former Ravenclaw, a second of weakness in the agitated state that followed his realisation that his magic had failed him. Following the dizziness, the fact that he, at the given moment, was struggling even to keep himself standing. And somehow they multiplied, turned into dark shadows. It was the other's raised hand, the depth of his voice that brough him back. Yet, he turned his head and the papers gathered between them appeared to melt into the table, and Altair was made aware that he was not all right - resisting the urge to reach out a finger and poke the other man so he'd finally turn into wisps of orange smoke. “I know who you are. You’re not someone easily forgotten.”He was smart enough to know that this was not necessarily a compliment, but he was sincere in his approach, and could appreciate the frankness. It was this that convinced him that he might not, in fact, have slipped back into the dark pool of terrible visions. And he sat. "Thank you," he said quietly, but he needed a moment to close his eyes, to allow for a new silence to settled in. "It's a complicated matter -," he started, "- but I'll try not to take too much of your afternoon." When he opened his eyes back up, they looked at Rivera directly. "I stopped voting when I got myself involved in politics," he explained. "Many years ago, I was part of the political movement of the Order for the Return of All Rights. We were known for being quite radical. We believed that people were able to make the best decisions for themselves, in all matters." For him, it had been libertarianism, but in the anarchist tradition - one potent with idealism and energy and change. "I stopped voting because I went into that movement wanting a freer world, for purebloods and muggleborns alike - but what happened was that the leaders turned into megalomaniacs. It was us that brought on the Blood Status Bill." The words cut him like shards of glass, but his blood intermixed with theirs, running freely and black with guilt. Since then he had worked relentlessly, dedicated parts of his life to undoing the madness that he was participated in bringing aboard, though without abandoning the original ideology by which he had lived. "Do you know what tyrant means, Mr. Rivera? Tyrant is originally a term from ancient Greek society assigned to those that arose to power without the formal approval of a ruling elite, against the staus quo, against the Laws that have been put in place to keep that power." The demonisation of people like them had been put into their language, into their Law. That was how resistant the system was to changes from the bottom-up. They were words that seethed with molten anger, then, abruptly -- "I'm sorry, I'm not here to give you my lecture," he said, diverting his eyes to stare down at the table. It gave the impression of a child suddenly realising that he'd said too much, a strange crack in the character that was Altair. "I'm just here to express that, given my experience with the Ministry, I am afraid of what Bellestrom might bring, and what you could become once placed inside that same system of politics." It wasn't really a question. It didn't even have much to do with Atticus Rivera. This was Altair having demons, and reaching out for someone to cling to, someone that might have some power to change things. Perhaps even someone in a position to resist corruption. Break the circle. (It was hope he was looking for, at last.)
47
« on: 12/05/2024 at 19:40 »
The air changed, and perhaps it was him that had changed it. For good or bad, Altair had tended to be a person of frank conversations and, the truth was, contrary to what some people thought, he was not all that good of a liar.
(Unless his life depended on it).
It was how he'd ended here, balancing on the edge of what other defined as good, and what they defined as bad.
"Of course Ragnar Lothbrok's historical existence is difficult to decipher from his legend. And I suppose if he wrote the scroll in his own hand, he could say whatever he liked. - What sort of evidence would you be able to come by?"
The corners of his lips tipped up.
"I thought that was your work," he said, not unkindly.
"Mine's just distributing the stories."
There was something darker there though, underlying the humour. Something concealed, more sticky, complicated.
Strangely, it lied at the core of his being, of his style of teaching, back when he'd been the professor - he could provide the means, make himself a channel, but he'd never plainly be the vessel for executing someone elses work. Not without harnessing something for his own.
"I tend to deal with the in-betweens, and the unknown," he explained. "I tend to not think that things can be so easily divided into black or white, good or bad, myth or legend. I think we might miss a great deal if we try doing so."
He saw categories as just concepts, a great deal of them leading back to wholly modern ways of dividing the world.
"On Lothbrok, I think that his legends pinning him to times spanning hundreds of years speaks in favour of him being a wizard. But the texts - at least those not in his hand - having been written hundreds of years after his death could be a problem. But you probably know more about this than me," he continued.
"On evidence - if there's something specific, for example the idea of an existing artefact, I can use my channels to try to find out if such a thing exists."
He took a small sip from his cup.
"-- but I do not deal in forgeries," he clarified, although he did not think this was what she had implied.
48
« on: 12/05/2024 at 18:52 »
“Everything magical comes back to it eventually. Yet, most look outward.”
A stretched-out silence followed the statement. One that betrayed Altair had to take a moment to think.
There was a strange air of confidence to the boy, one that did not match the avoidant behaviour. And he had made a smart move - concealing his answer like that.
In the concealment was exactly the answer he was after.
"Ravenclaw?" he asked.
Talking in riddles reminded him of the ever-changing passwords to the Tower, forcing them to think again and think over.
The straight face concealed his amusement.
"Marcus," he said, making a snap decision, reaching hand out his hand for a formal greeting - but not too much so.
49
« on: 12/01/2024 at 21:08 »
He had not been certain of her answer.
Not certain that there'd be one.
Now that there was, it pulled him in.
Leaning back, his gaze stayed with hers, and his tension disappeared. Although he did not necessarily agree with her, nor like the institution with which she found herself associated - The British Museum - the story was believable and her work interesting.
"Thank you," he said, and his words rang true.
Through his residence in Knockturn, Altair dealt with a lot of beings. A lot of whom held neither the morals nor knowledge that he found sufficient for dealing with some of the things that they requested.
What he liked best about living in a place like this was that he could turn people down simply for not liking them.
He could always lock his doors.
Now, this case came accross as plain innocent in comparison.
"History tends to be written by the winners, huh?" he commented, thinking that would be a particular challenge to verifying the work, especially considering that many historical texts seemed to exist for the sheer purpose of bragging.
Then --
"It would surprises me though - if he is the first - considering the vast mention of shapeshifters accross worldy myth and legend". In that sense it was typical for a European to focus hard on Scandinavia rather than, for instance, the African stories.
"Alas, evidence cannot be easy to get by."
50
« on: 11/30/2024 at 22:29 »
It was a long silence.
A silence that clung and forced its way throug his body, starting from the heels of his feet and travelling up until it hit his spine, sending invisible shivers to his head and his arms, to fingers potent with magic.
Out in the world, he was a looming shadow, a monstrosity of flaming power. Out in the world, he was finely attuned to everything that moved around, physically or in spirit. He was on top, in control, leaning into the constant raging chaos.
Now he felt small.
Not small in the way that he'd felt when called into the office of Anneka for performing blood sacrifice during class, for breaking all the rules, and pulling with him two of his fellow professors.
Not small in the way that he'd faced up to his old mentor, knowing that when it was over, one of them would have passed out of existence in their entirety.
Not even small in the way he'd felt sitting at a lonely table in the middle of the Great Hall, once upon a time pulling white lies to Auror Rhys Thorneson, so that a Spencer and Francis could bring forth their mad dance and pull the world into into a flurry of alchemy and violence and fever dreams.
No, now he was truly small, in the way that he had placed himself under her gaze for the sole purpose of making himself vulnerable.
"What do I do?" he asked quietly.
Perhaps it was for that illusion of control that he chose to break the silence.
51
« on: 11/30/2024 at 19:33 »
"In general they take notice of those who acknowledge them without fear."
His gaze rested on the youth.
It was not wrong. Absolute Authority was the only way to keep some of them from trying to kill him.
(They still tried though, time and time again.)
Either way, he was able to recognise that he had something of a rarity on his hands.
He was also aware that the other had tried to avoid him. Which was fair enough - even as the contents of Muspell drew them in, Altair was someone with a reputation.
"Why magic of the mind?" he pried.
52
« on: 11/24/2024 at 19:40 »
In the The Crumbling Crow (bar), Hogsmeade
He was making an effort. He was out and about. He was talking to people. Sometimes. At the moment he was sitting by himself, in a dark corner, staring out the window. In his hand was a mere glass of water. On the table before him, an open book. As the others drifted, in and out, he remained a constant. A dark statue. But he needed something new. When he got up, the dark cloak poured down around him. His frame moved over the room in quiet strides, a long, skeletal thing. Propping his elbows on the counter, he stole a look at the selection of drinks on the other side. But his eyes wandered, and he recognised the face of the woman beside him. "Congratulations," he said. "On Headmistress." He reached out a hand - he didn't think they'd been formally introduced. "Lukas Altair. Former Hogwarts Professor," he explained.
53
« on: 11/24/2024 at 18:13 »
There was a change. A whiff. A familiarity.
And he was curious.
"I must commend you on your collection."
"Thanks," Altair said, with mild interest, holding the gaze of the boy. He'd appeared from between the shelves, carefully as not to disturb.
With a slow motion that requested permission, Altair extended his hand to take the book, flipping to the cover to look for an identification.
Interesting.
He put the book carefully back and the pages turned at their own accord, until back on the page that the boy had been reading.
"They recognise you," he said.
He did a slight nod of his head in one direction, to a single pair of starlit eyes glinting in the darkness. At his recognition of its presence, they immediately disappeared.
54
« on: 11/24/2024 at 17:59 »
He received a thanks, but he wasn't sure if he could feel it.
"No problem," he said, and raised his hand - in which there was also a cup - to his lips for a sip. He made a gesture with his hand motioning toward a pair of chairs to one of the sides, with a small, wooden coffee table inbetween them. Feeling no need to rush the conversation, he made himself comfortable, leaning back and placing one leg on top of the other.
"I'd be interested to know, if you do have it, how you came to acquire it in the first place and what you know about it?"
"I do not have it," he said. "But I might be able to aquire it."
The edges of his lips were slighly upturned.
There was something of an attitude, even audacity, to walking into Knockturn and demand from those there the entire history of an artefact's retrieval, not witheld the retriever's private thoughts on the object's matter. It spoke either of stupidity, or of true boldness.
Either way, she didn't seem much used to the ways of Knockturn.
"Well, I know Jafnhár is just one of several aliases attributed to the legends of Ragnar Lothbrok," he said. And when he did, his accent changed - the names were articulated in a way that indicated someone with practice in at least one of the Scandinavian languages.
"For what do you intend to use it?" he questioned back, holding on to an expression of genuine interest.
55
« on: 11/24/2024 at 17:31 »
The Election Debate has sent his head into a spin. As it went on, he'd given himself over to a signature annoyance, even a loathing, as he had listened to Atticus' speech on how he was going to improve their magical community. When he'd entered home in Muspell, he'd been overcome by what could not be described as anything but a purple haze. And then he'd broken down, found some long forgotten bottle of red wine (technically, he'd quit all drinking many years before) and slumped into one of his large, leather chairs. And he'd sat through the night thinking. And he'd remembered. Then he'd been gripped by them, long tendrils of dark misery, of despair, and of failure. And like his Condition (the one that had landed him in the seat of the Seer) seemed to require (much helped by the wine), it had tossed him into a spiral of confusion, as his grip on reality wiltered away. From then on he knew what had happened, but struggled to remember - failing to reach the door downstair to the protective chambers, he'd been tossed into the Otherworld, and Muspell's spirits had recognised his moment of weakness. He'd woken to bookcases that had toppled over. One of the meaner spirits had gotten away, and a labour heavy task of hunting it back down was on the future agenda. For now, though, he found himself back in the Pasta Vino (oh, the irony), finding the Interim Minister working at a table. "Excuse me, Sir," he said. "Do you mind?" It was an odd thing for Altair to slip into formalities, and it reminded him of a pureblood upbringing that he'd long since abandoned. And though he'd made an effort to look presentable, he felt dizzy from the turmultous week. "My name's Altair. I taught at Hogwarts when you were a student," he explained. (In fact, he was pretty sure that Rivera had been at school, during his infamous incident of blood magic.) "I'm considering giving you my vote, but I have some questions about your political agenda - if you'd be so kind." He gestured to the free chair on the other side of the table - a request to sit. Through the turmoil of the night, he'd realised something important: The reason why he'd exited the debate with the confusing feeling of both being moved and wanting to rip out the throat of Atticus Rivera, was possibly that the man was trying to do something at which Altair had failed. So he had a need to run a reality check that whatever Rivera had said that had set him off was not a fragment of Altair's own imagination (as were too many things, these days). Furthermore: Whether the loathing he felt for Rivera was actually grounded in a loathing for himself. (In the middle of desperation, he must reach out a long-fingered hand and grab it - grab the hole in his chest that constantly worked to turn him against himself and everyone else.)
56
« on: 11/23/2024 at 18:07 »
PRIVATE CLASSES
Altair is opening up for the service of tutoring/private classes from his resindence in Muspell and/or Wizarding London. Available subjects include: Divination* Psychometry Conjuring and summoning Alchemy - divi and C/S based (up to expert level) Alchemy - divi and transfiguration based (up to medium level) Grey magic All classes are based on a combination of theory and practice. Children under 14 years of age are only considered by exception. Special powers like Wandless can be considered, but requires a special request to the admins. The same goes for any request for plots involving very powerful spells and/or branching into darker topics/magics. CV: 1935-36: Professor in the Art of Dueling (with Francis Turin), Hogwarts 1939-40: Professor in Theory of the Dark Arts, Beauxbatons 1941-42: C/S Professor, Hogwarts 1949-51: Alchemy Professor, Hogwarts 1952-54: Librarian, Hogwarts 1938-39, 1949-54: Duelling referee, Hogwarts Fall 1957: C/S Professor, Hogwarts Please send a PM if interested!
* mind that Altair is generally uninterested in divining futures.
57
« on: 11/22/2024 at 22:48 »
A lot of information could be conveyed through a gaze, through a tone of voice, the touch of a hand. And he stored it silently in his mind, her formal arrangement of words, her fingers on the counter, and painted a picture.
She reeked pureblood, and money, and officiality, and knew that he should have been able to place her. Not the least because he'd also had a career meddling with artefacts, even as he'd since found more interest in the hidden incantations of books.
(A memory brushed by, of a hopelessly lost teenager with an amulet around his neck, caught in the heat of death and re-birth, once in a 1972 that had happened and unhappened, before.)
People like her were the trickiest, because they tended not to be people of the either/or - official institutions, particularly when run by the old and powerful, could be Ministry and yet unorthodox, in the most unsettling of ways.
He noted the way her voice dropped and caught a slight discrepancy.
The British Museum, was it?
A hand slowly rose to his face to stroke a clean-shaven chin, his eyes holding hers for a long time as he considered his options.
Then cocked his head slightly, as to match hers.
"That's a little unspecific," he said.
Which was not rejection, as made clear from the cup of coffee that suddenly materialised right next to her hand. Old Norse was a broad field that covered artefacts from all the Scandinavian countries, well into the middle ages (and beyond, in places like Iceland).
Also, it was a topic which just happened to be of his particular interest.
58
« on: 11/20/2024 at 21:57 »
Every now and then something stubled into the shop that he had not expected. While it was not supposed to happen, it was a keen reminder that his magic wasn't foolproof and that it was time to re-do the wards (many of which were put in place to protect the outside from the things he had trapped in here). Every time, however, it set off an alarm of eerie murmur, a choir of agitated low voices, undetectable by all but those with the keenest sense of Divination. And every time he hushed them quiet, as his feet fell into a steady rhythm, needing no light to lead him to the culprit. This time, as he came to a stop behind a shelf by the entrance, he registered the presence of two, in addition to the others that were already there - which was nothing short of a crowd, for his standards. One of them was a child. Now, keeping children out of the shop had little to do with not being open for introducing the young to the more complicated sides of magic. Rather, it had to do with their teenage attitudes, the King-of-the-Castle attempt at pulling off the dark and for their friends following the logic of something cool. (There was too much in here not meant for the unwisened, though most inspiring of any real danger was kept behind shut doors.) This one was harmless, so Altair let him be. And since he'd rather not trap the child inside the shop, he let the defective child-repellant be. Then, passing the conversing pair on the way back to the counter, he registered the word Potions and decided to steer very much clear. Altair, ever the alchemist, was rubbish at Potions. When they, after another moment, arrived at the counter, he accepted the money, sending a gaze after the child running off with his grown-up books. "That was a nice gesture," he commented, the deep line of a furrow visible between dark eyebrows, as he let the woman know that he'd registered parts of their conversation. He was silently thankful that the matter had been taken care of by someone who obviously had more skill than him at communicating with children. He turned his eyes to her then, one a clear blue, the other a cloudy grey. "Did you find what you were looking for?"
59
« on: 11/20/2024 at 09:43 »
Early December 1972
Magical Psychology
He had tidied up. His jeans were black, ending in a pair of newly polished leather shoes. Long arms crossed over his chest, the deep blue of his shirt showing a shiny quality in the light. From a sleeve peeked the ink of an old tattoo. He was feeling ok, sending a thanks to whatever power had granted him a moment outside the constantly hallucinatory. Though to say he was comfortable would be a stretch. It showed in the stiff way that he sat, in how his feet would not stay still, soles bouncing and jittering in an image of the teenage boy that was no more. As though he'd been called in and was getting ready to argue his case. His eyes, one bright blue, the other a cloudy grey, were trained on the woman before him, willing her to speak first. And in an effort for some anonymity (- or, perhaps, nostalgia -) he'd signed in with his old name: Marcus Vega.
60
« on: 11/19/2024 at 20:26 »
He stood in the back, fascinated, a tall, slim figure shrouded in black robes. It was not like him to dare the crowd, but he'd always been there for politics. Since the time he first took a step into the Order for the Return of All Rights, he'd been there. Although not having been too bad of a politician, already back then, at sixteen, he'd played politics the way he'd captained Quidditch - he preferred to pull strings while the others played circus. And when it was time, he'd make the necessary changes. For sure, he'd had a finger in the political game of Magical Britain for decades already, though the Order, and through his old mentor Francis, through the Social Reconstruction Committee, and then through Pryce. He'd been tied to the line of people running the affairs for something like the past forty years. To Altair, this was disaster -- In a very short span of time those of the Ministry most important to him - Calypso Ross and Pryce Hir - the two very people secured deeply in his pocket had stepped down (although in the case of the latter it was up for debate which pocket really belonged to whom). Decades of work fell flat to the ground. And now, these -- ? For sure, it was a new era. Somehow, his body untightened. He'd broken so many rules and forged so many crimes, but as he did not know them, they would not know him. From that moment, perhaps he could slip into the role of just some shady guy running a dubious bookshop in Knockturn. -- perhaps it was a blessing. Then again -- Words. Bellestrom was boring and patriarchal, while Rivera was full of words. Words that were no different than those preached by Altair's own Order, if a lot less radical. Rivera could have answered the questions, but chose to jab at the other participant instead, and the conversation lost value. Altair wished Rivera had been aware that he was preaching capitalist conservatism in his choice of language - on "progress", on "growth", and on Hogwart's domination. By the drawing of a false dichotomy between tradition and tolerance. And he rolled his eyes. It was the cancer of pretend democracy that people insisted on changing the system within the rules of said system. "Do you think they talk more to the crowd or to hear their own voices?" he asked, not without humour (albeit a flat one), directing the question to the person beside him [Michael]. He recognised the face, though he could not tell from where. Even as he was drawn, for a moment, to the promises of the younger participant, time would show whether he'd follow through. Idealist, said Bellestrom, and Altair wished he had been right. He'd spread his wings to scavenge whatever was left when they were done.
|
Posts
