Lancelot du Lac (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
knightscode) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
undergrounds2016-02-20 12:45 pm
knightscode) wrote in undergrounds2016-02-20 12:45 pm
Entry tags:
MEMORIES [ ACTIVE / OPEN ]
i ) IGNORE THE SLANDER
It's been a complicated month for Lance. A complicated new year, really. Recovering from being in jail and having a doppelgänger is easier said than done. There had been apologies to write, and even then he had to work out who needed apologising to.
That, and his headaches had flourished into this odd ability to sense things. It would be far more useful, he thinks, if he knew what on earth it was that he could sense. Most of the time it just clued him in that something (or someone) was supernatural. Most of the time it just made his head hurt.
Still, he needed to learn to make use of it. The same as the magic the Night Council gave him, really, it was all things he was unpractised at. All new and peculiar. So it is that he decides to combine the two goals: he begins February by making his rounds. Redbright, the covens, people he knows. Generally apologising and then, on the off chance they know something, asking what they know about sensing magic. Can they sense it? What does it feel like to them? How do they tell it all apart?
When all else fails he sits and flicks through books in the library at Redbright, eyes glazing a little as he tries to take it all in.
ii ) DO YOU DRINK TEA
It's one of the more odd Night Council investigations that he's been a part of, but the more he thinks about it the more he wonders why he's surprised. It may sound like the plot of a children's tale, love potions, but children's stories about magic have to come from somewhere.
He's set up an investigation room in Westminster, trying to track where all the reports are coming from. See if there's some pattern to it all, something that might help them see an obvious target. At the moment, though, it appears relatively random. The act has a peculiarly prankish feel to it, however, so perhaps he is looking for something that doesn't exist. Perhaps there is no pattern, and it's simply a random act of childish 'fun'. Lancelot sighs, spends a few more hours leafing through reports before deciding to hit the streets to find help.
Someone must know something, have seen something, or have drunk some of the tea and kept some.
Although, of course, raising such a line of conversation is a little awkward.
iii ) I'VE GOT A BAD IDEA
Lancelot has been dwelling on this for a while, the problem of his missing memories. They've been unlocked in drips, usually by some less than comfortable encounter that chipped away at the block, but up until now he'd been content to leave it at that. After all, he could not be sure what these memories might reveal. What might be hidden from him. It may be nothing serious, may be nothing bad -- but equally it could be something he would rather had stayed forgotten.
Now, though, now things are different. With his magic slowly seeming to come to life he has the distant hope that... his memories might help him make sense of everything. That if he were to unlock them he might understand the world around them, and himself, a lot better.
So Lancelot goes looking -- for witches, vampires, fae. For situations that might trigger a memory, perhaps, or people who might know how to bring down the walls preventing him from remembering. He walks into trouble on the off chance something might happen. Nine times out of ten, nothing much does. Other than a fight breaking out and him ending up gaining a few bruises.
It's a bad idea. He knows it's a bad idea. Yet what's the worst that could happen?
He can think of plenty.
It's been a complicated month for Lance. A complicated new year, really. Recovering from being in jail and having a doppelgänger is easier said than done. There had been apologies to write, and even then he had to work out who needed apologising to.
That, and his headaches had flourished into this odd ability to sense things. It would be far more useful, he thinks, if he knew what on earth it was that he could sense. Most of the time it just clued him in that something (or someone) was supernatural. Most of the time it just made his head hurt.
Still, he needed to learn to make use of it. The same as the magic the Night Council gave him, really, it was all things he was unpractised at. All new and peculiar. So it is that he decides to combine the two goals: he begins February by making his rounds. Redbright, the covens, people he knows. Generally apologising and then, on the off chance they know something, asking what they know about sensing magic. Can they sense it? What does it feel like to them? How do they tell it all apart?
When all else fails he sits and flicks through books in the library at Redbright, eyes glazing a little as he tries to take it all in.
ii ) DO YOU DRINK TEA
It's one of the more odd Night Council investigations that he's been a part of, but the more he thinks about it the more he wonders why he's surprised. It may sound like the plot of a children's tale, love potions, but children's stories about magic have to come from somewhere.
He's set up an investigation room in Westminster, trying to track where all the reports are coming from. See if there's some pattern to it all, something that might help them see an obvious target. At the moment, though, it appears relatively random. The act has a peculiarly prankish feel to it, however, so perhaps he is looking for something that doesn't exist. Perhaps there is no pattern, and it's simply a random act of childish 'fun'. Lancelot sighs, spends a few more hours leafing through reports before deciding to hit the streets to find help.
Someone must know something, have seen something, or have drunk some of the tea and kept some.
Although, of course, raising such a line of conversation is a little awkward.
iii ) I'VE GOT A BAD IDEA
Lancelot has been dwelling on this for a while, the problem of his missing memories. They've been unlocked in drips, usually by some less than comfortable encounter that chipped away at the block, but up until now he'd been content to leave it at that. After all, he could not be sure what these memories might reveal. What might be hidden from him. It may be nothing serious, may be nothing bad -- but equally it could be something he would rather had stayed forgotten.
Now, though, now things are different. With his magic slowly seeming to come to life he has the distant hope that... his memories might help him make sense of everything. That if he were to unlock them he might understand the world around them, and himself, a lot better.
So Lancelot goes looking -- for witches, vampires, fae. For situations that might trigger a memory, perhaps, or people who might know how to bring down the walls preventing him from remembering. He walks into trouble on the off chance something might happen. Nine times out of ten, nothing much does. Other than a fight breaking out and him ending up gaining a few bruises.
It's a bad idea. He knows it's a bad idea. Yet what's the worst that could happen?
He can think of plenty.
no subject
"Maybe? That's a strange answer, I suppose, forgive me -- but things are a little... complicated. I've had parts of myself locked away a while now, so it's hard to know if these are things coming back that I've had before or... genuinely new."
Which, perhaps, triggers more questions than answers -- and the realisation makes Lancelot drop his eyes a little shyly.
"It's something about me, I find, things are never as easy as they perhaps should be. I find myself prone to complications."
no subject
But his court is the cruel one. Okay.
He gestures for Lancelot to follow, walking aimlessly rather than standing about on the street waiting for some other person to start a fight. "Locked away, you said?"
no subject
"You can sense what I am, I assume?" he prompts, "since I can sense you, I'll assume it's mutual."
no subject
Eames is quiet for a moment or two, waiting and watching for him to process the information before he inquires further, "you don't remember any of it?"
no subject
"Some of it," he offers finally. "It comes back to me in patches. Things jog my memory here and there. The sight of something, being chased by something, the feel of magic in a place. I suppose there is only so much the... spell, I assume it was, can hold back once I began to come into contact with magic again. It's impressive enough I went over 20 years without it breaking, at least to me."
He supposes others might disagree. Fae are long lived, after all, 20 years is nothing to them.
"I remember the night I was taken, if... vaguely. I was only 5, maybe 6 years old, so memories that long ago are... patchy, more like disjointed scenes. I didn't understand at that time, but I think it was a territory battle. Between who I'm not sure, but I remember... what I thought were big dogs. A lot of blood. My parents told me to hide, and by the time I worked up the courage to come out there was... nobody else left. Aside from, of course, a fae."
Lancelot's lips flick up in a faint, cynical sort of smile -- since he's fairly sure Eames can work out what happened there. A traumatised, small child is an easy enough thing to persuade away.
no subject
"And you don't remember your time in the court?"
no subject
How much would be important to a child then? How much would his mind retain after having it sealed away as long as it had been? Perhaps his memories will never return, not any more than they have. Perhaps this is simply how his life will be. Truth be told, it is hardly as if he is struggling this way.
no subject
"Is this--" he gestures vaguely to Lancelot, implying his newfound senses, "why you're out looking for trouble?"
no subject
"I was hoping it might jog something," he admits. "Such things have worked before... although, admittedly, I was not looking at the time -- it was all quite by accident."
It's what he gets for helping Faolan that first time, suddenly being chased down by a werewolf and then having rather painful flashbacks to the last time he saw one. The moral of this story is don't help Faolan, it always ends badly.