Clea & Namor | Non-human Magic
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xp_logsClea and Namor meet in the city and strike a bargain: a future favor exchanged for knowledge on Atlantean magic.
Clea adjusted her shoulder bag with her newly purchased items from the Occult shop in the city, her mind already on the thought of being at the mansion with some tea and reading through her newest purchases. It sounded like a perfect night for her. As she turned the corner, her mind came back to the present as she saw a familiar face in the crowd. Namor. The idea of books and tea had taken a back seat in her mind as she made her way towards him, "Namor." She called out hoping to get his attention before she lost him.
The full height of tall Atlantean perked at Clea's call — eyes narrowing at the impudence, ears twitching in recognition, and expression only momentarily breaking from its resting snarl that created a bubble around him in the foot traffic on the city street. The fact that civilians naturally steered around the king due to a natural instinct to avoid a predator also made the sharply dressed man stand out.
Namor's head turned slowly to Clea as one of his hands drifted to adjust his vest — his only concession toward 'no shoes, no shirt.' An eyebrow was raised.
Clea finally caught up and as she looked up at the towering man. He did stand almost a foot taller than her, and his choice of clothing distracted her for a moment before the red head shook her head. "Hey, it is weird seeing you here of all places. But I am glad I caught you. Are you busy? I was hoping that you would help me answer some questions. For research. If now isn't the time, perhaps later?" She was sure Namor was a busy man and boy, was he intimidating looking from where she stood.
The man stared down his nose at Clea, and only part of that was the height. "It is natural you know of me," and this was delivered with a bit of resignation mixed with disdain, "but We have never met." He glanced at his phone. "You have one minute to petition the Crown of Atlantis for its attention. Make it interesting."
Clea hid her amusement. He was everything she heard him to be. "I am interested in Atlantean Magic. I am a magic user, a witch, and I've searched Kamar-Taj's libraries, but they don't come up with much—only a bit of history, but most of it was lost or not recovered yet. If you don't know, Kamar-Taj's is home to the Ancient One, the current Sorcerer Supreme. I am one of the students there." Clea paused only for a second to get to the point. " But since you are a direct connection, I wanted to speak from the source. I've been studying other cultures' religions, rituals, and magic and have started to expand my research into magic. There is only so much old men in their old temples can teach me. So can the Crown of Atlantis spend an hour or two talking about Atlantean's rich magical history with me?"
While his disinterest was palpable, the full weight of Namor's attention settled on Clea as she spoke — not unlike the pressing weight of descent. A gradual, crushing build. He crossed his arms before replying, "And what will you do with this knowledge? Know We will not surrender our culture so readily to that 'ancient' upstart, let alone Amanda Sefton's little coven."
"I am here on the behalf of myself. The knowledge is for myself. There is so much unknown in this world and I want to discover it, learn from it. And maybe to understand about who I am myself." Clea looked at her forearm where the faint scar still resided. "So all of this is for self-interest. No agenda. But maybe we can come to an agreement?"
"Propose your terms."
"In exchange for sharing what you know, I'll owe you a favor. No questions are asked, not matter what it is, and it is redeemable at any time." Clea said to him. "I don't make deals like this, but I would for this."
Namor's thin smile twisted like a knife. "You would promise me a favor from a lung-breather? I have witnessed how humans treat their promises — they mean as little as your lives have meaning." He leaned closer, and spoke softly. "We will take this bargain only if you sign with more than words."
"Oh, I know how some humans treat their promises. But I'll tell you a little secret. I'm not human. I am from a different dimension. I found this out when my supposed uncle ripped me from this world into my homeworld. I know very little about where I am from; I know more about Atlantis than I do about that. If you aren't sure, I can show you the report. Several people went there to rescue Topaz and me." Clea looked him in the eyes, unwavering. "Perhaps, a deal sealed in magic, then."
"Ggood," Namor said almost too quickly. Like he'd won something. "We shall swear by the Nine Sacred Scrolls. An invocation. I will share all I know of Atlantean magic for a favor of my choosing at any time that cannot be denied by you or your masters."
No one owned her, so Clea had no issue making this deal, even if she may find it burdensome in the future. "Okay, I will accept that." The red head smiled graciously up at him.
There was a nod, and in a flash Namor had brought a hand to his face and nipped forcefully at his own thumb. There was the smallest bead of blood. "As I have spoken," he vowed as a bite of unfamiliar magic filled the air, "I will hold to my promise, word for word, in fair trade. May the seas drag me down below if I fail."
He looked at her, expectant. The half-sealed invocation hung in the air.
Clea reached into her large hobo bag and pulled out a small pocket knife. She always hated this part as she presses her own thumb onto the sharp end. "I will hold to my promise, word for word, in fair trade. May the seas drag me down below if I fail." And she will uphold it for sure, drowning would suck. She held out her hand to him.
Namor stared at her as if she had spilled tea. "You must swear by your own ideals, not my people's. You are not of us."
Purple energy started to form around her hand lightly, "I, Clea, daughter of Orini, the rightful king of the Dark Dimension, will uphold my end of the contract as stated. If I fail, then may my homeworld take me back."
"Your words are accepted," the Atlantean replied. No handshake came, but he schooled his own hands into one of the many appropriate hand gestures for formal thanks. The magic bit down on them both – the crushing weight of the ocean meeting the sparking energy of the dark dimension. A contract sealed between them.
The smile that crossed Namor's lips gave a hint that he'd gotten away with something. Instead of sharing exactly what, he proposed "a more appropriate venue for the sharing of such secrets and history."
Fifteen minutes later, they had tea and privacy.
"My people believe what you call magic is an argument," Namor began. He waited a few seconds to ensure he had Clea's full attention, and then stretched the pause with a sip of his drink. "Our craft works with definitions and boundaries. As masters of the ocean, our mages learned that lines and rules drawn to gather the power on sea are wide nets that fish can swim right through. The true name of a wave changes with every roll, crash, and fold. Yet it is through names that claims are made, wills are chained, and power is drawn. Yet that power determines who is in control."
Clea took another sip of her tea, carefully analyzing what Namor was trying to say to her. "You use your words and language to cast your spells. Fascinating. The ocean is unpredictable and drawing power from that can be equally unpredictable." She took another sip of her tea before putting it down. "When you say 'power determines who is in control', is that a form of hierarchy? Meaning, those who can use this type of magic are those who are in your position?" Clea was already taking out her notebook.
"One cannot draw ambient power from the sea," he said, "so Atlantis binds itself through bloodlines cultivated to hold power. The royal family is the greatest due to our direct lineage to the gods."
"So the stronger the lineage is to your gods, the more likely you are to cultivate your power. So not all who were Atlantean were not capable of wielding magic? Who is Atlantis's patron gods?" Clea wrote a little more down, trying to piece together Namor's unique way of speaking.
Namor started to reply, but caught himself. "The Atlantean belief system is too arcane and complex to explain in the time we have. You must understand two points: my line draws forth from the entity the land has simplified into 'Poseidon,' and your foolish mountain mystics would accuse us of mere blood magic."
"Poseidon." Clea's lips curved into a smile and then she rolled her eyes, "Those mountain mystics only care about one or two things and then are bloody judgy when it comes to anything that isn't their own.They also tend to hide a lot of their deeper secrets in locked books." Clea sat back and took a sip of her tea, "In all my recent studies of different magic from different cultures I learned something new. It makes me wonder if this entity that mythos called Poseidon exists, truly exists, what else exists." The red-head smiled brightly at Namor, "Thank you. I hope when we have more time you could share more of the belief system with me."
"Do not overstep – my line's power is the very proof Poseidon exists. We carry his blessing." He stared into his own tea as if looking somewhere else.
"Apologies." Clea quickly wrote down what Namor was saying. If Asgard was proven to be real, then is there another dimension where Mount Olypemius ruled? What about the other religions? Clea looked up at him again when he started to speak again, "Isn't it the same with other entities as well?" Clea paused before speaking, "I learned not too long ago that I was not even born from this realm. I was born in a city that was taken over by a Faltine named Dormammu and his sister. My uncle and apparently my mother. He craved power and he certainly didn't serve anyone, I saw what he did to that City. Maybe it is the possibility to have that power that drives humans and other un-worldly entities to seek and hoard it. They covet what they don't have and they'll go to any lengths to get it." She took a deep breath in and let it out, "Thank you for sharing. I don't seek power to hoard it, but to understand it and share it. There is so much we don't know, so much that is abused, or tossed aside. Like you said, many things are lost in the past and we often repeat the same mistakes."
The look that crossed Namor's face had the flicker of some cross between 'my suspicions have been confirmed' and 'of course you aren't human.' The child of an eye roll and narrowing one's eyes.
"The Faltine," and this was a statement said like the man was making a note for later. "The Archer is working on a theory of realms and worlds, but We have yet to find others with that name.."
Clea made a side note to talk to this Archer about his theories of other realms and worlds. "So, going back to the Atlantean magic and power. The only way someone can harness this is through you." She hoped she was grasping it right.
"As it should be," Namor said. "Our magic – wealth gathered and refined over centuries – flows in blood, and all logomancy flows by blessing from the Crown. Adepts and royal mages would study and devote themselves solely to this power. Logomagia is science and magic intertwined. The power of names. Knowing, and by knowing, working wondrous feats. True magic."
"Fascinating. Your bloodline holds the key to such power, and then you bless those worthy of that power, Logomagia. May I ask what that process is like? Is it a ritual? Or is it something more personal?" Clea took another sip of her tea.
His smile was smug as he folded his hands. "I have delivered more than enough to satisfy our bargain, Clea Lake. Unless you happen to have more power to promise away."
Clea thought, "If I keep going, I'll forever be in your debt." Looking down at her notebook for a brief moment, she looked back up at him and smiled. "This is a good starting point. Though I am very curious to know how the ritual is done."
"It was not the purview of the crown to wield that power," Namor remarked with a shrug. "Only to grant the blessing of our cultivated power. Initiation was the magi's arcane secret."
Clea gave Namor a smile, "Thank you for that." She made a mental note to do something extra for him when the time came. "More secrets..." Writing it down in her notebook. "Thanks Namor. For this conversation. I know it is part of our deal, but it was a pleasure talking to you."
Knowledge shared, Namor moves onto asking Clea about why she bothers making a place with humanity.
The other man's head cocked to the side only by a few degrees. "Now that we're finished, Clea the Faltine, I have spent the whole of this conversation with a question of my own." He gestured vaguely as to encompass the whole of her. "Why? Why do you work so hard to blend into a people not your own."
Clea looked at him for a moment, "Because I don't know my own." She said simply and sighed, "I was a baby when I was brought to this dimension and adopted by my parents. I must have been barely a year old or so. From the records I can find, the Faltines are from a Hell Plane and are very secretive and rarely venture out of their own dimension. As for the Dark Dimension, I know that Dormammu came and took over, which led to a rebellion and the fall of those people. Even then the books I did find don't offer much. From what I saw, it was mostly in ruins. I don't even know if there are survivors that managed to make it this far." She paused again before saying, "I guess we are kindred spirits in a way. We both lost our homes." Tapping her notebook, "Maybe in my search for answers, I will find what I've been looking for."
"Yet, you could know them." It was a blunt statement. "I would violate everything sacred under the sun to bring my people back. You hold the power to tear open the way to other dimensions – I have seen what human mages can do. Surely you are more. Even then, We have our own portal. There are ways."
Clea looked at him in silence. No one ever mentioned that she could go to them for answers. She knew it would be dangerous to open a portal to the Dark Dimension, not without the risk of Dormammu finding out. Were those people, her people, alive? There was a possibility. All she did see were parts of the capital city and the castle, not the rest. "Isn't the portal unstable at the moment?" She came back to her senses.
"Nothing great is guaranteed," Namor said. "You have been too molded by human masters. 'Unstable,'" and his voice pitched higher in mockery, "'Risky.' Those are words used to keep pawns in their place. If that is what you wish to be, so be it."
Clea looked down at her notebook, her grimoire in the making, "They have been trying to mold many to be like them. It is why I haven't chosen that path. Despite the rocks, they keep sending." She sighed heavily, "Growing up in a world you thought you belonged in, only to have that reality ripped from underneath you. It makes you feel alone and naked. So, I have been grabbing at anything that will help that feeling lessen and hiding behind the bubble persona." Clea looked at Namor, "I don't know why I am telling you this. I don't want to be a pawn. Ever."
Namor didn't even blink. "So you play spy. Do those masters have you stealing from the mountain for their own gains? It is not ignoble to be a pawn. There is a cost to making difficult choices, and those who are content to serve simply refuse to pay."
"I play spy because I want to. And XF aren't masters, they pay my bills, so they are my bosses. That isn't a pawn, that is called being an employee. I am allowing my skills to be used and I can quit any time. As for stealing from the mountain, that was my idea." She looked at him for a moment.
"Pawns don't get a choice in the matter. I am searching for who I am, and yes, there may be people out there that wish to put me under their thumb. But I can assure you I am too stubborn for that." She reached into her bag and pulled out a hundred dollar bill and placed it on the table. "If I wasn't, I would have joined the Winding Way the moment I received the first rock invitation. Maybe I am using them to fill up the void I feel, to satisfy my hunger for knowledge." Grabbing her grimoire off the table and placing it safely in her back. "Like I said, I don't ever want to be a pawn. Making them think I am - that is a different story."
He let the silence hang deliberately, and then took a final sip from his cup to stretch it further before standing and signaling their departure to the waiter.
"How wonderful for you," Namor said, "I look forward to the very moment that may be of any use to me. Craft your little web of lies, Clea the Faltine, and hope there are fewer spiders bigger than yourself in the dark."
Clea shuddered; she hated spiders. "And I am sure that is when you'll cash in on my end of the deal." Clea smiled at him as she stood with him, putting her bag over her shoulder. "I look forward to it, Namor. Truly, I do. I wonder what you may have in mind in your head. I'll see you around the mansion." She pulled out a card and gave it to him, "My number. In case you don't have it already stored on the phones." It just said her name and number in a readable font.
Namor stared at the card blankly before pocketing it. "Very well. I refuse to be reachable through casual communication. Inquire with my people for any future audiences."
Whatever she might have wanted to reply, he had already turned away to lead the way out.
Clea adjusted her shoulder bag with her newly purchased items from the Occult shop in the city, her mind already on the thought of being at the mansion with some tea and reading through her newest purchases. It sounded like a perfect night for her. As she turned the corner, her mind came back to the present as she saw a familiar face in the crowd. Namor. The idea of books and tea had taken a back seat in her mind as she made her way towards him, "Namor." She called out hoping to get his attention before she lost him.
The full height of tall Atlantean perked at Clea's call — eyes narrowing at the impudence, ears twitching in recognition, and expression only momentarily breaking from its resting snarl that created a bubble around him in the foot traffic on the city street. The fact that civilians naturally steered around the king due to a natural instinct to avoid a predator also made the sharply dressed man stand out.
Namor's head turned slowly to Clea as one of his hands drifted to adjust his vest — his only concession toward 'no shoes, no shirt.' An eyebrow was raised.
Clea finally caught up and as she looked up at the towering man. He did stand almost a foot taller than her, and his choice of clothing distracted her for a moment before the red head shook her head. "Hey, it is weird seeing you here of all places. But I am glad I caught you. Are you busy? I was hoping that you would help me answer some questions. For research. If now isn't the time, perhaps later?" She was sure Namor was a busy man and boy, was he intimidating looking from where she stood.
The man stared down his nose at Clea, and only part of that was the height. "It is natural you know of me," and this was delivered with a bit of resignation mixed with disdain, "but We have never met." He glanced at his phone. "You have one minute to petition the Crown of Atlantis for its attention. Make it interesting."
Clea hid her amusement. He was everything she heard him to be. "I am interested in Atlantean Magic. I am a magic user, a witch, and I've searched Kamar-Taj's libraries, but they don't come up with much—only a bit of history, but most of it was lost or not recovered yet. If you don't know, Kamar-Taj's is home to the Ancient One, the current Sorcerer Supreme. I am one of the students there." Clea paused only for a second to get to the point. " But since you are a direct connection, I wanted to speak from the source. I've been studying other cultures' religions, rituals, and magic and have started to expand my research into magic. There is only so much old men in their old temples can teach me. So can the Crown of Atlantis spend an hour or two talking about Atlantean's rich magical history with me?"
While his disinterest was palpable, the full weight of Namor's attention settled on Clea as she spoke — not unlike the pressing weight of descent. A gradual, crushing build. He crossed his arms before replying, "And what will you do with this knowledge? Know We will not surrender our culture so readily to that 'ancient' upstart, let alone Amanda Sefton's little coven."
"I am here on the behalf of myself. The knowledge is for myself. There is so much unknown in this world and I want to discover it, learn from it. And maybe to understand about who I am myself." Clea looked at her forearm where the faint scar still resided. "So all of this is for self-interest. No agenda. But maybe we can come to an agreement?"
"Propose your terms."
"In exchange for sharing what you know, I'll owe you a favor. No questions are asked, not matter what it is, and it is redeemable at any time." Clea said to him. "I don't make deals like this, but I would for this."
Namor's thin smile twisted like a knife. "You would promise me a favor from a lung-breather? I have witnessed how humans treat their promises — they mean as little as your lives have meaning." He leaned closer, and spoke softly. "We will take this bargain only if you sign with more than words."
"Oh, I know how some humans treat their promises. But I'll tell you a little secret. I'm not human. I am from a different dimension. I found this out when my supposed uncle ripped me from this world into my homeworld. I know very little about where I am from; I know more about Atlantis than I do about that. If you aren't sure, I can show you the report. Several people went there to rescue Topaz and me." Clea looked him in the eyes, unwavering. "Perhaps, a deal sealed in magic, then."
"Ggood," Namor said almost too quickly. Like he'd won something. "We shall swear by the Nine Sacred Scrolls. An invocation. I will share all I know of Atlantean magic for a favor of my choosing at any time that cannot be denied by you or your masters."
No one owned her, so Clea had no issue making this deal, even if she may find it burdensome in the future. "Okay, I will accept that." The red head smiled graciously up at him.
There was a nod, and in a flash Namor had brought a hand to his face and nipped forcefully at his own thumb. There was the smallest bead of blood. "As I have spoken," he vowed as a bite of unfamiliar magic filled the air, "I will hold to my promise, word for word, in fair trade. May the seas drag me down below if I fail."
He looked at her, expectant. The half-sealed invocation hung in the air.
Clea reached into her large hobo bag and pulled out a small pocket knife. She always hated this part as she presses her own thumb onto the sharp end. "I will hold to my promise, word for word, in fair trade. May the seas drag me down below if I fail." And she will uphold it for sure, drowning would suck. She held out her hand to him.
Namor stared at her as if she had spilled tea. "You must swear by your own ideals, not my people's. You are not of us."
Purple energy started to form around her hand lightly, "I, Clea, daughter of Orini, the rightful king of the Dark Dimension, will uphold my end of the contract as stated. If I fail, then may my homeworld take me back."
"Your words are accepted," the Atlantean replied. No handshake came, but he schooled his own hands into one of the many appropriate hand gestures for formal thanks. The magic bit down on them both – the crushing weight of the ocean meeting the sparking energy of the dark dimension. A contract sealed between them.
The smile that crossed Namor's lips gave a hint that he'd gotten away with something. Instead of sharing exactly what, he proposed "a more appropriate venue for the sharing of such secrets and history."
Fifteen minutes later, they had tea and privacy.
"My people believe what you call magic is an argument," Namor began. He waited a few seconds to ensure he had Clea's full attention, and then stretched the pause with a sip of his drink. "Our craft works with definitions and boundaries. As masters of the ocean, our mages learned that lines and rules drawn to gather the power on sea are wide nets that fish can swim right through. The true name of a wave changes with every roll, crash, and fold. Yet it is through names that claims are made, wills are chained, and power is drawn. Yet that power determines who is in control."
Clea took another sip of her tea, carefully analyzing what Namor was trying to say to her. "You use your words and language to cast your spells. Fascinating. The ocean is unpredictable and drawing power from that can be equally unpredictable." She took another sip of her tea before putting it down. "When you say 'power determines who is in control', is that a form of hierarchy? Meaning, those who can use this type of magic are those who are in your position?" Clea was already taking out her notebook.
"One cannot draw ambient power from the sea," he said, "so Atlantis binds itself through bloodlines cultivated to hold power. The royal family is the greatest due to our direct lineage to the gods."
"So the stronger the lineage is to your gods, the more likely you are to cultivate your power. So not all who were Atlantean were not capable of wielding magic? Who is Atlantis's patron gods?" Clea wrote a little more down, trying to piece together Namor's unique way of speaking.
Namor started to reply, but caught himself. "The Atlantean belief system is too arcane and complex to explain in the time we have. You must understand two points: my line draws forth from the entity the land has simplified into 'Poseidon,' and your foolish mountain mystics would accuse us of mere blood magic."
"Poseidon." Clea's lips curved into a smile and then she rolled her eyes, "Those mountain mystics only care about one or two things and then are bloody judgy when it comes to anything that isn't their own.They also tend to hide a lot of their deeper secrets in locked books." Clea sat back and took a sip of her tea, "In all my recent studies of different magic from different cultures I learned something new. It makes me wonder if this entity that mythos called Poseidon exists, truly exists, what else exists." The red-head smiled brightly at Namor, "Thank you. I hope when we have more time you could share more of the belief system with me."
"Do not overstep – my line's power is the very proof Poseidon exists. We carry his blessing." He stared into his own tea as if looking somewhere else.
"Apologies." Clea quickly wrote down what Namor was saying. If Asgard was proven to be real, then is there another dimension where Mount Olypemius ruled? What about the other religions? Clea looked up at him again when he started to speak again, "Isn't it the same with other entities as well?" Clea paused before speaking, "I learned not too long ago that I was not even born from this realm. I was born in a city that was taken over by a Faltine named Dormammu and his sister. My uncle and apparently my mother. He craved power and he certainly didn't serve anyone, I saw what he did to that City. Maybe it is the possibility to have that power that drives humans and other un-worldly entities to seek and hoard it. They covet what they don't have and they'll go to any lengths to get it." She took a deep breath in and let it out, "Thank you for sharing. I don't seek power to hoard it, but to understand it and share it. There is so much we don't know, so much that is abused, or tossed aside. Like you said, many things are lost in the past and we often repeat the same mistakes."
The look that crossed Namor's face had the flicker of some cross between 'my suspicions have been confirmed' and 'of course you aren't human.' The child of an eye roll and narrowing one's eyes.
"The Faltine," and this was a statement said like the man was making a note for later. "The Archer is working on a theory of realms and worlds, but We have yet to find others with that name.."
Clea made a side note to talk to this Archer about his theories of other realms and worlds. "So, going back to the Atlantean magic and power. The only way someone can harness this is through you." She hoped she was grasping it right.
"As it should be," Namor said. "Our magic – wealth gathered and refined over centuries – flows in blood, and all logomancy flows by blessing from the Crown. Adepts and royal mages would study and devote themselves solely to this power. Logomagia is science and magic intertwined. The power of names. Knowing, and by knowing, working wondrous feats. True magic."
"Fascinating. Your bloodline holds the key to such power, and then you bless those worthy of that power, Logomagia. May I ask what that process is like? Is it a ritual? Or is it something more personal?" Clea took another sip of her tea.
His smile was smug as he folded his hands. "I have delivered more than enough to satisfy our bargain, Clea Lake. Unless you happen to have more power to promise away."
Clea thought, "If I keep going, I'll forever be in your debt." Looking down at her notebook for a brief moment, she looked back up at him and smiled. "This is a good starting point. Though I am very curious to know how the ritual is done."
"It was not the purview of the crown to wield that power," Namor remarked with a shrug. "Only to grant the blessing of our cultivated power. Initiation was the magi's arcane secret."
Clea gave Namor a smile, "Thank you for that." She made a mental note to do something extra for him when the time came. "More secrets..." Writing it down in her notebook. "Thanks Namor. For this conversation. I know it is part of our deal, but it was a pleasure talking to you."
Knowledge shared, Namor moves onto asking Clea about why she bothers making a place with humanity.
The other man's head cocked to the side only by a few degrees. "Now that we're finished, Clea the Faltine, I have spent the whole of this conversation with a question of my own." He gestured vaguely as to encompass the whole of her. "Why? Why do you work so hard to blend into a people not your own."
Clea looked at him for a moment, "Because I don't know my own." She said simply and sighed, "I was a baby when I was brought to this dimension and adopted by my parents. I must have been barely a year old or so. From the records I can find, the Faltines are from a Hell Plane and are very secretive and rarely venture out of their own dimension. As for the Dark Dimension, I know that Dormammu came and took over, which led to a rebellion and the fall of those people. Even then the books I did find don't offer much. From what I saw, it was mostly in ruins. I don't even know if there are survivors that managed to make it this far." She paused again before saying, "I guess we are kindred spirits in a way. We both lost our homes." Tapping her notebook, "Maybe in my search for answers, I will find what I've been looking for."
"Yet, you could know them." It was a blunt statement. "I would violate everything sacred under the sun to bring my people back. You hold the power to tear open the way to other dimensions – I have seen what human mages can do. Surely you are more. Even then, We have our own portal. There are ways."
Clea looked at him in silence. No one ever mentioned that she could go to them for answers. She knew it would be dangerous to open a portal to the Dark Dimension, not without the risk of Dormammu finding out. Were those people, her people, alive? There was a possibility. All she did see were parts of the capital city and the castle, not the rest. "Isn't the portal unstable at the moment?" She came back to her senses.
"Nothing great is guaranteed," Namor said. "You have been too molded by human masters. 'Unstable,'" and his voice pitched higher in mockery, "'Risky.' Those are words used to keep pawns in their place. If that is what you wish to be, so be it."
Clea looked down at her notebook, her grimoire in the making, "They have been trying to mold many to be like them. It is why I haven't chosen that path. Despite the rocks, they keep sending." She sighed heavily, "Growing up in a world you thought you belonged in, only to have that reality ripped from underneath you. It makes you feel alone and naked. So, I have been grabbing at anything that will help that feeling lessen and hiding behind the bubble persona." Clea looked at Namor, "I don't know why I am telling you this. I don't want to be a pawn. Ever."
Namor didn't even blink. "So you play spy. Do those masters have you stealing from the mountain for their own gains? It is not ignoble to be a pawn. There is a cost to making difficult choices, and those who are content to serve simply refuse to pay."
"I play spy because I want to. And XF aren't masters, they pay my bills, so they are my bosses. That isn't a pawn, that is called being an employee. I am allowing my skills to be used and I can quit any time. As for stealing from the mountain, that was my idea." She looked at him for a moment.
"Pawns don't get a choice in the matter. I am searching for who I am, and yes, there may be people out there that wish to put me under their thumb. But I can assure you I am too stubborn for that." She reached into her bag and pulled out a hundred dollar bill and placed it on the table. "If I wasn't, I would have joined the Winding Way the moment I received the first rock invitation. Maybe I am using them to fill up the void I feel, to satisfy my hunger for knowledge." Grabbing her grimoire off the table and placing it safely in her back. "Like I said, I don't ever want to be a pawn. Making them think I am - that is a different story."
He let the silence hang deliberately, and then took a final sip from his cup to stretch it further before standing and signaling their departure to the waiter.
"How wonderful for you," Namor said, "I look forward to the very moment that may be of any use to me. Craft your little web of lies, Clea the Faltine, and hope there are fewer spiders bigger than yourself in the dark."
Clea shuddered; she hated spiders. "And I am sure that is when you'll cash in on my end of the deal." Clea smiled at him as she stood with him, putting her bag over her shoulder. "I look forward to it, Namor. Truly, I do. I wonder what you may have in mind in your head. I'll see you around the mansion." She pulled out a card and gave it to him, "My number. In case you don't have it already stored on the phones." It just said her name and number in a readable font.
Namor stared at the card blankly before pocketing it. "Very well. I refuse to be reachable through casual communication. Inquire with my people for any future audiences."
Whatever she might have wanted to reply, he had already turned away to lead the way out.
no subject
Date: 2024-11-15 07:55 pm (UTC)"I refuse to be reachable through casual communication." Namor, Prince of Atlantis, did not accept your friend request.
Nice little log; it's good to see some of the Atlantean-style magic established, as well as Clea's research showing up on screen. Likewise an interesting price to cash in at some indeterminate point in the future...