( ooc: fairies are just SUPER dicks, man. I'll chuck in a bit more in the ooc flavortext as needed just so Stephen can fully realize "oh this guy is FUCKED up"~ )
[ Underneath his hand, Jonathan can feel this man's skin ripple. Something shifts underneath his hand. Idly, he thinks of a bird trapped in the curtains, flailing and struggling to free itself. He saw something like that back home in Shropshire. He's certain the vast majority of England saw something like that when he returned magic to his world, bringing it back on the wings of ravens—even a magical emissary could get caught up in the drapes. Jonathan has never felt a bird struggling in fabric, only seen it, but he imagines this is how it would feel.
Jonathan isn't sure why that thought leapt to his head. Why when looking at this man, his first instinct is that of an animal. He stumbles like one, at least. There isn't much difference between the stumbling walk of a drunkard or a newborn foal—though this man doesn't have a hint of alcohol on his breath.
If Norrell were here, he would implore Jonathan to leave this obviously unwell man alone. Call for a doctor then go away. This is not your business. Don't seek trouble—and this man, whoever he is, is very obviously trouble. Something happened, even if Jonathan can't exactly place what it was. Something happened and it feels dangerous. Feral. Wild. But there's something enticing about this man, something he just can't place but piques his interest all the same. Besides, Norrell isn't here. And Jonathan Strange has never met a metaphorical hornet's nest that he couldn't hit with a big stick.
He should be scared. He absolutely isn't.
At Stephen's request, Jonathan lets out a small chuckle. ] If I am to have something stronger, I'd prefer it to be at my club, over a game of billiards...though I have come to understand that the idea of a gentleman's club means something quite different in this time.
[ He is married (sort of), thank you very much, and doesn't have interest in that.
Jonathan sits down on the bench, next to Stephen, with the confidence of someone who absolutely hasn't realized just how full of demons the other magician is. The curse that threatens to overtake him creeps on the edges, lingering closely, a cold darkness that smells of wood and forest and rot, with unfamiliar stars shining in the sky beyond them. It feels old. This is a remarkable contrast to Jonathan's own magic, shining brightly as if to blind someone, bright and shiny, new and powerful. This is a man who has moved entire cities before, who has changed the shape of magic itself in his own world, who's just sitting on a bench and making a joke about gentleman's clubs like this is a totally normal occurrence.
It also is a curse and a magic that other people absolutely aren't seeing—Jonathan is certainly getting an odd look or two but again: this man is Regency core. ]
You're the one I should offer something to in the first place! You are ill, are you not?
eyyyyyyy
[ Underneath his hand, Jonathan can feel this man's skin ripple. Something shifts underneath his hand. Idly, he thinks of a bird trapped in the curtains, flailing and struggling to free itself. He saw something like that back home in Shropshire. He's certain the vast majority of England saw something like that when he returned magic to his world, bringing it back on the wings of ravens—even a magical emissary could get caught up in the drapes. Jonathan has never felt a bird struggling in fabric, only seen it, but he imagines this is how it would feel.
Jonathan isn't sure why that thought leapt to his head. Why when looking at this man, his first instinct is that of an animal. He stumbles like one, at least. There isn't much difference between the stumbling walk of a drunkard or a newborn foal—though this man doesn't have a hint of alcohol on his breath.
If Norrell were here, he would implore Jonathan to leave this obviously unwell man alone. Call for a doctor then go away. This is not your business. Don't seek trouble—and this man, whoever he is, is very obviously trouble. Something happened, even if Jonathan can't exactly place what it was. Something happened and it feels dangerous. Feral. Wild. But there's something enticing about this man, something he just can't place but piques his interest all the same. Besides, Norrell isn't here. And Jonathan Strange has never met a metaphorical hornet's nest that he couldn't hit with a big stick.
He should be scared. He absolutely isn't.
At Stephen's request, Jonathan lets out a small chuckle. ] If I am to have something stronger, I'd prefer it to be at my club, over a game of billiards...though I have come to understand that the idea of a gentleman's club means something quite different in this time.
[ He is married (sort of), thank you very much, and doesn't have interest in that.
Jonathan sits down on the bench, next to Stephen, with the confidence of someone who absolutely hasn't realized just how full of demons the other magician is. The curse that threatens to overtake him creeps on the edges, lingering closely, a cold darkness that smells of wood and forest and rot, with unfamiliar stars shining in the sky beyond them. It feels old. This is a remarkable contrast to Jonathan's own magic, shining brightly as if to blind someone, bright and shiny, new and powerful. This is a man who has moved entire cities before, who has changed the shape of magic itself in his own world, who's just sitting on a bench and making a joke about gentleman's clubs like this is a totally normal occurrence.
It also is a curse and a magic that other people absolutely aren't seeing—Jonathan is certainly getting an odd look or two but again: this man is Regency core. ]
You're the one I should offer something to in the first place! You are ill, are you not?
[ Is that what that feeling is? ]