open RP, Octavian: o tempora, o mores!

[fiercefluffy.livejournal.com]

Octavian had seen a sign-up sheet for a Valentine's Day event. The Encyclopedia Britannica had become Octavian's best friend, and resorting to this work, he learned that some crazy cult had swept the globe, become the dominant cultural force in the West, and co-opted perfectly good holidays. His familiar Lupercalia had become a celebration ostensibly to honor some Christian 'bishop'.

This led him to ponder many things. Over his solitary light dinner in the Great Hall, he ruminated:

How could an obscure religious fringe group based on quasi-cannibalistic rites grow to such power?

Should he sign up for this Valentine thing, in order to become more familiar with new practices, or should he abstain to show disapproval?

Would it be at all feasible to procure for his friend and sometime employee Titus Pullo a wench with whom to celebrate the Lupercalia? Pullo had mentioned before the disappointing lack of prostitutes at Hogwarts. What had he said was the modern term? Ah, yes. Spice Girls. Octavian would have to see about procuring a Spice Girl for his friend. Pullo deserved it!

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[hellminxmel.livejournal.com]

Maia snorts in laughter, and then tucks her hair behind her ear. 'Much as I'd love to tell you to look it up...well, Octavian. I can create flame and cradle it in my hands. I make things go bad. I can shape my appearance into anything I desire, and can mask it completely. I ask you; why would a good demon need to do all of those things?'

[fiercefluffy.livejournal.com]

Octavian's expression does not change. He watches the movement of her fingers tucking that lock of hair back; he watches her laugh.

"I ask you in turn: why should I form assumptions on that basis? Fire is neither good nor ill in its own right. Rot is a condition of nature, which is necessary to prepare ground and to make way for future life. The shape of your appearance can be pleasing or ill. For that reason I asked for you to identify your own nature. Now you have answered --" his mouth twisted in a faint smile, not quite mocking, certainly not kind -- "and I believe you. A good daimon would have no reason to identify itself as evil."

It is perhaps a flaw in him that he is willing to explain his reasoning so thoroughly, even to a potential adversary. He has spent so long unheard that he cannot resist when it seems someone will hear him out.

"Now I ask another question."

He leans forward on one elbow, still with that crooked not-quite-smile.

"Why should I care?"

[hellminxmel.livejournal.com]

Maia smiles almost-mockingly. 'The cause of rot,' she points out, 'Is generally considered to be a bad thing. Flame is related to hell in my understanding--' (despite some parts of Hell being about as cold as you can get--) 'And, really, my appearance being pleasing is very much the point of some demons. Ever read--no, you won't have,' she cuts herself off. No Milton for him.

'You're very logical, aren't you,' she says, eyes boring into his. 'Ready to explain everything. Not that I mind--indeed, I'm quite flattered--but if you spend time yammering about your reasons for believing something about someone, they'll have drawn their sword and run you through before you've got past the first pentameter.'

She roasts her apple into ashes.

'You asked, I answered. I don't suppose you want me to be completely contrary all the time? It's thirsty work, and you're not my opponent.'

[fiercefluffy.livejournal.com]

"That was a waste of a good apple. You seem to enjoy being contrary much of the time," Octavian observes. "I do not think my preference has much to do with that. I do think that if you did not wish me to know you were a demon, you would not have made a point of exhibiting your powers."

[hellminxmel.livejournal.com]

Maia wrinkles her nose. 'No, it was brown.' She's picky. 'And it wasn't a point. I've just got used to using them among my equals.' Is she flattering?

[fiercefluffy.livejournal.com]

"It was not brown until you made it rot."

She must be flattering, because Octavian knows very well he has no powers to compare with Maia's. Oh, he is not without assets: he has his brain, and he has his looks (a young Ganymede), and he has the noble blood of the Julii and the wealth of Julius Caesar. But he cannot create fire without a wand, and even with a wand the flame his Incendio will produce is a weak flicker. Much less can he transform into the likeness of another person, which is a shame, for he would transform into Mark Antony and cease the needless legal delays Antony has caused in the transferral of Caesar's estate.

"Maia," he says -- watching her, always watching her, but less now to gauge his reaction than merely for his own pleasure in the watching -- "perhaps you know that in Rome, when a general has won a great victory, he is given a great procession to match its glory. We call it a triumph (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Roman_triumph). The general rides in a chariot applauded by all the people. As he rides, a slave is at his side all the while, whispering to him. What the slave says is this: Memento mori. 'Remember you are mortal.' It is a caution against hubris."

He picks up another apple, the twin of the one she incinerated, but he does not bite into it, only holds it. "It is an injunction I intend not to forget."

[hellminxmel.livejournal.com]

She spreads her hands. 'I can't help it. It's what fruit does when it's near me for too long. Flowers wilt, grass dies. I'd be a horrible person to take to the Chelsea Flower Show.' Only when she breaks the skin, though, does it rot as fast as that.

And she gives back what she gets. 'It's good that only one of us has that little hurdle to contend with, isn't it? I'm not mortal. But hubris is sent down by the gods on those who deserve it. And I--' She tilts her head, black hair licking down her back as she repeats the words she has said so many times before--'Am just doing my job.'

[fiercefluffy.livejournal.com]

"Hubris is an inborn flaw," Octavian corrects. "You will do your job, and I someday will do mine, when the time comes. At present, I prepare." And you will not divert me, his cool gaze implies. Though the detour might be pleasant, if I should allow it.

"If fruit rots and flowers die when you are near them for too long, then you should admire them from a distance," he tells her. "The spectacle and miasma of decay would not compliment you."

[hellminxmel.livejournal.com]

Maia raises an eyebrow. When you play the game, you expect the other person to lose. She swings her legs over the bench, and stands.

'I'll see you around, Octavian,' she informs him, snapping the bobble on her wrist. It depends where. Maia sort of hopes she meets him in his own time, when she's on a mission; she'd have much more chips to bargain with. 'Can't let business come before pleasure, after all...'

Wow, is she ever going to be upset when he doesn't deliver rotting flower stalks to her room.