[CLOSED] what's a magic user to a nonbeliever?

[headlining]

CHARACTERS: Keats and Archer

DATE: Backdated all the way to late December

WARNINGS: Keats being a jerk, and magic. Not really anything.

SUMMARY: Two magical beings meet because one of them doesn't believe in magic. Basically, irony: the log.

[Magic. Even the word wanted to make Keats laugh.]

[He's been against the concept for as long as he can remember. To him, it was a lazy way of explaining impossible things. A word that stopped progress, akin to somebody too blinded by miracles to even want to try to dig deep to the truth. It was a ridiculous concept, but it was also an irritating one. It grated in the back of his mind like an old wound, and every time he brought it up, there was a strange urge to just throw it to the side and think of something else. Honestly, he didn't even understand why. Magic is just a silly concept, what were there to get annoyed about?]

[He finally makes his way to the town square, stuffing his hands casually into his coat pockets as he approaches the figure already standing there. He gives Archer a nod in greeting.]

Hey. Here to show me what you got?

Comments

[anti_altruisms]

[ Normally, Archer wouldn't do this. Whether or not people believe in magic is no skin off his nose -- in fact, in the modern era in his own world, most of the population was ignorant of magic's existence, and certain organizations were even dedicated to making sure it stayed that way.

Still, the level of denial in this particular individual was actually amusing. He made the offer of "proof" to tickle his own sense of humor more than anything else, but what Archer actually picks up on when he's approached is...interesting, to say the least.

His expression doesn't change, and he gets right to the point. A sword manifests in his hand, and he tosses it at Keats. ]

Catch.

[headlining]

[He's expecting a greeting in return. The start of a conversation. Possibly the start of the magic show, which he'll deny with every amount of his logic.]

[What he's not expecting is the man tossing a sword in his direction.]

[Keats' eyes widen behind his glasses in slight shock, a part of him panicking because that is a sword and it's coming his direction to the point where getting wounded is a very real possibility. But another part of him is almost used to this, abnormally so - in the Netherworld at home, claws and spears and bombs and goodness knows what else being used against him were practically normal, and reacting quickly was one of the main reasons he was able to survive.]

[As the sword comes his way, he takes a step back, reaching out with a trembling hand. He manages to catch it by the handle in midair, before he lets the tip fall to scrape against the ground.]

...What the hell? [He says, pointing the weapon back at Archer, obviously unhappy.] You could've killed me, idiot!

[anti_altruisms]

[ Keats will learn very quickly that Archer plays by his own rules.

He watches the "man", and as expected, Keats manages to catch it. Not without protest, of course, but that also isn't such a surprise. Whoever or whatever this individual is, he is obviously neck-deep in denial. ]

I doubt that.

[ A dry statement. ]

You caught that rather well.

[headlining]

Thanks. [He says, scowling. Already, he's not liking this encounter.] Honestly, I had half a mind that I was going to lose a hand today. Good to know that didn't happen.

[He glances towards the sword, before he tosses it back to Archer's feet with a loud clattering noise as it hits the stones of the street.]

Here, have it back. [He draws himself up, trying to save face and push aside the momentary panic that's still making his heart beat furiously in his chest.]

So, what was the point in that little exercise? Was there even one to begin with?

[anti_altruisms]

[ He almost smiles but doesn't. The sword clatters to the ground, but instead of picking it up, Archer simply shrugs. ]

A very small demonstration. What you just saw is what mages of my homeworld would classify as projection magic. Simply put, my specialty is manifesting what's in my mind within certain limitations.

[ The blade itself dissipates into a blue mist and vanishes. ]

Now, I ask you- how would define what you witnessed just now?

[headlining]

[He glances to the sword. It doesn't look like a projection. It had felt heavy, real, like a genuine sword, and- wait, it just disappeared. Keats blinks, eyebrows furrowing together. After a few seconds, he just shakes his head, letting out a huff.]

Some parlor magic trick, no doubt. [And then flatly adding.] Also you throwing a dangerous weapon in my direction, but I guess we can just forget about that. Let bygones be bygones, and all that.

[anti_altruisms]

[ To that answer, Archer simply smirks. ]

Oh? Then how would you explain the mechanics of my "parlor magic trick"?

[ Be very scientific, Keats. This is Important. ]

[headlining]

Either it wasn't a real sword to begin with, but a facsimile you could get rid of through chemical means, or it was a real sword and you somehow whisked it away through some method of sleight of hand.

[He sounds absolutely serious about this.]

And, I mean, it is dark. My eyes aren't going to catch everything that I see, so it's easy to take advantage of.

[anti_altruisms]

I see.

[ He won't dispute it. In fact, he seems quite amused. ]

And how do you account for the fact that you managed to catch said blade in mid-air?

[headlining]

I...what?

[He didn't really consider that moment terribly weird. He blinks.]

Good reflexes, I suppose? I don't know. Maybe it was sheer dumb luck.

[anti_altruisms]

Even with "dumb luck" on your side, the odds of catching Durandal without cutting yourself are slim, at best.

[ Most people would have just dodged, but no - this man caught it. ]

Who are you, really?

[headlining]

Durandal? [He can't help it - he lets out a laugh. He recognizes the name, somewhat, from his years of reading every encyclopedia of mythology and folklore he had in his personal library.] Wasn't that supposedly the sharpest sword in existence? I remember reading about it, something to do with Charlemagne, right? Come on, you can't just tell me that was that sword. Don't pull my leg.

[He shakes his head, reaching up to push his glasses up the bridge of his nose.]

I'm a reporter for Unknown Realms. It's a magazine about occult experiences and phenomena. I mean, I don't know what else you want as an answer. I seemed to have forgotten to bring my resume along with me.

[anti_altruisms]

A close enough imitation is effectively the real thing.

[ As to the rest of it...well. ]

That is not who you are. Or what for that matter.

[ He states it unequivocally. This man, this sham of an individual is just as bad if not worse than himself. He might have been a fool, he might lack any and all self-esteem because of the doom he brought upon himself, but he has never gone so far as to deny what he is. ]

You deny the very thing that sustains your existence and pretend you can project your own delusions onto the rest of the world.

[ His eyes narrow. ]

It's unwise to play such games.

[headlining]

[He opens his mouth...and for a few seconds, the words don't come. He's reminded, briefly, of the conversation he had before he came here, where Livane had insinuated he would find the truth about himself in his journey, and how unsettled it had made him feel. For a second, there's a moment of doubt...and then it's gone, replaced by the familiar emotion of annoyance. Oh, whatever. This is just nonsense. The man clearly takes him to be some kind of fool.]

I don't know what you're talking about. [He says, posture casual as can be.] What, is spouting riddles and meaningless sentences in vogue, now?

[anti_altruisms]

[ Pitiful. Archer scoffs softly. ]

I spoke quite clearly, actually.

[ Behind him, an array of bladed weapons appears -- swords, spears, and others -- coming to a total of about two dozen altogether. ]

Tell me something, "reporter". How many of these, do you think, are a figment of your imagination?

[headlining]

[That is...a lot of weapons. But Keats doesn't back down. He doesn't falter. All he does is tighten his jaw, every ounce of his stubborn nature seen in his defiant, hard stare.]

All of them. [A pause as he smiles, thinly.] What are you planning to do with them, murder me?

[anti_altruisms]

[ That was not a very smart thing to say, Keats.

A flicker of a smile graces Archer's lips. ]

Let's see.

[ All at once, every single weapon hurtles right towards Keats. If he chooses not to move, they'll all land in a neat circle around him. If he tries to dodge or counter, well...things will get interesting, to say the least. ]

[headlining]

[And this is how Keats dies. Should've served him right to tempt fate like that. We barely knew him.]

[...But, as it turns out, there's a part of Keats that is not going to allow him to die just yet. His instincts are often a boon in situations where his life is on the line, and yet, here, they undermine his own argument in the most blatant way possible.]

[The weapons hurtle themselves at him, and he raises a hand, a transparent purple-hued shield forming itself around his entire body. He steps forward, swords and spears glancing off his protective bubble and leaving him quite unscathed. As the storm of weapons finishes, and the shield dissipates, he lowers his arm to shoot a glare in Archer's direction. It's a glare that one wouldn't expect to see on his face, mostly because his eyes, usually a dark blue, are now blazing furiously with purple light.]

Oh, you didn't.

[anti_altruisms]

[ Oh, he most certainly did.

Though he isn't entirely certain what to expect, Archer is quite sure that he is about to witness something. Whatever he is, this "reporter", at least, appears to have a sense of self-preservation, and it manifests quite clearly.

Far from being disappointed, Archer appears quite satisfied. His point, it seems, has been made for him. ]

You seem so surprised.

[ He could almost sympathize with this individual if such hadn't been stripped from him a long time ago. Archer is a faker too, but at least, he can acknowledge it. ]

You wanted to see what I could do. It's only fair that you should show me the same.

[headlining]

Usually people I talk to don't try to skewer me like a damn shish kabob, so sorry if I seemed shocked.

[He says, drawing his lips back in the semblance of a snarl - there's definitely something more bestial about him, even though his tone is still more or less level. Even as he speaks, his eyes are still burning unnaturally, spitting out purple light that occasionally billows from behind his glasses.]

What am I showing, exactly, huh? Last time I checked this was all about you. What have I got to do with this?

[anti_altruisms]

It was never about me.

[ Archer articulates the point clearly and distinctly, lets it settle in the air for a moment before moving on. ]

Most people, when presented with evidence and reasonable arguments, are capable of judging rationally what they have witnessed and experienced. Your denial, however, is aggressive and even illogical, and I wanted to see why that was.

I can only surmise that your denial of magic and everything it represents is, in fact, a denial of self. If you do not hate yourself, it certainly must be a very close thing, since you blocked my assault with power all your own and still deny your own actions.

[headlining]

My denial - [He almost spits the word.] - is purely based on logic, you moron. Others just tend to accept things because it's easier for them. They allow other's perceptions to cloud their judgement, even though they know that what they see can't be possible by any means.

[The last few statements, though, turn his expression into something far more livid, like Archer's successfully brushed an open wound he thought was hidden. He honestly has to take a few deep breaths to hold himself back, forcing down the ugly emotions that twist beneath the surface.]

You don't know anything about me. Don't say that like you do. I don't need your pitiful attempts at psychoanalyzing me.

[anti_altruisms]

It is based in nothing.

[ A cool, unequivocal response. Where Keats is livid, Archer is the picture of calm, collected poise. It makes no difference to him whether he breaks through the wall of denial here or not. It's just sad, watching him spit and snarl like a wounded animal and still shy away from the truth.

He turns to walk away. ]

Keep your facade if you wish.

[ It's no skin of his own nose, after all. ]

[headlining]

[He's been an animal in human skin for a long time. It's hard to behave, to fit in, while claws and sharp teeth and god knows what else that moves in his depths.]

[He blinks, surprised the man is walking away after all of that. He takes a few steps forward, raising his voice:]

What? That's it? You're just going to insult me and walk away, like it's nothing?!

[anti_altruisms]

[ To be a Servant is to be a tool of war. Whatever humanity he once had has been quashed for the sake of being counter guardian -- a cleaner, a executioner for the powers the govern the balance of the world.

To Keats's incredulity, Archer simply shrugs. ]

It is no business of mine if you wish to live a lie of a life.

[ A statement of fact and nothing more. He says it, and before Keats can answer, he vanishes in a fine mist. ]