nexus_crossings | (no subject)

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One of the Nexus' many features is, surprising no one, a portal. It's a portal with a black center and for the longest time, it's pulsated with swirling fingers of white light. It's fairly nondescript as portals go, and while the air around it tingles, any attempts to go through the portal simply lead… well, to the back side of the portal.

Today, it hums.

Today a wave of not-quite purple washes through the swirling arms, and the hole opens up to a library.

A library with a tiefling inside it, who pokes his head through, looks around for a moment, then withdraws.

A few minutes, then an hour passes as the portal goes dormant once more, no sign of the tiefling or his library visible through the center. Time ticks by, minutes and hours passing by before finally, the portal sparks once more.

This time, when it opens, the center of the portal is reinforced by a golden metal frame, and the tiefling comes through with a satchel laden with books and scrolls, dragging a table full of mechanical and alchemical contractions behind him. There's a giddiness to his movement and he grunts and curses the table where he wants it, even when he has to frantically rescue some of the instruments from falling. Then, once everything is settled exactly how he likes it, the real fun begins.

At least for the tiefling.

He spends a few moments recording readings from the array of instruments and meters, muttering excitedly to himself before plopping on the ground and digging through his satchel. Amidst the scrolls and books, he finds one of the many pamphlets explaining the Nexus and its rules. Regarding it with narrowed eyes, he pulls out an hourglass and sets it aside, returning his focus to his research.

The hourglass is flipped three times before the tiefling looks up from his work, tail swishing on the ground behind him, and he poses his questions.

"Has anyone here determined what happens if you don't ask a question? How long can you go without asking a question before something happens? Why is a question required? How poignant must the question be to be considered acceptable? Is a simple "How are you?" enough, or must it be philosophically intriguing?"

There's a pause in the tiefling's barrage as he scrunches his nose, scowling deeply at nothing. Then he sighs, pinches the bridge of his nose, and relaxes, adding on his final question. "I suppose I might as well ask if anyone has seen a man named Lorroakan, by any chance? Human, red hair, thinks very highly of himself, and has a temper that Devil's would envy."

((Hello, I am new. I know it's been quiet but nothing ventured, nothing gained, right? So here I am. Venturing.))

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Well, if he's going to offer, who are they to turn him down? Besides, if this place does bank excess questions for those who don't ask right away, maybe this will help balance the scales. "Does everyone look like that where you're from?" Not quite what are you. That would be rude.

"You might," they agree with a nod. "People here can be really friendly. It's kind of weird. Half the time they don't want anything in return either. Or at least that's what they say."

They chew on their lip, thinking about something, and lift their hand in greeting before they can change their mind. "I'm Ayatan, by the way. This is Umbra," they add, gesturing to their silent shadow. Umbra doesn't move, not until Ayatan adds a gesture of encouragement. The white head dips slightly toward Rolan in a reluctant nod, appeasing the child in its charge.

"No, they don't." It's not the question Rolan anticipated hearing, but it's still a very good question that allows him plenty of room for elaboration and well. Exposition (a wizard's favorite thing).

Clearing his throat, Rolan sets his book aside and straightens his posture, murmuring an incantation and gesturing with his hands as he conjures the illusion of a brown haired, brown eyed, bearded human in purple wizarding robes. "There are many humanoid races on the planet of Torril, where I am from. Humans, of course, tend to have the greatest population, and the most assertive cultures, hence why we use the term humanoid and not, say... elfin."

Speaking of, a flick of his wrist shifts the illusion to that of a pale, slender elf with a sly smile and red eyes. "Elves tend to be the next largest group, and they come in a wide variety such as High Elf," a flick of his wrist and the illusion takes the shape of a tall, imposing elf with brown hair, leathery skin, and a kind smile, "Wood elf," another flick, and now the illusion is a stern woman with white hair tied back into a bun with dark grey-purple skin, "And the Drow. There are many, many more types of elf, but as they are simply subraces under these three categories, going into detail is a bit much for the time being."

"After that are the smaller races, halfings, gnomes, and dwarves, each with their own slew of racial variations." Each flick of his wrist shows a new individual, including Svirfneblin - Deep Gnomes - like Barcus, and Duegar. "They're not seen as often as humans or elves, as they tend to live in burrows or caves, but there are still plenty to be found in cities and settlements."

"Then there are the mixed races; half-orcs, half-elves, and tieflings like myself." With a few more flicks, he finishes off his display, lingering for just a moment on a pair of tieflings with dark hair, orange eyes, ruddy skin just a shade or two darker than Rolan's, and teasing smiles. "These are my siblings, Cal and Lia. We... I was separated from my parents very young, and their mother took me in."

"I am Rolan," he says, touching his chest with one hand as he bows his head respectfully to Ayatan. "It is an honor to make your acquaintance."

They listen attentively, studying the images Rolan conjures like they're studying for a school quiz. They're used to holograms, so the projections provoke no surprise or wonder - but the sheer amount of nonhuman species he's describing definitely does. And all from one planet! Maybe they have a common ancestor, so far back that it's long forgotten. They do look similar, don't they? Same basic shapes, same configuration. Someone who didn't know a Grineer's origin would never consider them the same as the Corpus, after all.

They hold their questions as he speaks though, taking it all in, and paying extra attention to the clearly personal images of Rolan's siblings, their heart aching with compassion for the family he found through loss, an all-too-familiar tale. "I'm sorry about your parents. I lost mine too." A statement of fact, not accompanied by tears. An old wound, healed over as best it ever will. Common ground, perhaps.

"Tiefling," they say, mulling over the word, putting together the pieces of commonality in their mind. "What does that mean?"

"It's not an uncommon circumstance on Toril," Rolan remarks, his tone just as matter of fact as Ayatan's. 20 odd years have come and gone since the loss; plenty of time for him to come to terms with it and move on. Yet for others, the loss is much more recent, and he can't help but think of Ide and the other orphans who accompanied their rag-tag group from Elturel. He'd been so caught up in himself, in his apprenticeship to Lorroakan, that he had not been kind - had barely acknowledged them unless he had to.

So much of the past few months had been humbling; he made a note to see which of the tiefling orphans had gone with Halsin to Moonrise Towers, and which had stayed in the city. It wasn't within his power to change the past, but he could, at the very least, start making changes in the present.

Taking a deep breath, Rolan set his mind to conveying what it meant to be a tiefling.

"I am... not entirely sure where the word originates from," he begins, tail flicking at his side as he curls a hand over his chin. "Up until 150 years ago, our heritage was extremely mixed. Tieflings could be born from a number of fiendish races, including demons, Rakshasa, and hags."

He included an illusion of a Rakshasa, an anthropomorphic tiger like race with a taste for fine clothing and jewelry, and a hag, an ugly, twisted looking humanoid with gnarled limbs and grotesque features, so that Ayatan had an idea of what he was referencing.

"But a ritual was done to bind all of our bloodlines to Asmodeus, the ruler of the nine hells," he continues, conjuring up an image of a devil. Not Asmodeus himself, as few books depict his likeness, and even then the accuracy is debatable, but a tall, red skinned being with massive horns and wings and features that match Rolan's is deemed enough to get the point across. "People call us devilkin, hellspawn, and foulblood despite the fact that we're more human than fiend, but there are places that are more willing to accept us than others."

The sliding scale of beauty in 'fiendish' ancestors is truly staggering, and Ayatan leans forward a little to examine the illusions better. Particularly the Rakshasa, taking note of their finery and strange hands with a sharp intensity in their gaze. Beautiful creatures, but appearances don't always match hearts, do they?

"You mean he enslaved you," they interpret, a note of quiet, cold fury in their voice. Not anger at tieflings, but for them, outrage kept in check but simmering visibly in their face. Behind Ayatan, Umbra's posture also shifts, that eyeless head turning to commit the appearance of Asmodeus to its memory, fingers tightening subtly around the hilt of its sword. "It's what always happens when people have too much power. When they don't care about anybody else except how they can use them." Ayatan shakes their head in disgust, raising their eyes to meet Rolan's. "It's not your fault how you were born. What you are."

Enslaved. The Tenno isn't wrong to make that connection, but it's a word - a concept - that Rolan hadn't ever considered before. His ties to Asmodeus had always felt esoteric at best; sure, he could see the devil's influence every time he looked in the mirror, and he knew that without the intercession of another deity, his soul would be doomed to the Hells, but he didn't feel enslaved.

Not like he had with Lorroakan.

"Well, he certainly draws his power from us," Rolan finally concedes, swallowing around the tight knot suddenly caught in his throat. "But it's not impossible to escape him, and we're quite free to live as we please. Still, I appreciate your empathy and understanding."

Once again, Ayatan reminds Rolan of Dame Aylin, of her rage over not just over what Lorroakan intended for her, but for what he'd already done to him. Such a strange thing to think that the divine not only accepted him for what he was, but cared so strongly for the injustices he'd experienced as well.

Gods preserve him, but he prayed he could live up to their expectation.

"Do you have any other questions I can answer?" he asked, gesturing to his equipment and the portal behind him. "About myself, my world, my research or otherwise?"

Their gaze searches his face, looking for any sign that he's hiding anything, gentling down a brutal truth to avoid scaring them. It happens to Ayatan sometimes, and they understand why, but it rankles to be treated like a child to be sheltered when they've not been that naive innocent for longer than they can count. They see no such deception in Rolan's open expression, and while this does not dampen their anger at what's been done to the tieflings, it does ease their more immediate fury. They nod once. "That's good. Everyone should get to choose for themselves."

A basic, childish declaration of rights, but no less true for it.

They lean back on their legs, taking a measured breath, letting the anger go. Embrace emptiness. Recalibrate. They look up at Rolan again, not as relaxed as before but letting glimpses of that childish curiosity back in, eyes wandering back to the instruments. "What are you researching anyway? You said you're measuring power, but why? Are you trying to invent something?"

Rolan takes the moment to recenter himself as well, pushing down the shame of his selfishness and any lingering anxiety over Lorroakan. The man was dead - at his own hand, no less - and wouldn't be hurting him or anyone else ever again. The rest were things that could be dealt with later, once he returned to Baldur's Gate.

"I'm researching the Nexus," Rolan replies, slipping back into a more scholarly tone as he gestures to the space around them. "I've read the pamphlet, certainly, but while it explains what this place is and how to interact with it, I'm extremely curious to know how it works. Why does it exist? What powers it, and how did it come to be?"

Half turning to gesture to the portal back to Ramazith's Tower, he adds, "I have books upon books on the recorded history of Toril, of its cosmology, and the Powers That Be. I know of many of the planes that are connected to my world, but never have I heard of the Nexus before."

"Perhaps at a later date I'll invent something, but for now..." He shrugs, tail flicking at his side with all his unexpressed excitement. "I'm curious. And well..." Cough, ahem. "Writing a few academic papers on an unknown plane will likely afford me no small amount of acclaim back home."

Academic. Understanding dawns, a connection made. "You're an Archimedean," Ayatan exclaims. "Or whatever your people call them. An important scholar." Well, that makes sense why he's so curious. It's literally his job, then. Or will be?

"I don't think you'll be the first to try," they tell him with a small shrug, "but I don't think anyone's figured it out either. This place is even more complicated than the Void, and nobody understands that yet. Although..." They bite their lip a little in a nervous tic. "The Nexus is probably a lot safer to study. I hope it is."

"We're known as wizards on Toril," Rolan says with a bow of his head and a flourish of his hand. "I'm far from being a master, but I have a very good headstart for someone of my age, and I am nothing if not a prodigy."

"As for being the first to try..." He shrugs, an absent flick of his tail accompanying the motion. "That doesn't matter to me. What's important is that I'm the first from my realm, and that I am the one making the discoveries. It's just more fun that way."

He flashes a toothy smile. "And if I never learn all there is to learn about the Nexus? Well, then I'll never run out of questions to ask, will I?"

"Wizard," they repeat in a murmur. An unfamiliar word to their ear, but since coming here they've made an effort to memorize the things other people prefer to be called. Both out of basic respect, and because the Orokin don't get a say in what people are titled anymore.

Their gaze is drawn to Rolan's tail when it twitches, a barely restrained grin of childish amusement on their face. It's so expressive, like a kavat or a kubrow! They don't think he'd appreciate the comparison though. He is a person after all.

A person who is saying things they should probably be responding to, at that. "Probably not," they agree. "This place is infinite." A faint frown flickers across their face as they look up at him. "That guy you were asking about? You might never find him, but infinity means the odds are pretty much impossible he's not here somewhere."

Rolan can't help but notice Ayatan looking at his tail, and it flicks one last time before going completely still, embarrassment creeping up the tiefling's already rosy cheeks. He could control it, of course - it was prehensile - however, the subconscious mind often exerted far more control than the conscious mind did.

Ahem.

Anyway.

"I know, and I'm rather hoping that I don't," Rolan mumbles, his expression dropping into that of a scowl. "He was not a good man, and I do not relish the thought of some alternate version of him entering my reality through my portal."

He looks back at the portal with a huff, his brow furrowing as a hand curls over his chin. "You... don't know of that ever happening, do you?

Ayatan regards him with a seriousness that sits strangely on their youthful face. "People go through each others' doors all the time. I've seen some people put guards on theirs, or set up sensors that tell them if someone goes through. I don't know if you can lock them."

Probably not, from what they've seen around here. But one never says never.

"Zurgen," Rolan swears, looking away as his shoulders reflexively hunch around his ears defensively. A small sliver of panic slices through him, but he stomps it down quick; he'd accepted the abuse Lorroakan doled out before because he thought it was what he had to do. He knew better now, and he knew - he knew! - that he was capable of taken the other wizard on by himself. Hells, he hadn't even needed magic to finish the bastard off! All it had took in the end was one solid push off the side of the tower...

Pinching the bridge of his nose, Rolan forces himself to relax and think things through logically. "Fine. This is fine. I can deactivate the portal when it's not in use, and if the others are anything like the Lorroakan I knew, then it's unlikely that they'll know how to reactivate it. I can work with this."

"Thank you," he adds, returning his attention to Ayatan and bowing his head in deference. "Your input has been very helpful and has given me much to think about."

He's taking this remarkably well, in Ayatan's opinion. When they'd first realized Ballas could turn up at any moment, it had taken weeks for Umbra to let them anywhere near the Nexus, and they hadn't been much inclined to argue. Antiviolence field or no, the armor is their compromise, just in case. They're hardly helpless, but they are a child, and an adult Orokin with the kind of track record Ballas has... well. Safer is always better.

They nod, meeting Rolan's eyes. "You're welcome. For what it's worth, I hope whoever he is, he never finds you."

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