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[vecna]

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[vecna]

Of course.

[Lifts a brow.]

But moving heavier objects may have the same effect.

[velluminous]

[ she arches one of her own right back ] I am not having you move heavy objects. You can already do this. I am going to ask you to manipulate Weave, or whatever suffices for it here, to supplement what you can already do.

[vecna]

[Yes, but he would like to return to the proficiency he possessed before this damnable prison.

Still, accedence comes.]

If you think it’s possible. You’ll have to lead me through it.

[velluminous]

[ let's not do that. ]

I can lead. Otherwise, I haven't yet decided how I might push your potential.

[ or whether she even wants to, but she elects not to share that ]

[vecna]

[He unfolds his hands to gesture at her. Ladies first.]

I’m listening, Instructor Vaux. Tell me what to do.

[velluminous]

Hurm. [ does she like being called "instructor"? signs point hesitantly towards... yes. she likes it. ] I want you to reach for what you cannot see. Weave here—I will still call it "Weave", for simplicity—is different from at home, but I can still touch.

[ exhaling, she closes her eyes and begins to move her hands. it looks like she's playing an invisible harp. in this fog, it's difficult to see the moment her motions become more tangible, as though she has found the actual, physical strings instead of merely pantomiming at them, but it's there ]

If you can find it, instead of something physical like vase, then...

[vecna]

[Reaching for the Weave itself. Henry watches quietly, tracking the motions of her hands, and even in the fog, he can spot the minute difference in movement that implies, perhaps, that she has found something. Plucking at an invisible string.]

Then I'll try.

[He has no self-consciousness, as new as a concept this may be, reaching out with his left hand to seek this nebulous force she's described for him. Henry closes his eyes; a part of this still feels as though he's humoring her, but his effort is sincere enough.

He sharpens his focus. Seeks for that weft supposedly in the atmosphere between them, to find if anything catches in his fingers.]

[velluminous]

[ releases the thread without drawing from it—observing Henry's attempt is the more salient matter. she draws closer, her eyes on his outstretched fingers. the way he moves his hand when he uses his power—it is nothing like how a wizard plucks at the Weave, and she's not certain he can find it without that finesse.

so she reaches out a hand to try to gentle how he holds his: softening the bend of his elbow and his fingers, if he allows it ]

Do not force.

[vecna]

[She is right about there being no subtlety in his own attempt, no sign of delicacy. Henry approaches as he does most instances of utilizing his power: with an outstretched hand and tight, curled fingers, claw-like, forcible aggression in just this single gesture.

His brows furrow when she reaches out, but he allows it. Adjusts his arm and fingers as she suggests, muttering-]

Then what?

[Then what, if he cannot wrench free the results as he's so very used to? In this, he will struggle; after all, it is not a practiced trait of Henry to be gentle with his abilities.]

[velluminous]

[ if nothing else, her touch is only temporary, and she does not linger. an instructor, after all, correcting her student. ]

Then we practice. I'm sorry to say, Mister Creel, but did you expect this venture to be quick, or easy? It is trying again, and again.

[vecna]

Did I say that I expected it to be either quick or easy?

[And yet, in time, perhaps with a few more failed attempts under his belt, his declaration comes quickly-]

There is nothing there.

[He may as well be grasping at thin air — it all feels utterly counterproductive to how he operates.]

[velluminous]

[ exhales shortly through her nose, some of her own vestigial frustration. ]

There is. Look.

[ again, she crooks her fingers, catching. pulling tension into something neither of them can see. ]

[vecna]

[His pride, his own little streak of narcissism, balks at the intonation of frustration in her voice — even if it is warranted.]

For you.

[Hand extended still, his fingers tense again into something harsh and grasping.]

Have you consider that a man not from your world would have to claw at this Weave instead of gently seeking it?

[velluminous]

[ this time she makes no move to correct his grasp on the air—though her gaze does dart down to it and linger ]

As I said, this is not Weave as I know it. But this is only way I know how to show you. You are losing patience; we step away for little bit.

[vecna]

No. Give me a few minutes more.

[Ah, he is stubborn.

But if she allows it, he will continue, still not dropping his hand.]

[velluminous]

[ ........................steps back from him, gently grasping her opposite elbow ]

[vecna]

[These minutes stretch out before them, and Henry grasps at no Weave. Frustration only mounts, layering itself, in its place.

He feels as though he is one of the more talentless children in the days of the lab; or that he has a device implanted into his neck again, blunting any trace of skill. This only sparks memory, which in turn enhances the fires of his ever-hidden frustrations. His anger. But perhaps this is what he should rely upon, as he always has, instead of trying to gently pluck away at something invisible and gossamer. Turning his anger into power is an old trick, and so Henry reaches inward, finds easy, hate-forged recollections.

Twenty long years in that lab. Seven in another world of raw chaos — the violent sting of lightning and fire, and even the spread of a shotgun blast. Dumb, blind Victor Creel. Papa. Eleven. His new prison here, on top of all else.

Something snaps — but it isn’t his fingers strumming against the Weave. It is merely his own power, exploding under heavy pressure like a coiled spring unleashed, brought to the forefront after such extensive focus. And the force expands outward, hard, careening into anything that happens to be nearby.

Which includes Sprezzatura, flinging her out towards the ocean (if she is so unlucky.)]

[velluminous]

[ oh, no you don't. she's ready this time; tense and taut and waiting for—something. and there it is, the force of Henry's willpower billowing out. her eyes narrow minutely—Mammon. Just listen to me—and her lips move.

casting Shield is as reactionary as swatting a fly, and its motions nearly indistinguishable from that instinctive swat in the air. maybe a little harsher, since she already has a sense for what Henry's power can do. to his eyes, the spell is barely a shimmer in the already-dense air.

and for a moment, that's... enough.

then her heels skid in the sand, and she's pitched straight back into the water with an enraged shriek. ]

[vecna]

[It is a failure, but at least it is a satisfying failure; a sort of cathartic release of his energy that demonstrates something more than grasping at what cannot be seen and touched. Henry barely notes the shimmer in the air that heralds her casting of a shield, but he does note the flicker of her wrist, which must imply something, especially given that she is not flying out and away—

Oh. Nevermind.

Off she goes, devoured by the fog, then landing with a splash in what he assumes is the nearby ocean. A good thing that she cannot see the grin spreading across his features—perhaps not sharply cruel, but certainly amused—and equally good that he can banish it away, twisting it into a frown instead as he moves towards the sound of her shrieking/splashing.]

Sprezzatura! [A few steps is all it takes, really, before the waves are lapping at his shoes and the wet sand forms footprints beneath.]

[velluminous]

[ c-c-c-c-cold! it's cold! she surfaces with a pitchy gasp, spluttering and coughing, raking her hair from her eyes and her mouth. it's all fog out on the water, and she can't see the shore—

at least, not until Henry's milky shape emerges somewhere to her far right.

stupid. arrogant! preternaturally frustrating! what is wrong with him! ]

Get out here!

[vecna]

[There she is, splashing about and slightly obscured by fog — she looks like a drowned rat in that water, and she wants him to join her?

She looks upset. Maybe understandably. Laughably. Henry stops just short of the water proper.]

I got overzealous.

[no shit]

Come out, we’ll dry you off.

[velluminous]

[ the thing she is noticing is that he doesn't apologize, certainly not right away; she has to convince him to. ]

No, what we are doing is cooling your stupid coiffed head!

[ she claws a hand up from the water, spurring that same compulsion through his body from the day before. get out there. ]

[vecna]

[He has been called a lot of things in his life, but insulting his “coiffed head” is a new one, disarming enough that he doesn’t have an immediate reply.

And when he decides on one, whatever it is, she casts that damn compulsion on him again so it never leaves his mouth, and his body moves on its own — rushing towards the water as though it were the heat of summer, and he were a beachgoer trying to stave off the rays of the sun.

The reality is less exciting: a few ugly splashes and he’s dove in next to her, lost beneath the foggy surface and bobbing back up seconds later. His perfectly coiffed hair, as she might describe it, appears much longer when it’s wet. It sticks to the side of his face, clinging to his cheekbones, falling across his eyes as he gasps for air.

Cold—]

[velluminous]

[ there. now she feels better.

panting, she halfheartedly splashes him with one hand ]

S-Stupid.

[vecna]

Why did you—

[Oh, he should just push her back under with his powers. Let her linger there for a full minute. Instead, Henry holds up his arm to block her haphazard splash, then lowers it to—

Splash her back. As spitefully as one can manage.]

Are you a child?

[Why is the water so cold— every muscle feels taut in reaction to the temperature.]