whatamithinking (
whatamithinking) wrote in
glowfic2016-02-17 09:13 am
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Entry tags:
Lo, How a Rose E'er Blooming
Edie has mixed feelings about the roses.
On the one hand, magic exists.
On the other hand, ow.
On the first hand, perfect healing.
On the second hand, ow.
On the first hand, flight.
On the second hand, holy fucking ow that one's definitely the worst, yep, ow ow ow.
On the one hand, magic exists.
On the other hand, ow.
On the first hand, perfect healing.
On the second hand, ow.
On the first hand, flight.
On the second hand, holy fucking ow that one's definitely the worst, yep, ow ow ow.
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(When she goes to bed that night she notices that she barely notices how much having the black and white roses active hurts any more.)
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It's pretty clear about belonging to the black flower in particular. It doesn't feel quite like any of the other flower magic she has. It feels like a choice, between four differently-flavoured subspecialties. One feels like it has to do with imbuing magical properties into existing objects; one feels slippery and hard to define; one feels like it has to do with making it easier for her to learn new skills and improve old ones; and one feels like it has to do with manipulating darkness.
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I woke up this morning with a new thing in my brain asking me to choose between four different things and it's definitely from the black rose and I was wondering what else you could tell me about that? I'd prefer to make a more rather than less informed choice.
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The blue flower would like Edie to choose between magic for shielding things, magic for transforming objects, magic for repairing objects, and magic for manipulating metal.
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To start out with, how may she transform an object?
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Emily sticks with dance club even after she's better than anyone else there at any of the dances they know, what with their lack of cheaty magic. But she's not particularly subtle about how good at it she is--that would make the dancing itself much less fun. She acquires a handful of admirers.
Possibly the most likeable of these is Luc, whose mom is from Montreal and who plays up his consequent knowledge of French like a Hollywood Parisian, but always in a sufficiently self-parodying way as not to become insufferable.
And one meeting, he presents her with a blue-stemmed white rose.
"What," she says.
He gives a presumably gallic shrug. "My great aunt died, recently. This was hers. She always claimed it was possessed, and perhaps she was right, for for as long as my parents have been bundling me into the car and incarcerating me in her stuffy old house for family reunions it has sat on the hall end table, and never has it wilted! When it fell into my possession in the general scuffle of my less savory relatives for the crumbs of her estate, I knew such beauty and mystery could only belong in the possession of the veritable Muse of our fair halls," he declaims.
"It's...beautiful. I appreciate it more than you know," she murmurs, taking it with care not to cut herself on the white-tipped thorns and even more care not to accidentally prick him with them. That would be a disaster.
And once the meeting is over and everything's packed up and everyone's left there is a very urgent email to write.
Found a new rose!!!!!!!!!!!!! Guy from dance club gave it to me. Inheritance from a dead relative who thought it was possessed. Have not tested it yet. Will v. soon.
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She pokes at the new available magic.
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Oh, hey, does the rate at which she can reduce something's temperature correlate meaningfully to its specific heat?
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