conjuredskies: (Default)
Felix has sent word via Jim that he's ready to assist Harrow - that he has everything required. He didn't specify what: Harrow knows well enough. He did specify where: a long-neglected picnic area marked by picturesque little boulders and paved with some kind of bricks. It's no doomstone circle, but it'll do. Felix has a sense of both appropriate dramatic flair and practical caution.

Granted, the 'altar' leaves something to be desired on both counts, but he had an atronach rip out the table's benches earlier and clear away the unnecessary furniture. Felix has been busy setting wards around the ritual space, some powered by blood and some by a pair of lesser soul gems: wards to keep out unwanted magical influence and bind what's in the circle from harming him. Or Harrow. Of course.

Preparations as complete as they're going to get, he's sitting on one of the boulders while he clears his mind and waits. His satchel - and the thing it contains - lies by the table, at a comfortable distance.
conjuredskies: (Default)
It’s taken a great deal of effort and no small subterfuge to obtain the right co-ordinates. But at long last it’s done, and when Felix and Jim appear it’s beneath the clear blue skies and on the gentle green grass of central Cyrodiil. They’re in a low hollow, surrounded by hillocks that block them from view, though atop one is a small circular structure of worn white columns. The air is cool, but much milder than in Skyrim this time of year. Felix draws a deep breath and turns to Jim with a smile, gesturing toward one of the hills. He’s out of uniform and wearing his own leathers for this trip - it simplifies things.

From the top, he already knows, there’s an excellent view of the grassy slopes stretching down to the shores of Lake Nibenay, its vast waters stretching out to the horizon both left and right… and beyond that, seeming equally vast, the towering white walls of the Imperial City, shadowing the tiny isles and the full-masted ships that ply the waters around it. Only one building rises above those walls: the shining spindle of the White-Gold Tower, impossibly tall from this angle. There’s a road below, following the general line of the shore, and even from a distance the sound of horses and carts and chatting travelers can be heard. It takes a lot of traffic to keep the heart of an Empire beating.

“Welcome to the Imperial City,” Felix says softly.
conjuredskies: (Indeeeeed)
Felix has no intention of showing Amelia real Tamrielic architecture in the Nexus. The main site he knows only exists because of certain rites he’d rather nobody find out about just yet. And the power that changed it into an echo of his world is not one a young girl should be encountering.

Even if she isn’t technically as young as she thinks.

That said, he can’t stop her finding him when he comes back, nor (try as he might) dampen her enthusiasm for seeing a ‘real’ piece of his realm . It’s looking as if he’ll have to resort to his backup plan: lead her on an unnecessarily long walk and lie like a Thalmor.

“We’re almost there,” he assures her, as they turn the last corner. “I promise.”
conjuredskies: (Conjuration)
Linked here because it's for both brothers even though it goes on Stratos' journal.

A younger Stratos shows his brother the stars.

conjuredskies: (Intent)
It’s been some while since they made their informal arrangement, but Felix hasn’t at all forgotten the light-footed rogue or the dance he promised her. A pact is a pact, no matter how many duties – foreseen and otherwise – have demanded his attention.

For that matter he and Verity haven’t been meeting for Geography Club quite so regularly, and the smells when he steps through the door of the Fox and Crosier make him regret that fiercely. Alchemy study may have to be relocated whenever possible. He scrapes some of the snow from his boots and leather armor, then strolls up to the desk chicken to ask after Amelia.
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