RP:Mind Games
In a Tavern, two minds meet while others' tongues wag
Veriun peered at Cornelius with a piercing gaze. One he'd used before. The one that seemed to look beyond the world and read it's subject like a childrens picture book. Unbeknownst to most, there was something more to this. That much was easy to tell. But more specifically, he did indeed read Cornelius. Perhaps it was on purpose, perhaps not. None the less, the old instinct of his (which he might or might not control) preformed the duty of a watcher. Unless protected, Cornelius' mind would be the subject of a mental scanlation, not all that detailed. But a scanlation none the less
As you enter this foppishly-dressed human's mind, you do not feel the usual resistance, the 'fight or flight' mechanism typical of the common psyche. Instead, it is as if a red carpet has been laid down for you, whirling emanations seeming to say "Do come on in Monsieur, there's tea and crumpets if you but pass through this door, do come, do come!". The door itself is grey, dull, the colour of distilled ennui framed by chiaroscuro'd indifference. Come in, come in, come in! echoes along the edges of your initial probing. Flashes of steel and flame flicker at the edges of this consciousness, the tantalising iron-tainted scent of blood mixed with sweet roses, the warm feel of leather and something else, something iced with the taste of time. Do you enter further? You are invited, my good man, yes, invited with coat removed by an egregious butler who bows and gestures to the entrance.
Veriun did indeed take his hat off, at least. Whether there was a butler or not. Peering around with slight interest. This was no longer but a brief touch of the watcher's duty. His attention had been turned. Opening the door as invited and stepping into the psyche with the manners of one having done so times beyond count. The invite had been accepted.
The door swings wide, the passage of its outline reshaping the vista with a slight lisp of wood on carpet. A courtyard with delicately manicured lawn bedecked in the black roses for which Vailkrini gardeners are famous. Another step, and the door swings again with a whiisp of friction. A warmly appointed room, mahogany desk and bookshelves lined neatly with paperwork, a pair deep cushioned leather chairs set next to a low-lying table. Whiisssp. A small room, brightly coloured with a dainty cot and soft woollen dolls knitted in the shapes of wolves and dragons. Whiiisp. A hallway, with portraits lining the wall. Whiiisp. A hallway, darkened, a dim glow emanating from the door ahead. Whiiisp. The hallway again, straight as a coffin nail, the lid of a door is closer now. Whiiisp. The doorway stands before you, ebony and engraved with a spread-winged raven. The illumination around the edges shows a darkened patch of carpet, a hint of wetness about it. Whiisp. Darkness. Whisp. You are in the salon, divans and ottomans set around the room as haphazardly as could be planned by a host to ensure guests converse freely. A teapot sits on the table, a hint of steam arising from it. Welcome, good sir, welcome...
Veriun appearance had adjusted to the destination as he finally reached it. Now dressed in a full suit of black tweed with silver lines and buttons. One hand wearing a while glove and the other seeming to emit a strange light. As if the psyche he was entering was specifically reacting too or highlighting that part of him. With a flick of his gloved hand he was suddenly holding a handkerchief which he used to wipe the shining hand. Taking two, four, eight steps into the room while sweeping his scanlation gaze across the 'landscape' of the mans psyche. The first stage had been reached. From here on out, the dance would start. And Cornelius was in the lead. And got to pick the song, as well.
The salon flickers, warps, fades slightly, then holds steady. Slowly, the room fills with the bergamot-laden aroma of Earl Grey, until the air seems almost viscous with its scent. A tea-stained sepia tint falls over the salon, and in a crazed kaleidoscope of shadows the room fills with chaotically-shifting dark lines. Thick after-images of soirees and afternoon readings assault the avian's senses, a thousand afternoon gatherings compacted into the space of moments.
Veriun looked around at the kaleidoscope effect with a mild, chilly interest as he took the final few steps towards the table, stopping and pouring tea into the cup he'd brought forth. Sitting down onto the closest seat, watching the warping of this mental space. He was here to observe, and that is what he did. Apparently un-bothered by the initial strain most visitors would have suffered.
Cornelius almost blinks, as something unbidden registers at the very edge of his consciousness. He maintains his amiable expression, and appears to listen to the nearby conversation placidly.
The aroma of the tea is exquisite, hinting of citrus beneath the exotic bergamot. It entices one to stop and savour the bouquet, enjoying the anticipation of the first sip. The room feels as warm and comforting as the teacup in hand. Ah to take a slow, leisurely sip - and with that first sip the room shatters, the sepia shards scattering off into a greater darkness and with it an aftertaste of blood on the avian's lips, its acrid iron tang sharp and earthy in contrast to the now-vanished scent of tea. In a moment, even that passes, and there is only the void, a vast absence of illumination with no frame of reference. Welcome, sir, welcome...
Veriun raised an eyebrow as he remained sitting in the absolute void that the room had become. Even the shine of his right hand cast no true light. Yet he did nothing to fight or escape it. He merely waited, well adjusted to the situation. Lifting a leg and crossing it over the other and taking another sip of the tea in his cup. Clearly not-at-all distanced from the substance even after this effect. In fact, he seemed to be... not enjoying it.... indifferent about it, rather.
Cornelius casually glances around the room, face set in an expression of idle curiosity
With the passage of the first minute in darkness all remnants of the room-that-was vanish - teapot, teacup, tea, chair, sepia tints and scent of bergamot - all of these were but ideas gone with a change of mind. There is nothing in this void left of the maker's creation. It is whispered that in some parts of the world, there are nights which last for days. The darkness the avian finds himself in, however, is not dictated to by the passage of seasons or the movements of celestial objects. Minutes drag out to hours, slowing down even more into days and weeks of potential sensory deprivation.
Veriun gained a slight smile as the darkness shifted into an equally deprevating light. Catching the sphere in his hand, it was now suddenly a black fedora which he placed upon his head as he kept walking trough the light at his slow leisurely pace. Returning his hands to their initial position within his pockets.
The blank white realm expands ever on and on, unchanging with the avian's movements, not even offering the comfort of sound to suggest the avian's feet are making contact with anything of substance. There are no shadows, no textures, nothing but the avian and his dapper fedora in a sea of brightness.
Veriun stopped. He had accepted the challenge. He didn't move. Nor did he take any further action. And he would stay as such for what would feel like days, weeks or months.
The white realm continues to expand outwards over a passage of years, and with it comes a sense of withdrawal that only mental senses as attuned as those of the ancient Avian's could recognise - it is as if Cornelius' mind seeks to carefully distance itself from Veriun, using the avian's perceived inactivity to carefully extricate Cornelius from the mental entanglement.
Veriun wasn't doing anything. He had not come to force information out of Cornelius. Therefor, as the man started to retreat he made no attempt of pursuit. In fact, he seemed more interested in the sudden withdrawal itself then exploring further. A notion he may have deliberately allowed to escape into the psyche he was currently residing.
Finally, after what seems like decades, the connection loosens and Cornelius exerts his will to purify his mind of external influences. As he does, he cannot help but let some of his core psyche slip through. As Veriun finds the mental connection pulling away from him there is another barrage of images, after-echoes of old memories brought to the surface by the very act of Cornelius trying to keep them hidden from inspection. What Veriun experiences in those last moments of contact has the essence of a true memory, the images and attached sensations sharp and strong. The visions come, and it is almost as if Veriun was the dandy walking into that foyer, strolling up those stairs. Within two steps, the smell of blood becomes strong in the air, and the footing soon becomes slippery and treacherous with the butler's exsanguination. There is laughter now, cascading down the stairs and rich in timbre, contrasting above the sound of a child's shrill scream. As the connection finally closes is the hint of a muttered name... Anastasia. And then it is done. Cornelius is free of the connection for now, and Veriun has perhaps learned more than the dandy would ever want another to know.