Finn O'Connor
:: 8th of Vhalar, 717
Reviewer's note: Robin and I have given each other permission to control each other's character. These posts were crafted in a true collaborative fashion in google docs. There is no godmodding here!
Finn thought he’d never use the candle granted by Thetros. It felt wrong, treacherous almost, to make use of the Immortal’s gift. But ever since Zipper had unceremoniously dumped him in the orphanage, he'd been met with much trepidation and wariness from his peers. He was no longer the pissant at the bottom of the food chain, thriving off his sister's legacy. He was the danger now: one of only two souls who had entered Barnelby’s office without permission and lived to tell the tale. He was the one that had travelled further from Etzos than many orphans would in their lifetimes. He was the one that had spent several maddening trials in the halls of justice before his sister had dragged him back to the orphanage. He hadn't told anyone about any of these questionable achievements and yet everyone knew. In some this prompted an unprecedented level of respect. Arguments would end the moment he stepped into a room, replaced instead by a hushed silence, only to resume again when he left. Most, however, seemed to fear him more than anything.
One trial after another went by, each more fleeting and mundane than the one before it. After his morning ablutions he went straight to Doran’s laboratory and returned to his bed on the attic in the evening. There were meals in between too, but he scarcely remembered them.
It wasn't until Doran, by mistake or by kindness, let him go a little earlier than usual that he returned with a modicum of vitality in his body and spirit and was reminded of the candle. He had no particular desire to see or speak with Nir’wei, but the candle would let him share dreams with another, a more kindred spirit.
Right after the evening meal, he scurried up the stairs to the attic and retrieved the candle from a chest under his bed. It would only be a few bits before the other children would come stomping in and he didn't want to be shaken from his dream when they did. After he'd closed the chest, he moved down many flights of stairs until he reached the kitchen and asked for flint and steel to light his candle. The inevitable “why” was answered by some muttering about prayer, not exactly a fruitful endeavour in the minds of any Etzori, but not wholly forbidden either. With the candle lit, he went out the backdoors and into a small courtyard where some chickens were held in a hen house. It was small and cramped, but he fitted in regardless and the hay strewn across the floor provided some warmth and comfort at least. He sat down, leaned his head against the rickety, wooden boarding, and closed his eyes while he tried to summon the sights and smells of the sitting room, just as Thetros had instructed. Sleep didn't come easy in the presence of cackling chickens, but their noise faded eventually and he awoke in a much more comfortable leather chair, placed in the far corner of a luxurious sitting room. He wasn't sure if he could summon Robin, or if he'd simply had to hope the defier would be there. With not much else to do, he decided that perhaps thinking very hard about the young defier would help bring him there.
Finn wasn't sure if he had somehow managed to bring Robin into the dream bubble. Time was a funny thing in dreams, passing at ever fluctuating rates. And so it was after no time, or perhaps a very long time that Finn greeted the unmistakable defier's silhouette with a bright smile. How Robin had arrived and whether or not he was just a figment of the imagination became secondary thoughts as Finn welcomed Robin with a quick embrace. Even if the touch wasn't real, the message certainly was. Thirteen was the age at which such acts grew rare, and stiff and awkward in their execution. Hugs were childish and the last thing any growing boy wanted to be accused of was acting childishly. He broke contact quickly then, despite none of his peers being anywhere in sight to judge him.
Finn thought he’d never use the candle granted by Thetros. It felt wrong, treacherous almost, to make use of the Immortal’s gift. But ever since Zipper had unceremoniously dumped him in the orphanage, he'd been met with much trepidation and wariness from his peers. He was no longer the pissant at the bottom of the food chain, thriving off his sister's legacy. He was the danger now: one of only two souls who had entered Barnelby’s office without permission and lived to tell the tale. He was the one that had travelled further from Etzos than many orphans would in their lifetimes. He was the one that had spent several maddening trials in the halls of justice before his sister had dragged him back to the orphanage. He hadn't told anyone about any of these questionable achievements and yet everyone knew. In some this prompted an unprecedented level of respect. Arguments would end the moment he stepped into a room, replaced instead by a hushed silence, only to resume again when he left. Most, however, seemed to fear him more than anything.
One trial after another went by, each more fleeting and mundane than the one before it. After his morning ablutions he went straight to Doran’s laboratory and returned to his bed on the attic in the evening. There were meals in between too, but he scarcely remembered them.
It wasn't until Doran, by mistake or by kindness, let him go a little earlier than usual that he returned with a modicum of vitality in his body and spirit and was reminded of the candle. He had no particular desire to see or speak with Nir’wei, but the candle would let him share dreams with another, a more kindred spirit.
Right after the evening meal, he scurried up the stairs to the attic and retrieved the candle from a chest under his bed. It would only be a few bits before the other children would come stomping in and he didn't want to be shaken from his dream when they did. After he'd closed the chest, he moved down many flights of stairs until he reached the kitchen and asked for flint and steel to light his candle. The inevitable “why” was answered by some muttering about prayer, not exactly a fruitful endeavour in the minds of any Etzori, but not wholly forbidden either. With the candle lit, he went out the backdoors and into a small courtyard where some chickens were held in a hen house. It was small and cramped, but he fitted in regardless and the hay strewn across the floor provided some warmth and comfort at least. He sat down, leaned his head against the rickety, wooden boarding, and closed his eyes while he tried to summon the sights and smells of the sitting room, just as Thetros had instructed. Sleep didn't come easy in the presence of cackling chickens, but their noise faded eventually and he awoke in a much more comfortable leather chair, placed in the far corner of a luxurious sitting room. He wasn't sure if he could summon Robin, or if he'd simply had to hope the defier would be there. With not much else to do, he decided that perhaps thinking very hard about the young defier would help bring him there.
Finn wasn't sure if he had somehow managed to bring Robin into the dream bubble. Time was a funny thing in dreams, passing at ever fluctuating rates. And so it was after no time, or perhaps a very long time that Finn greeted the unmistakable defier's silhouette with a bright smile. How Robin had arrived and whether or not he was just a figment of the imagination became secondary thoughts as Finn welcomed Robin with a quick embrace. Even if the touch wasn't real, the message certainly was. Thirteen was the age at which such acts grew rare, and stiff and awkward in their execution. Hugs were childish and the last thing any growing boy wanted to be accused of was acting childishly. He broke contact quickly then, despite none of his peers being anywhere in sight to judge him.
