She can’t truly believe it, most of the time. Her new world is enormous and overwhelming, and right now, she feels like she can do anything, be anyone. This much freedom, on some level, is frightening. The vastness of it all sometimes feels like pressure, so she chooses to focus on smaller aspects at a time. For the most part, she tries not to trip over the unfamiliar terrain, tries not to be spooked by small animals that, to Salem, seem to come out of nowhere. She does her best to stand tall, to project an image of resolute strength and confidence. It’s exhausting, and as the sun begins to set, it becomes harder and harder for Salem to keep up the pace. They’ve been traveling steadily since the tower, and in some ways, the tower feels so long ago, so far away. In other ways, it feels like it’s looming behind Salem, threatening to swallow her up once more.
She wonders if her companion is tired. She doubts it. Salem wonders a lot about her savior — what does he really want? He has insisted over and over that it’s not her lands nor her hand in marriage that he’s after, but Salem isn’t so sure. He’s very unlike her father. She supposes she ought to be reassured by that. She’s definitely grateful — more grateful than words can express — but she’s also a little wary. ]
What’s it like out here? At night?
[ Salem doesn’t want to suggest that they stop. She wants to appear strong. Salem doesn’t want Ozma to think she’s weak or incapable, doesn’t want him to think of her as a sheltered little thing. She’s done being sheltered. She’s done being a thing. So now that they’re approaching what appears to be a relatively safe clearing in the countryside, surrounded mostly by rolling hills and a wide open sky, Salem will just...test the waters a little. Try to see if Ozma wants to stop, before she suggests it. ]
[ Their pace has been... very slow, but Ozma doesn't mind. His new companion seems to marvel at everything. She startles at the sight of a rabbit, pauses to regard a robin as though it's a mystery. Perhaps she's never seen them from so close up. The thought is deeply saddening; she has always been a prisoner, and of course a prisoner would have no chance to look upon rabbits and birds.
It does mean they are falling far short of where he'd expected, tonight. There is a little village not far, perhaps a few hours' travel at their current pace; but the sunset was already casting the mountains purple and gold when they'd left the tower, and now dusk is truly upon them. The last watery blue light is quickly fading from the sky, and soon they will be able to carry on only by the light of the moon. ]
Out here? [ He pauses, and looks out over the rolling hills that surround them. Above, the stars are beginning to come out. The air smells of warm grass, gentle and mild. ] It's beautiful at night. And very peaceful.
[ It occurs to him, then, that perhaps a few hours' travel by night is not favorable to her. He hardly expects trouble out this far into the countryside, but— well, any camp they make will be a very humble one. He only has the one bedroll.
No matter. It will be a mild night. ]
Would you like to make camp for the night, my lady? We can reach town in the morning.
[ Salem nods, relieved that Ozma has suggested that they stop. ]
Yes. I'd like to help -- [ she pauses awkwardly, the phrase unfamiliar on her tongue. ] -- make camp.
[ She's had more conversation over the last few hours than she's had in months. Maybe longer. These new words, this sheer amount of talking, takes practice.
Besides, making camp is a new skill, and a useful one. For Ozma, it's probably such an ordinary thing, but for Salem, it's another part of this great adventure. ]
What goes first? In return, I can teach you the names of the stars, if you don't already know them.
[ Is that common knowledge, for someone like Ozma, someone from outside? Salem isn't sure. She hopes she isn't making a fool of herself. She just wants to show that she knows something about the world, even if what she knows comes only from books and the view from her window. Besides, Salem figures it's safer if she posits this as a real exchange, rather than a warrior taking pity on a former prisoner. ]
[ She's eager to help, and he appreciates that. It isn't needed; this is his duty, and something he'd be doing regardless.
Well. Actually, if he were traveling alone, he would have made it back to town by now. But there's really no harm in a night in the countryside. The weather is good, and this is a safe area, all considered. Maybe it will be a nice first night on the road for her. Maybe she will like it, being under the open sky. ]
There isn't much to do. [ He adjusts his pack on his shoulders, considering the fields around them, then tips his head for her to follow him off the road. Road may be a generous term; this little stretch of dirt is mostly overgrown. Still, he'll wait to set his pack down until they're a comfortable distance away. ]
We'll want to start a fire. [ He wouldn't, actually, were he alone. He doesn't mind a cold dinner. But she might be cold, and unused to the darkness, so it seems... friendly. ] And set up the bedroll.
[ And dig a latrine, but he's too polite to say that one. It can be his task. Instead, he blinks back at her, then up at the sky. ]
The stars? I only know a few. Enough to navigate by.
[ It doesn’t sound like much to Ozma, maybe, but to Salem that sounds like plenty. At the mention of setting a fire, Salem perks up. That’s something familiar! ]
Oh, I can make a fire.
[ She’s had plenty of practice trying to burn her tower down. It was the escape plan of choice for a very active, but very shortsighted, fourteen-year-old-Salem. But Ozma doesn’t need to know that. It would probably make him sad.
Salem follows, registering the change in terrain beneath her feet. The grass is as soft as she imagined it would be, but lumpier, too. Salem decides she likes it. ]
I had a book on them, and on all the constellations they made, and all the little stories to go with the constellations. When those stories got old, I made up my own. I don’t think they were very good, but —
[ Salem shrugs. Her voice drops, becomes a little quieter, almost reverent. A little sad, but hopeful, too. ]
I always wanted to see them. The whole sky. My window only faced East. [ But that’s a sad story, and probably not one Ozma wants to hear. Salem isn’t sure if she wants to tell it. But Ozma, if he uses the stars to navigate, must have plenty of wonderful stories. So she adds: ]
[ He leads them over the crest of a little hill and into the dip behind, til the ground flattens out and the grass grows low. This looks promising; level enough, but not so low as to be unpleasantly damp. He sets down his pack there, nodding at the site. ]
This should work well. [ He plants his staff in the ground, and touches the crystal with a spark of magic. A bright glow springs up within it and holds steady as the moonlight, bathing their little campsite in green light. Ozma crouches to unfasten the straps of his pack and begin setting things aside: the bedroll, the cooking things, his meager provisions. He listens to her talk as he works.
She's never seen the whole sky. That is terribly sad. He wonders if she will want to be left alone to finally take in the sight; but maybe not, if she offered him stories. Maybe she's had too much of being alone. ]
I'd like to hear your stories. [ He looks up from his pack with a genuine little smile. ] I'm sure they'll all be new to me. I'm afraid I haven't read many books.
As for the stars, I've followed them many places. They led me to— [ your tower, he almost says, and then realizes perhaps that isn't what he should call it; your father's castle, he almost says, and then doesn't, because he is still acutely aware of the sound the man made as he died. ] —to you. Can you clear away the grass from here, for the fire? Or shape stone to hold the flame.
[ She'd wanted to help, and this seems simple enough. He gestures to a stretch of grass beside them, still crouched at his pack. ]
You might be awake all night. I had -- [ little else to do but ] -- plenty of time for reading. Many stories speak of the stars like they're far-away people, old and fickle. There's a tale of seven sisters --
[ Now that they've stopped, Salem finally takes a moment to look up at the sky, and as soon as she does, her words catch in her throat. They're all there. So many stars, twinkling in a huge, dark sky. Salem's heart skips a beat; she may have forgotten to breathe, for a moment. No story can fully capture this. Salem realizes, now, why there are so many stories about the night sky. Even a hundred stories would only describe a small fraction of it.
After a few moments of rapt silence, Salem realizes that Ozma had asked her to clear away some grass. She looks down and blinks, refocusing her gaze to the earth, trying to quite literally ground herself. She nods once, and then crouches down a small distance away from Ozma's pack. Salem makes a sharp, sweeping motion with her hands, as if she's slicing the air, and the grass splits at the roots, blowing away in the breeze. Salem's magic is rough, untrained, but forceful in its rawness.
Once that's done, Salem is finally collected enough to realize that most outside people probably don't stop mid-sentence to look at the sky. Hastily, almost embarrassed, she adds: ]
Sorry, I. I was distracted. I'll do the stone next.
[ He nods along as she speaks, and looks up when her voice dies away. He's concerned for a moment, scanning the sky to find what she's looking at, until he realizes.
This is the private moment he'd been wondering about, and he tries to leave her to it. Ozma finishes unpacking his few cooking utensils and considers their meal. Dried meat, bread, and cheese. He has a few small apples, and enough spices left to make a passable stew. But a traveling warrior's impression of passable may be a shock to a woman of her standing. At least tomorrow they'll make it to somewhere with a proper tavern and fresher meat.
She seems to return to herself, and sets about razing the grass. Her magic is very unlike his own, and there's something incredible about the simple power of it. He watches, and looks up at her when she hesitates. ]
It's alright. [ Glancing to the sky above them, ] It's beautiful.
[ He's used to it. These stars watch him nearly every night. But it is beautiful, now that the last of the light is gone and the sky is going a true dark blue. ]
Once the fire is ready, I'll get dinner started. I'm afraid it won't be much.
[ Salem agrees, her voice soft. She’s glad Ozma understands — at least, she thinks he understands. Salem returns to her task. Forming stone will be more difficult than clearing the grass. There was air to practice with, in her tower, but no earth. Salem kneels on the ground; she does not seem to care whether or not she gets her rather delicate ladies’ dress dirty.
(There’s a part of her that wants to get it dirty, wants to tear it up and destroy it. It is a thing her father gave her. It is not hers.)
She hovers her palms just over the dirt. Slowly, the tiny rocks begin to coalesce into smaller stones. She works at this for quite a while, longer than perhaps the average magic-user should, but she manages to form a small ring of stones that hopefully can keep a fire in check. Satisfied, Salem snaps her fingers, and the dry bits of dead grass remaining in the center of the stone circle ignite, starting a small fire. Salem sits back, now smiling. She’s clearly proud of her modest fire, and she waves Ozma over. ]
Whatever it is may well be the best dinner I’ve ever had. [ These aren’t a lady’s courtesies — Salem really means this in earnest, and she speaks with a very genuine source of forcefulness. ] Because I’m not having it alone.
[ Meals, in Salem’s tower, served primarily to keep her alive and mark the passage of time. They were not things to be shared, not acts of kindness or consideration. Besides, she was rarely properly hungry, only because she didn’t get to do much that would truly tire her out. Now, after all this walking, Salem thinks she could probably eat a horse. ]
[ He rolls out the bedroll while she readies the fire, and assembles his pack and bundle of spare clothes as a pillow. The result is not elegant, but it will have to do. He'll sleep in the grass with his head on his arm; so long as the night stays mild, it won't do him any harm. A night of poor sleep on cold ground will be easier for him than for her.
With that, her fire springs to life, and he takes up their dinner supplies. Ozma nods his approval of the fire and carries his little armload over. Her work is rough, but there's no shame in that. He hasn't had a traveling companion to build their fire in some time. ]
You may reconsider once you taste it. [ But he smiles back at her as he says it, as he conjures water into their little pot and sets it upon the flames to boil. ] Somehow I didn't think to plan for company.
[ He'd thought they would have made it back to town for the first night, or perhaps he hadn't really thought that far at all. He still has no idea how many nights there may be; how long will she wish to travel with him? Their first destination is, at a stretch, just town enough that she might procure a horse. But can she ride? Not on her own, surely. Can they find someone trustworthy to take her where she wishes to go?
Still. Those are her decisions, and he hardly minds the company. Ozma sets his little roll of ingredients down. ]
We'll want to cut the meat into pieces, and dice one of the apples. By magic or with a knife. If you'll give me a moment, I want to take this armor off.
[ It is fine armor, and he's accustomed to the weight, but if they're settling in for the night he can finally be free of it. He sits across from her, and begins with the bracers strapped over his wrists. This will be something of a process, but he knows it by heart, even in the low and flickering light of their fire. ]
[ Ozma not thinking of planning for company before he goes on a rescue mission has the same ring as his refusal to take her father’s riches. It is so unexpectedly sweet, and maybe a touch foolish. Salem smiles. She’s been doing a lot of that, since she left — she’s probably smiled more in these last several hours than she has in her entire life. She feels warm, and there’s a part of her that knows that it’s not just because of the fire. ]
Oh, take your time.
[ All that armor strikes Salem as heavy, and probably difficult to put on and take off. Salem watches Ozma for a moment, still reveling in the fact that she’s sitting outside, around a fire, with another person. That person, she’s not disappointed to note, is...well-built, under all that armor.
But Salem knows from her stories that it’s rude to stare, so she drops her gaze and picks up the apple. She’s never held a knife before — she’s never been allowed — so magic will have to do. Salem’s magic has mostly been practiced on small objects like this apple, so she feels competent enough to work on this, making slicing motions across the apple’s skin with her first two fingers, and letting the little cubes fall into her lap. ]
So we just — boil them?
[ That’s probably a stupid question, but Salem has never cooked before, so she wants to be sure. ]
[ He unclasps the bracers, which makes it easier to do away with the studded gloves. The straps on the pauldrons are tricky, and easier to navigate with bare fingers. It's a relief to get the mantle up and over his head and set it on the grass beside him, then unclasp his cape and fold it neatly.
By the time Salem has the apple diced, he's done away with the breastplate and the faulds that buckle at his waist. The armor is all stacked neatly in the grass beside him, and Ozma is bending to work the armor off of his legs. He's just in his tunic, now, brown forearms bare, and it's much more comfortable. He gives a contented little sigh at the touch of cool air.
He looks up at the question, blinking. ]
Yes? We'll just put it all in the pot. [ He has the good grace to look a little sheepish about this, because, again, he can't imagine it's of the caliber she's used to. ] We have bread for the soup— [ of the sort that is so tough there's no point in eating it without dunking it in something warm ] —and the last of the cheese and apples can be breakfast. We should make it to town for lunch.
[ Salem nods, and gingerly places the apples into the soup, a few cubes at a time. Ozma’s sheepish look gives her some pause — did she say something wrong? Salem wonders if he’s still self-conscious about the food, wonders how to ease that worry without saying something that will just make him sad, instead. She’ll just have to keep things positive. When she speaks again, her tone is light, doing her best to sound reassuring. Salem has never had to reassure anyone before, and she hopes she’s doing a decent job. ]
Well, it sounds lovely. Really. [ Then, again with feeling: ] Thank you.
[ She’s thanking him for more than just the soup. Salem is thanking him for the stars, for the conversation, for the freedom. And for the company, too. It’s a new feeling, not being lonely, and Salem never wants to let it go.
She lets that hang there, for a moment, before following up with: ]
[ He gives her a smile at the thank-you, intending it to be a polite little acknowledgement, then realizes the depth of feeling behind the words. He lingers there, smiling at her more softly now, while the moment hangs between them.
It's... nice. He'd had some idea of what to expect of her from her story, but not much. Not enough to know what escorting her away from the tower might be like, supposing he made it that far. He'd focused on the duty, the task ahead of him, and thought no further on it. It had seemed unkind, in a way, to dwell on what she would be like. To dream up thoughts of what she might be like to him. He really does not want a person as a prize.
He sets about getting the last of his armor undone. ]
If you would. You can use the last of the spices, too.
[ It's a crumpled little bag tucked in with the rest. He really should have come with more supplies, but there's nothing to be done for it now. ]
And then perhaps you could teach me the stars while it cooks.
[ Salem is glad to see Ozma’s softer smile. It’s a nice one. She takes it to mean that she’s done what she wanted, that he understands that he doesn’t need to be worried about the soup. That he doesn’t need to worry about anything like that. She’s not going to judge him; she’s got no basis on which to make any sort of judgment. Salem is just happy to be here.
She takes the meat, using the same rough, self-taught magic she used on the apple. Once the meat is in the pot, she moves on to the spices, opening up the bag and taking a little whiff, as curious about this as she has been about grass, about sky, about animals. She adds the spices carefully, a pinch at a time, imitating storybook illustrations about humble cooks. It probably looks a little ridiculous, but Salem, frankly, is having too much fun to be self-conscious.
Once she’s done with that, she peers into the pot, curious to see what happens when it cooks. It sure is boiling! The whole thing is very exciting, and when Salem finally sits back, she’s grinning happily. ]
Come over here. I’ll need to point out which stars I’m talking about, if these stories are to be any good.
[ He sets the last of his armor aside just in time to watch her work; she grins down at his scuffed little tin pot, throwing in pinches of spice like this is some incredible marvel. It lights up her whole body when she smiles. She looks so eagerly alive, like this, leaned over the pot with the knees of her fine gown in the dirt, her eyes bright and very blue.
Certainly the most enthusiastic traveling companion he's had. Ozma sits and watches her a moment, charmed, before he realizes he's simply staring and it's impolite. He is rescued when she waves him over. ]
Alright.
[ Free of the armor, he feels light as air. This is always his favorite moment in the evening, after hours of walking with plate mail strapped on. He stretches, arms high over his head, and flexes his shoulders gratefully before he steps over to her.
He takes a seat in the grass beside her, their backs to the fire. ]
Do you have a favorite?
[ A favorite star, a favorite story. He'd like to see her light up again with that smile. ]
[ There's a part of Salem, an old instinct, that doesn't expect Ozma to agree to sit beside her. As a very small child, she used to beg her father to play with her, to help brush the hair of the dolls he'd given her. Later, when she learned that that was unrealistic, she simply asked him to visit more often. Eventually, she learned to stop asking at all.
But Ozma sits close, like he wants to be there. He asks Salem about her favorites. He is very, very unlike her father, and that comforts her. ]
Well, I think I mentioned the seven sisters to you? I'll start with them. Look at that cluster, right there.
[ Salem points up at the sky and launches into her tale. Once she's telling her story, her whole demeanor changes -- she is confident, animated, and tells her story with the skill of a person whose whole life revolved around such tales. Ordinary conversation is difficult, for Salem, because she isn't as used to it. These stories are as familiar as breathing.
Salem mostly keeps her eyes on the sky, while she's telling her story, but once it's finished, she finally turns back to Ozma. His hopes have panned out -- that smile is back. ]
I know more, but I don't want to bore you. Should we -- do we need to look at the soup?
[ It needs to be stirred, right? Salem figures that's something you do to soup. ]
[ She points, and, obediently, he leans close to follow the elegant slant of he finger. His shoulder brushes hers. The night is cooling, but they are near enough to the fire to feel a little warmth at their backs. There is something refreshing and beautiful about the cold damp air against his face and the gentle crackle of magic-fed flame at his back.
It's a good story, and she tells it well: her voice rises and falls with emotion, with conviction, and he is swept along with her. It is easy to look up at the stars and let himself see what she's seeing. Ozma has always liked fairy tales.
When she turns that smile on him, he finds himself grinning back. ]
You wouldn't bore me. [ But, yes, she has a point about the soup. ] I will go take a look.
[ With that, he rises and returns to their little campfire. Ozma considers his one bowl and one spoon, wincing a little at the humble sight. Perhaps he can shape something a bit more elegant out of stone, but his magic has always been trained for battle and the odd moment of utility, not for anything particularly... detail-oriented.
He stirs the soup, tests a bite of meat— he would not call it soft but it is not miserably chewy— and deems it good enough. Simple and watery, but... it's warm and at least a bit flavorful? ]
[ Ozma's shoulder brushes up against Salem's, and without thinking, Salem leans into that contact, that brief feeling of warmth. The moment passes, as Ozma settles back to listen to her tale, but it lingers in the back of Salem's mind. It means nothing to Ozma, probably. It means everything to her. It has been years since Salem felt anything so gentle, even if that gentleness was unintentional, on Ozma's part.
So when Ozma rises to check on the soup, Salem follows immediately, staying as close as she thinks is safe. She has learned to be careful, when asking for closeness or touch -- it is safer to not really ask, so much as give a reason for the other person to want to make that contact. Ozma's fingertips might brush up against hers, when he gives her a bowl of soup. He might need someone to lean on as he eats; he could be that tired.
Salem shies away a little, when Ozma winces. She's not exactly sure what's wrong -- the soup looks fine to her -- so she reasons that she must be standing too close, that Ozma needs space. Salem figures it's a good time to reassure him, again. ]
It looks very good. I can help ser--
[ Salem stops there, about to say serve, finally realizing what's wrong. There's only one bowl. Glad that she's not what was wrong, Salem draws close again. ]
You use your bowl. I can shape a bowl for myself. I used to practice making little toys, when I was first learning magic, back -- [ Salem hesitates for a beat. ] -- back there.
[ She tries to keep her tone light, as if she isn't talking about her former prison. This is meant to comfort Ozma, after all. ] It passed the time.
[ She keeps close to him, and Ozma notices only vaguely. It is nice that she is comfortable with him; it is nice that she has someone to be close to. He can't imagine how lonely she might have been, or for how long, and so of course it must be exciting to have new company. But then, maybe she is just very hungry for the soup.
He blinks at her when she falters, and then when she offers. He shakes his head without hesitation. ]
Oh, no, please. This is for you. [ He says it on a little smile, genuine, and sets about pouring a bowl. ] You are my guest.
[ It would be terribly impolite to ask her for a bowl, wouldn't it? She does not owe him anything, and by all rights, she has had a very strange and stressful day. ]
[ At you are my guest, Salem properly stares at Ozma, as if he'd just said something to her in a foreign language. She's a guest. Salem can barely believe it, can barely register that Ozma is talking about her. She's never been a guest before. To be a guest, one has to travel somewhere. ]
I -- yes. But you need to eat, too. That pot is too hot to eat out of.
[ If Ozma insists on Salem using his bowl, then she'll just have to make him another. She's worked with little trinkets before, and while she's got less practice with shaping actual earth, the principle can't be all that different. Salem's brow furrows in concentration as she cups her hands over the dirt, raising it up into the sky and shaping it as she goes. She wants this to turn out well. Ozma deserves that much.
Salem eventually manages to form a bowl, which she bluntly hands off to Ozma. Congratulations, it's his now. ]
Here.
[ It's strangely oblong, and a tad lumpy in places, but it does look like a perfectly adequate clay bowl. Salem is sure Ozma is used to better, can do better, but maybe if she passes this off with confidence, he won't mind it. ]
[ She looks baffled at him, and he looks baffled by her bafflement. He's well-aware he did not prepare adequately, but they've covered that already, so there should be no more need to dwell on it. Perhaps they're again disagreeing on the role of a rescuer. He can again insist that she owes him nothing, but they've been over that several times already.
She crouches to make her bowl, and he'll not get in her way once she's clearly set on the thing; in any case, it is nice to watch her work. His companion takes on this expression of absolute concentration, and that intent focus looks nice on her face, as transformative as the smile.
She thrusts out the bowl to him, and he blinks at it as he accepts it. It is, in a sense, charming that she's made something no more beautiful or intricate than he could manage. Ozma's smile returns, and he trades her for the full bowl of soup. ]
Thank you. Here. [ He takes the bowl she's made him and fills it to match. Then he sets his hand upon the ground, and just as she'd shaped a bowl, he dredges up a spoon. He is faster than her, and draws more on hard stone than clay, with sharp confident movements. He shapes the curve of the spoon with the pad of his thumb and blows the remaining dirt away. ] We can eat under the stars, if you have more stories to share.
[ Salem takes the bowl of hot soup, letting the warmth of it flow through her fingers and palms. It feels nice, in this cool evening air. Salem's focused, determined stare resolves itself into a softer, gentler smile. This is her first meal as a free woman. She can't wait to know what it tastes like. ]
Thank you. I'd like that.
[ Truthfully, Salem would be happy eating anywhere that isn't her tower, but she's especially glad to spend this time outside, under the stars. Once Ozma takes his soup, Salem will move back to her original spot, her back to the fire and her face tilted up towards the sky. She'll start up her next tale after a few bites of the soup -- it would be rude to let it go cold. Salem takes a few bites, and while it's not, objectively speaking, the best soup she's ever had, taste-wise, it is in many other ways the best soup she's ever had. It's a gift, an act of care, a symbol of freedom. For a moment, Salem is at a loss for words, instead just smiling at the soup. ]
It's -- it's wonderful. [ She looks back to Ozma, her face set in a very earnest, very genuine expression. ] I think you ought to be very proud of it.
[ Salem says that with conviction, with feeling -- this Ozma is a good person, and that is something to be praised, to acknowledge. Salem has met so few of those, if any, in her lifetime. ]
Thoughts on levels:
In D&D 5e, a level 1 adventurer might impress their family, a level 5 adventurer might impress the whole city, a level 10 adventurer might impress the queen, a level 15 adventurer might impress the gods, and a level 20 adventurer is probably waging war on Hell itself. Or ruling it.
Based on these abilities, Oz's Maidens would currently rate as 11th-level sorcerers at minimum. Having access to Dominate Monster would peg Salem as a 15th-level sorcerer at minimum. This is def the power tier where you can call yourself a god and get away with it.
Thoughts on schools of magic:
we're SORCERERS here we BLAST SHIT don't bring your UTILITY SPELL BULLSHIT to FLASHY MAGIC EXPLOSION TOWN
so yeah Oz might have a lil extra abjuration skill going on & maybe a lil transmutation, maybe a lil nature-themed conjuration; Salem seems to have mastered Grimm conjuration
but mostly in this house we light up real pretty and make things explode
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SALEM. cws for discussion of abuse and isolation
no subject
She can’t truly believe it, most of the time. Her new world is enormous and overwhelming, and right now, she feels like she can do anything, be anyone. This much freedom, on some level, is frightening. The vastness of it all sometimes feels like pressure, so she chooses to focus on smaller aspects at a time. For the most part, she tries not to trip over the unfamiliar terrain, tries not to be spooked by small animals that, to Salem, seem to come out of nowhere. She does her best to stand tall, to project an image of resolute strength and confidence. It’s exhausting, and as the sun begins to set, it becomes harder and harder for Salem to keep up the pace. They’ve been traveling steadily since the tower, and in some ways, the tower feels so long ago, so far away. In other ways, it feels like it’s looming behind Salem, threatening to swallow her up once more.
She wonders if her companion is tired. She doubts it. Salem wonders a lot about her savior — what does he really want? He has insisted over and over that it’s not her lands nor her hand in marriage that he’s after, but Salem isn’t so sure. He’s very unlike her father. She supposes she ought to be reassured by that. She’s definitely grateful — more grateful than words can express — but she’s also a little wary. ]
What’s it like out here? At night?
[ Salem doesn’t want to suggest that they stop. She wants to appear strong. Salem doesn’t want Ozma to think she’s weak or incapable, doesn’t want him to think of her as a sheltered little thing. She’s done being sheltered. She’s done being a thing. So now that they’re approaching what appears to be a relatively safe clearing in the countryside, surrounded mostly by rolling hills and a wide open sky, Salem will just...test the waters a little. Try to see if Ozma wants to stop, before she suggests it. ]
no subject
It does mean they are falling far short of where he'd expected, tonight. There is a little village not far, perhaps a few hours' travel at their current pace; but the sunset was already casting the mountains purple and gold when they'd left the tower, and now dusk is truly upon them. The last watery blue light is quickly fading from the sky, and soon they will be able to carry on only by the light of the moon. ]
Out here? [ He pauses, and looks out over the rolling hills that surround them. Above, the stars are beginning to come out. The air smells of warm grass, gentle and mild. ] It's beautiful at night. And very peaceful.
[ It occurs to him, then, that perhaps a few hours' travel by night is not favorable to her. He hardly expects trouble out this far into the countryside, but— well, any camp they make will be a very humble one. He only has the one bedroll.
No matter. It will be a mild night. ]
Would you like to make camp for the night, my lady? We can reach town in the morning.
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Yes. I'd like to help -- [ she pauses awkwardly, the phrase unfamiliar on her tongue. ] -- make camp.
[ She's had more conversation over the last few hours than she's had in months. Maybe longer. These new words, this sheer amount of talking, takes practice.
Besides, making camp is a new skill, and a useful one. For Ozma, it's probably such an ordinary thing, but for Salem, it's another part of this great adventure. ]
What goes first? In return, I can teach you the names of the stars, if you don't already know them.
[ Is that common knowledge, for someone like Ozma, someone from outside? Salem isn't sure. She hopes she isn't making a fool of herself. She just wants to show that she knows something about the world, even if what she knows comes only from books and the view from her window. Besides, Salem figures it's safer if she posits this as a real exchange, rather than a warrior taking pity on a former prisoner. ]
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Well. Actually, if he were traveling alone, he would have made it back to town by now. But there's really no harm in a night in the countryside. The weather is good, and this is a safe area, all considered. Maybe it will be a nice first night on the road for her. Maybe she will like it, being under the open sky. ]
There isn't much to do. [ He adjusts his pack on his shoulders, considering the fields around them, then tips his head for her to follow him off the road. Road may be a generous term; this little stretch of dirt is mostly overgrown. Still, he'll wait to set his pack down until they're a comfortable distance away. ]
We'll want to start a fire. [ He wouldn't, actually, were he alone. He doesn't mind a cold dinner. But she might be cold, and unused to the darkness, so it seems... friendly. ] And set up the bedroll.
[ And dig a latrine, but he's too polite to say that one. It can be his task. Instead, he blinks back at her, then up at the sky. ]
The stars? I only know a few. Enough to navigate by.
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Oh, I can make a fire.
[ She’s had plenty of practice trying to burn her tower down. It was the escape plan of choice for a very active, but very shortsighted, fourteen-year-old-Salem. But Ozma doesn’t need to know that. It would probably make him sad.
Salem follows, registering the change in terrain beneath her feet. The grass is as soft as she imagined it would be, but lumpier, too. Salem decides she likes it. ]
I had a book on them, and on all the constellations they made, and all the little stories to go with the constellations. When those stories got old, I made up my own. I don’t think they were very good, but —
[ Salem shrugs. Her voice drops, becomes a little quieter, almost reverent. A little sad, but hopeful, too. ]
I always wanted to see them. The whole sky. My window only faced East. [ But that’s a sad story, and probably not one Ozma wants to hear. Salem isn’t sure if she wants to tell it. But Ozma, if he uses the stars to navigate, must have plenty of wonderful stories. So she adds: ]
Where did you follow the stars to?
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This should work well. [ He plants his staff in the ground, and touches the crystal with a spark of magic. A bright glow springs up within it and holds steady as the moonlight, bathing their little campsite in green light. Ozma crouches to unfasten the straps of his pack and begin setting things aside: the bedroll, the cooking things, his meager provisions. He listens to her talk as he works.
She's never seen the whole sky. That is terribly sad. He wonders if she will want to be left alone to finally take in the sight; but maybe not, if she offered him stories. Maybe she's had too much of being alone. ]
I'd like to hear your stories. [ He looks up from his pack with a genuine little smile. ] I'm sure they'll all be new to me. I'm afraid I haven't read many books.
As for the stars, I've followed them many places. They led me to— [ your tower, he almost says, and then realizes perhaps that isn't what he should call it; your father's castle, he almost says, and then doesn't, because he is still acutely aware of the sound the man made as he died. ] —to you. Can you clear away the grass from here, for the fire? Or shape stone to hold the flame.
[ She'd wanted to help, and this seems simple enough. He gestures to a stretch of grass beside them, still crouched at his pack. ]
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[ Now that they've stopped, Salem finally takes a moment to look up at the sky, and as soon as she does, her words catch in her throat. They're all there. So many stars, twinkling in a huge, dark sky. Salem's heart skips a beat; she may have forgotten to breathe, for a moment. No story can fully capture this. Salem realizes, now, why there are so many stories about the night sky. Even a hundred stories would only describe a small fraction of it.
After a few moments of rapt silence, Salem realizes that Ozma had asked her to clear away some grass. She looks down and blinks, refocusing her gaze to the earth, trying to quite literally ground herself. She nods once, and then crouches down a small distance away from Ozma's pack. Salem makes a sharp, sweeping motion with her hands, as if she's slicing the air, and the grass splits at the roots, blowing away in the breeze. Salem's magic is rough, untrained, but forceful in its rawness.
Once that's done, Salem is finally collected enough to realize that most outside people probably don't stop mid-sentence to look at the sky. Hastily, almost embarrassed, she adds: ]
Sorry, I. I was distracted. I'll do the stone next.
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This is the private moment he'd been wondering about, and he tries to leave her to it. Ozma finishes unpacking his few cooking utensils and considers their meal. Dried meat, bread, and cheese. He has a few small apples, and enough spices left to make a passable stew. But a traveling warrior's impression of passable may be a shock to a woman of her standing. At least tomorrow they'll make it to somewhere with a proper tavern and fresher meat.
She seems to return to herself, and sets about razing the grass. Her magic is very unlike his own, and there's something incredible about the simple power of it. He watches, and looks up at her when she hesitates. ]
It's alright. [ Glancing to the sky above them, ] It's beautiful.
[ He's used to it. These stars watch him nearly every night. But it is beautiful, now that the last of the light is gone and the sky is going a true dark blue. ]
Once the fire is ready, I'll get dinner started. I'm afraid it won't be much.
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[ Salem agrees, her voice soft. She’s glad Ozma understands — at least, she thinks he understands. Salem returns to her task. Forming stone will be more difficult than clearing the grass. There was air to practice with, in her tower, but no earth. Salem kneels on the ground; she does not seem to care whether or not she gets her rather delicate ladies’ dress dirty.
(There’s a part of her that wants to get it dirty, wants to tear it up and destroy it. It is a thing her father gave her. It is not hers.)
She hovers her palms just over the dirt. Slowly, the tiny rocks begin to coalesce into smaller stones. She works at this for quite a while, longer than perhaps the average magic-user should, but she manages to form a small ring of stones that hopefully can keep a fire in check. Satisfied, Salem snaps her fingers, and the dry bits of dead grass remaining in the center of the stone circle ignite, starting a small fire. Salem sits back, now smiling. She’s clearly proud of her modest fire, and she waves Ozma over. ]
Whatever it is may well be the best dinner I’ve ever had. [ These aren’t a lady’s courtesies — Salem really means this in earnest, and she speaks with a very genuine source of forcefulness. ] Because I’m not having it alone.
[ Meals, in Salem’s tower, served primarily to keep her alive and mark the passage of time. They were not things to be shared, not acts of kindness or consideration. Besides, she was rarely properly hungry, only because she didn’t get to do much that would truly tire her out. Now, after all this walking, Salem thinks she could probably eat a horse. ]
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With that, her fire springs to life, and he takes up their dinner supplies. Ozma nods his approval of the fire and carries his little armload over. Her work is rough, but there's no shame in that. He hasn't had a traveling companion to build their fire in some time. ]
You may reconsider once you taste it. [ But he smiles back at her as he says it, as he conjures water into their little pot and sets it upon the flames to boil. ] Somehow I didn't think to plan for company.
[ He'd thought they would have made it back to town for the first night, or perhaps he hadn't really thought that far at all. He still has no idea how many nights there may be; how long will she wish to travel with him? Their first destination is, at a stretch, just town enough that she might procure a horse. But can she ride? Not on her own, surely. Can they find someone trustworthy to take her where she wishes to go?
Still. Those are her decisions, and he hardly minds the company. Ozma sets his little roll of ingredients down. ]
We'll want to cut the meat into pieces, and dice one of the apples. By magic or with a knife. If you'll give me a moment, I want to take this armor off.
[ It is fine armor, and he's accustomed to the weight, but if they're settling in for the night he can finally be free of it. He sits across from her, and begins with the bracers strapped over his wrists. This will be something of a process, but he knows it by heart, even in the low and flickering light of their fire. ]
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Oh, take your time.
[ All that armor strikes Salem as heavy, and probably difficult to put on and take off. Salem watches Ozma for a moment, still reveling in the fact that she’s sitting outside, around a fire, with another person. That person, she’s not disappointed to note, is...well-built, under all that armor.
But Salem knows from her stories that it’s rude to stare, so she drops her gaze and picks up the apple. She’s never held a knife before — she’s never been allowed — so magic will have to do. Salem’s magic has mostly been practiced on small objects like this apple, so she feels competent enough to work on this, making slicing motions across the apple’s skin with her first two fingers, and letting the little cubes fall into her lap. ]
So we just — boil them?
[ That’s probably a stupid question, but Salem has never cooked before, so she wants to be sure. ]
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By the time Salem has the apple diced, he's done away with the breastplate and the faulds that buckle at his waist. The armor is all stacked neatly in the grass beside him, and Ozma is bending to work the armor off of his legs. He's just in his tunic, now, brown forearms bare, and it's much more comfortable. He gives a contented little sigh at the touch of cool air.
He looks up at the question, blinking. ]
Yes? We'll just put it all in the pot. [ He has the good grace to look a little sheepish about this, because, again, he can't imagine it's of the caliber she's used to. ] We have bread for the soup— [ of the sort that is so tough there's no point in eating it without dunking it in something warm ] —and the last of the cheese and apples can be breakfast. We should make it to town for lunch.
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Well, it sounds lovely. Really. [ Then, again with feeling: ] Thank you.
[ She’s thanking him for more than just the soup. Salem is thanking him for the stars, for the conversation, for the freedom. And for the company, too. It’s a new feeling, not being lonely, and Salem never wants to let it go.
She lets that hang there, for a moment, before following up with: ]
Shall I do the meat?
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It's... nice. He'd had some idea of what to expect of her from her story, but not much. Not enough to know what escorting her away from the tower might be like, supposing he made it that far. He'd focused on the duty, the task ahead of him, and thought no further on it. It had seemed unkind, in a way, to dwell on what she would be like. To dream up thoughts of what she might be like to him. He really does not want a person as a prize.
He sets about getting the last of his armor undone. ]
If you would. You can use the last of the spices, too.
[ It's a crumpled little bag tucked in with the rest. He really should have come with more supplies, but there's nothing to be done for it now. ]
And then perhaps you could teach me the stars while it cooks.
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[ Salem is glad to see Ozma’s softer smile. It’s a nice one. She takes it to mean that she’s done what she wanted, that he understands that he doesn’t need to be worried about the soup. That he doesn’t need to worry about anything like that. She’s not going to judge him; she’s got no basis on which to make any sort of judgment. Salem is just happy to be here.
She takes the meat, using the same rough, self-taught magic she used on the apple. Once the meat is in the pot, she moves on to the spices, opening up the bag and taking a little whiff, as curious about this as she has been about grass, about sky, about animals. She adds the spices carefully, a pinch at a time, imitating storybook illustrations about humble cooks. It probably looks a little ridiculous, but Salem, frankly, is having too much fun to be self-conscious.
Once she’s done with that, she peers into the pot, curious to see what happens when it cooks. It sure is boiling! The whole thing is very exciting, and when Salem finally sits back, she’s grinning happily. ]
Come over here. I’ll need to point out which stars I’m talking about, if these stories are to be any good.
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Certainly the most enthusiastic traveling companion he's had. Ozma sits and watches her a moment, charmed, before he realizes he's simply staring and it's impolite. He is rescued when she waves him over. ]
Alright.
[ Free of the armor, he feels light as air. This is always his favorite moment in the evening, after hours of walking with plate mail strapped on. He stretches, arms high over his head, and flexes his shoulders gratefully before he steps over to her.
He takes a seat in the grass beside her, their backs to the fire. ]
Do you have a favorite?
[ A favorite star, a favorite story. He'd like to see her light up again with that smile. ]
cw mentions of child abuse, neglect
But Ozma sits close, like he wants to be there. He asks Salem about her favorites. He is very, very unlike her father, and that comforts her. ]
Well, I think I mentioned the seven sisters to you? I'll start with them. Look at that cluster, right there.
[ Salem points up at the sky and launches into her tale. Once she's telling her story, her whole demeanor changes -- she is confident, animated, and tells her story with the skill of a person whose whole life revolved around such tales. Ordinary conversation is difficult, for Salem, because she isn't as used to it. These stories are as familiar as breathing.
Salem mostly keeps her eyes on the sky, while she's telling her story, but once it's finished, she finally turns back to Ozma. His hopes have panned out -- that smile is back. ]
I know more, but I don't want to bore you. Should we -- do we need to look at the soup?
[ It needs to be stirred, right? Salem figures that's something you do to soup. ]
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It's a good story, and she tells it well: her voice rises and falls with emotion, with conviction, and he is swept along with her. It is easy to look up at the stars and let himself see what she's seeing. Ozma has always liked fairy tales.
When she turns that smile on him, he finds himself grinning back. ]
You wouldn't bore me. [ But, yes, she has a point about the soup. ] I will go take a look.
[ With that, he rises and returns to their little campfire. Ozma considers his one bowl and one spoon, wincing a little at the humble sight. Perhaps he can shape something a bit more elegant out of stone, but his magic has always been trained for battle and the odd moment of utility, not for anything particularly... detail-oriented.
He stirs the soup, tests a bite of meat— he would not call it soft but it is not miserably chewy— and deems it good enough. Simple and watery, but... it's warm and at least a bit flavorful? ]
This should be ready in a moment.
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So when Ozma rises to check on the soup, Salem follows immediately, staying as close as she thinks is safe. She has learned to be careful, when asking for closeness or touch -- it is safer to not really ask, so much as give a reason for the other person to want to make that contact. Ozma's fingertips might brush up against hers, when he gives her a bowl of soup. He might need someone to lean on as he eats; he could be that tired.
Salem shies away a little, when Ozma winces. She's not exactly sure what's wrong -- the soup looks fine to her -- so she reasons that she must be standing too close, that Ozma needs space. Salem figures it's a good time to reassure him, again. ]
It looks very good. I can help ser--
[ Salem stops there, about to say serve, finally realizing what's wrong. There's only one bowl. Glad that she's not what was wrong, Salem draws close again. ]
You use your bowl. I can shape a bowl for myself. I used to practice making little toys, when I was first learning magic, back -- [ Salem hesitates for a beat. ] -- back there.
[ She tries to keep her tone light, as if she isn't talking about her former prison. This is meant to comfort Ozma, after all. ] It passed the time.
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He blinks at her when she falters, and then when she offers. He shakes his head without hesitation. ]
Oh, no, please. This is for you. [ He says it on a little smile, genuine, and sets about pouring a bowl. ] You are my guest.
[ It would be terribly impolite to ask her for a bowl, wouldn't it? She does not owe him anything, and by all rights, she has had a very strange and stressful day. ]
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I -- yes. But you need to eat, too. That pot is too hot to eat out of.
[ If Ozma insists on Salem using his bowl, then she'll just have to make him another. She's worked with little trinkets before, and while she's got less practice with shaping actual earth, the principle can't be all that different. Salem's brow furrows in concentration as she cups her hands over the dirt, raising it up into the sky and shaping it as she goes. She wants this to turn out well. Ozma deserves that much.
Salem eventually manages to form a bowl, which she bluntly hands off to Ozma. Congratulations, it's his now. ]
Here.
[ It's strangely oblong, and a tad lumpy in places, but it does look like a perfectly adequate clay bowl. Salem is sure Ozma is used to better, can do better, but maybe if she passes this off with confidence, he won't mind it. ]
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She crouches to make her bowl, and he'll not get in her way once she's clearly set on the thing; in any case, it is nice to watch her work. His companion takes on this expression of absolute concentration, and that intent focus looks nice on her face, as transformative as the smile.
She thrusts out the bowl to him, and he blinks at it as he accepts it. It is, in a sense, charming that she's made something no more beautiful or intricate than he could manage. Ozma's smile returns, and he trades her for the full bowl of soup. ]
Thank you. Here. [ He takes the bowl she's made him and fills it to match. Then he sets his hand upon the ground, and just as she'd shaped a bowl, he dredges up a spoon. He is faster than her, and draws more on hard stone than clay, with sharp confident movements. He shapes the curve of the spoon with the pad of his thumb and blows the remaining dirt away. ] We can eat under the stars, if you have more stories to share.
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Thank you. I'd like that.
[ Truthfully, Salem would be happy eating anywhere that isn't her tower, but she's especially glad to spend this time outside, under the stars. Once Ozma takes his soup, Salem will move back to her original spot, her back to the fire and her face tilted up towards the sky. She'll start up her next tale after a few bites of the soup -- it would be rude to let it go cold. Salem takes a few bites, and while it's not, objectively speaking, the best soup she's ever had, taste-wise, it is in many other ways the best soup she's ever had. It's a gift, an act of care, a symbol of freedom. For a moment, Salem is at a loss for words, instead just smiling at the soup. ]
It's -- it's wonderful. [ She looks back to Ozma, her face set in a very earnest, very genuine expression. ] I think you ought to be very proud of it.
[ Salem says that with conviction, with feeling -- this Ozma is a good person, and that is something to be praised, to acknowledge. Salem has met so few of those, if any, in her lifetime. ]
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cw nudity and light nsfw
cws continue
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SPELL LIST PER D&D LOGIC
[ Sorcerer spell list! ]
Used in canon by Ozma, Oz, Maidens, or Salem:
[ --- @ Level 1 --- ]
Easy to assume:
[ --- @ Level 1 --- ]
Thoughts on levels:
In D&D 5e, a level 1 adventurer might impress their family, a level 5 adventurer might impress the whole city, a level 10 adventurer might impress the queen, a level 15 adventurer might impress the gods, and a level 20 adventurer is probably waging war on Hell itself. Or ruling it.
Based on these abilities, Oz's Maidens would currently rate as 11th-level sorcerers at minimum. Having access to Dominate Monster would peg Salem as a 15th-level sorcerer at minimum. This is def the power tier where you can call yourself a god and get away with it.
Thoughts on schools of magic:
we're SORCERERS here we BLAST SHIT don't bring your UTILITY SPELL BULLSHIT to FLASHY MAGIC EXPLOSION TOWN
so yeah Oz might have a lil extra abjuration skill going on & maybe a lil transmutation, maybe a lil nature-themed conjuration; Salem seems to have mastered Grimm conjuration
but mostly in this house we light up real pretty and make things explode