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what brings you here?
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Isibel lives in her enchanted village, in a hollowed and conveniently-shifting great tree. She travels from it frequently, when she has a new enchantment or elfspell designed that will help someone, or when she meets with the leaders of this or that culture to learn more about their needs, or when someone accepts her offer of torching. The population of Thilanushinyel is not as large as that of Origin, and it may even contain fewer political units, but certainly there are more species; she has a steep learning curve and she throws herself into it.

Today, she is at home. She is not in deep meditation, but she might look like it, eyes closed, floating crosslegged in the air, not paying attention to the weight of the clothes on her body or the wreath of sunny yellow-berried blue-leafed holly resting on her hair, just thinking about hurricanes and the most efficient way to prevent them from forming over the sea. (She can channel immense spells. She is not sure how immense, and it would be very dangerous to lose hold of one. She retains some concern for limiting the size of her enchantments.)

When she is busy with something she cannot interrupt, her door is locked. Today it is not. There were no hurricanes when she last checked, and if any form in the next few hours, she will be able to address them on the spot, she knows; this spell is not urgent on that scale.

If anyone needs her they may come in.
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A shortish human, dressed after the fashion of Armethalieh with a pack on his back and several pouches hanging from his belt, opens the door and hesitantly enters the tree.

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Isibel opens her eyes when he enters. "I See you."

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"Hi," he says, brushing his hair out of his face; it just barely isn't long enough to get in his eyes. "Um, my name's Lycaelon. I'm here to... see if you need any help, and then help you with things. Mageprice," he adds, by way of explanation.

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She tilts her head. "To know what help I might receive from someone, it is useful to know what they have to offer, beyond their general magical discipline. Also, I would not want to receive the services of anyone who would rather be elsewhere, and will turn you away if that will satisfy you as well as it would the Wild Magic."

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The boy snorts. "I guess you don't know much about Mageprice."

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"Only a few things. Enough to know that it does not offer you an informed exchange."

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"What's that supposed to mean?" he says, rudely for someone who's been avoiding questioning the elf so far.

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She is unfazed. "Wildmages ask for a spell, and get it, in exchange for a task that is revealed only during or after the spell's completion. I do not say the Wild Magic is unfair in its requests, particularly, only that I do not operate as it does and would do my best to avoid taking the services of anyone who did not know they were agreeing to provide them."

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"But that's what being a Wildmage is," he says. "If I didn't like it, I could always give up my Books. Or turn to the Dark. I didn't have to come all this way. There's always a choice. Three choices. Once when you do the spell, once when you find out what the price is, and once when it comes time to pay it."

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"Very limited choices are not the kind of choices I distribute, when I have the freedom to do otherwise," says Isibel patiently. "Someone held at knifepoint and given orders may also have a choice; I do not wish to be a knife if I can avoid it. Although I do strongly advise against turning to the Dark."

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"You're not much of a saint," he observes.

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"I did not solicit the title. I only call myself Isibel Sarion."

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He shrugs.

"So do you want my help or not?"
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"I do not know what you have to offer," she points out.

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"The Wild Magic didn't send me here just to argue with you about how good at consent it is," he says. "There's something I can help you with. I just don't know what. And there has to be a better way to find out than standing here telling you my life story until you say 'aha! If only you'd mentioned two hours ago that you've been to the Selken Isles!'."

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"If you have been there, that may in fact be useful. Much of my time these days is spent in learning what people need, so that I can think of ways to supply it, and there are many sorts of people in the world."

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"Yeah, and I've met most of them."

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"Then that seems the obvious place to start. I would hear anything you would tell me about what I can do for far-flung peoples I have not yet spoken to."

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Lycaelon considers this.

Then he says, "That's going to take a while. I mean, on the order of weeks. Where can I stay while we're talking about it?"
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"This village is not full. It will show you to a place you may stay."

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"It will show me?"

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"Yes. It will rearrange itself so that where you walk will be the correct direction. I can accompany you, if you prefer."

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"That... would be nice," he says, looking slightly unsettled. "Why does the village do that? Did you make it that way? How does it work?"

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"I did make it that way. I am unsure what sort of explanation for it you would find satisfactory." She sets her feet on the floor and makes for the door. "You might have noticed that it was not difficult to find my tree."

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"Of course it wasn't; I was following my Mageprice," he says, stepping out of the tree.

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"It would have taken longer to follow your Mageprice if the village were not enchanted. It is less than a square mile going by circumference, but contains considerably more interior than that would suggest." She picks a direction; plants subtly bend out of the way.

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Lycaelon follows her.

"Okay, so back to how it works," he says. "It's magic. What kind? How did you make it?"
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"It's called 'enchantment'. I received the ability to use this, and another, kind of magic from distant friends of mine."

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"...I have more questions now than I did before you said that," he observes.

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"That is all right. I am unusual among elves in that I am not bothered by being asked questions."

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"I noticed that! What friends, how distant, why aren't you asking them about the needs of far-flung peoples, how come I've never heard of this kind of magic before, how did you make the village?"

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Isibel laughs. They come to an empty house, which is presented to them directly enough that it must be an empty one suitable for Lycaelon to stay in. She opens the door and gestures that he may enter. "If you would like, I can sit with you and discuss it, since you will be helping me." (The house will be his for the duration of his stay; she won't just walk in.)

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"That sounds good," he says, entering the house and looking around.

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In she goes. It is an elfy house, in comfort and aesthetics and subtlety, and an enchanted house, in obliging convenience. She sits in a chair. "My friends are not of this world. They are from others, very different, with other magics and people - and their own work to do. Moreover, it is - not always possible to travel between worlds at will."

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"...Seriously?" says Lycaelon, blinking at her.

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"I am simplifying slightly, but yes."

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"Wow. Okay. So... enchanting is a whole different kind of magic? How different? What's its price?"

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"Completely different. It hurts to cast spells with it, but I can ignore that by going deep into meditative hyperfocus."

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"How does it work?" he asks, fascinated.

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"I draw on power from the sky, or the earth, or emotion or willpower - which works best depends on what I am doing and what is available - and channel it through my mindscape, in the shape of the spell I wish to cast."

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"Where does it come from? Will it work for anyone?"

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"Enchanting comes from a world called Rêverie. It only works for enchanters; I was not one, but my friends made me one."

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"How do you make someone an enchanter? What's the catch? Is there one?"

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"It cannot be done with enchantment itself, but it can be done with another sort of off-world magic, called minting. There is no particular disadvantage to merely being capable of enchantment."

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"...That sounds like there is a catch somewhere," he says.

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"Losing control of an enchantment while casting it is dangerous," says Isibel. "And, as I mentioned, it hurts for the channeler, unless you can elven-hyperfocus as I do. And minting is not without its own price, which I cannot ignore in the same way."

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"Hmm. Okay," says Lycaelon. "What's minting like, then?"

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"It turns pain directly into small objects which can be used to grant wishes. The mint's own pain, not anyone else's," she adds, because it would not do to confuse her magic with what the Endarkened used to do.

(Her counterparts are mostly secretive about how their magic works. Isibel is not. Thilanushinyel expects magic to be costly.)
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And yet, he inhales a whistling breath.

"Ouch. Okay. ...How much pain to a wish?"
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"It depends on the size of the wish. They come in eight known kinds, the objects different shapes with different numbers of points from three to ten. The smallest two sorts are easy to make. I produce them every day as a matter of course. I would not care to try to make anything larger except in direst emergency; I have a supply, from my friends, but they cannot reach me with more right now and I do not know how long it will be before I can see them again. An ordinary human - or elf - cannot make the kinds with eight, nine, or ten points; the requirements are beyond the limit of what you can feel without some sort of change to how you work. And maintaining the concentration to make a six-pointed coin, let alone a seven-pointed coin, while suffering the requisite discomfort, would take considerable effort for most people."

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"Hmm," says Lycaelon. He looks thoughtful.

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"But I can do the majority of my work with enchantment alone."

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"What can all these strange magics do?"

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"Almost anything. Not literally anything, and not things to do with other worlds unless one goes there first, but almost. If you have a large enough coin or enough enchanting capacity, and know exactly what you want."

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Lycaelon looks thoughtful some more.

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"If I knew your thoughts, I could answer them."

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"I want to be a mint and an enchanter."

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Isibel considers this.

"I hope," she says, "that this is not because you would prefer to avoid asking me directly for some other effect I can produce by myself. I am here to help people, and you are a person."
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He looks at her quizzically.

"No? But look, you're one person - I'm sure you're good at what you do, but it doesn't look like you're hiding a barrel of apprentices behind the counter. And there's only so much that one person can do at a time."
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"That is true. Although I can work very quickly, and on several things at a time. I just - you are not an elf, and attempts to learn elven hyperfocus without being an elf have failed for my friends; and there is no making minting pleasant without certain peculiarities most people do not have."

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"Yes," he says patiently, "I got that impression."

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Well, she can't exactly ask, but she can blink quizzically at him.
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"...What's confusing you, here?"

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"Whether you have this peculiarity yourself, or wish to acquire it, or simply are very motivated to help me, or if something else I do not recognize is going on."

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"...yeah, I think it's a something else," he says. "It's not exactly about helping you, personally - this isn't part of my Mageprice or anything. The week I'm going to spend telling you about half the world's problems covers that. But look, I'm a Wildmage. Fixing things with magic that can't be fixed any other way, or can't be fixed as well, is why there are Wildmages. If you say you've got new kinds of magic that can do almost anything and the only price is that they hurt, well, I've done plenty of hurting without getting any magic out of it and never minded that much. I mean - I wasn't going to ask you outright yet, we barely know each other, but you wanted to know what I was thinking and now you do."

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"I will think about it."
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He shrugs. "Okay."

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"I do not think you being an enchanter would be particularly useful. Even those of my friends who actively enjoy pain do not attempt to control significant spells while channeling through themselves, and I would not make a good channel for someone else. But a mint - perhaps."

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"And depending on how well I mint, there might not be much reason not to make me an enchanter," he shrugs.

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"That is true. Making you an enchanter would be a hexagon - as would making you a mint - but enchanting unlike minting comes with a component of skill, so there would also be a great deal of reading or a pentagon or both."

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"I don't mind reading," he says cheerfully.

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She smiles slightly. "Perhaps at some point you would like to borrow my enchanting library - although I fear being able to read it would require several pentagons more. It is none of it in any language found in Thilanushinyel."

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"Of course not," he snorts.

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"If you had more questions, I could answer them as well," says Isibel after a brief silence.

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"Yeah, you're a strange one that way," he says, grinning. "You know, I still don't know how much it hurts to make polygons; that would probably go a long way toward figuring out if I'd be a worthwhile mint."

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"I can show you, if you like," says Isibel. "It goes up in powers of ten, in units we call triangles. I have a wished power I used when my beloved was still here to help him produce coins."

(She refers quite freely to her beloved. No one will be alarmed that she has a dragon.)
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"Sure," shrugs Lycaelon.

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"The smallest amount necessary to make a triangle is this." One, just for a pinprick-burst of time, 'plain'. "Squares begin here." Ten, delivered the same way. "Pentagons begin at one hundred, if you would like me to go on."

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He nods agreeably.

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One hundred.

"Hexagons begin at one thousand, if you would like me to go on."
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"Pentagon's not bad," he comments, apparently unfazed. "About like a broken arm. Sure, let's have a thousand."

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One thousand.

"Stars begin at ten thousand."
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At the one-thousand, he makes a face. "Wouldn't wanna do that all day. Not so bad for just a squeak's worth, though. How long does it take to make a coin?"

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"Only as long as I have been demonstrating, to make a single one at that level. It is possible to speed up slightly if one goes above the minimum threshold for a given coin size. But it is necessary to retain enough concentration to perform the mental action associated with creating the coin, which is not automatic."

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"And you can't make hexagons at all?" he says wonderingly.

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"It may be that I could. One of my friends who is more like me than like you in this respect managed it, once, when she was gravely injured and did not have another source. I would not choose it unless the need were immense. I do have some left. My friends could return at any time."

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He shakes his head.

"I could sit around making those for an hour," he says. "I mean, it would be boring and uncomfortable, but it wouldn't be an only-in-emergencies-thing."
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"This makes good hearing."

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He laughs.

"Good."
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Isibel smiles.

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"Who are all these friends, anyway? How did you find them?"

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"Many of them are the other worlds' versions of myself. Many others are other worlds' versions of my beloved. And their own friends from their own worlds, who are not copied here. There is a thing that happens to doors, sometimes, not when mages will it but at seeming random barring a few exceptions. I found such doors on a couple of occasions and went through them to a place where all worlds meet, and found one alt of my beloved, and later found another, and the second called his alt of me in to meet me. I was not well at the time. They healed me as best they could, and gave me my magic."

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"What kind of not well?" he wonders.

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"I did not adapt well to my dragonbond, having my beloved constantly in my thoughts. I underwent a sort of mental deterioration over the first moonturns I spent Bonded, and by the time I met my friends, I could no longer think clearly because it hurt when I tried."

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He frowns sympathetically. "I wouldn't even begin to know how to heal that."

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"My friends tried a number of things, some of them less than comfortable for myself or my beloved or both, but eventually one of them had to bring in someone she employs who has the power to see and interpret all kinds of magic, to understand the Bond and how it needed to be edited and to make the wish. I can now share thoughts with my beloved when I wish, and only when I wish."

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"Editing a Dragonbond," he says with a shudder. "I can't even imagine."

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"They also tried cutting me out of it completely, but that did not persist. I prefer this anyway, now."

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"Wow."

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"This way, with my beloved trapped in another world, we can still be somewhat together. Although I still miss him very much."

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"...Your Bondmate is in another world?" he exclaims.

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"Yes. It used to be that we could travel between them whenever we pleased. He was away when our ability to do that was lost."

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"Wow," he says, shaking his head. "How... how long has it been?"

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"Three years. For me, and for my beloved - time may have passed differently in other worlds, without the web that connected them for us in good condition."
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"Wow," he repeats.

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"It may come back at any time. It has broken in the past, and returned - we thought we had corrected the problem, but it would seem another has been found."

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"Can I help you with that, I wonder?"

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"I doubt it." She touches the red Janegem on her ring idly. "It was not a magical thing, but a thing of technology - not clockwork, far more complicated and advanced than that, but that is the closest approximation we have here. It was a technological person, called Jane, who could be a billion things in a hundred worlds and link them all and move things from one to the other whenever we asked her to. Something has happened to her, and it did not happen here."

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He thinks about this.

Then he shrugs. "Oh, well."
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"Oh, well," echoes Isibel.

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Lycaelon smiles wryly.

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"As long as you are here, I can make you able to torch, if you would like," volunteers Isibel.

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"Able to what?"

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"Oh, I thought the news had spread - perhaps not as far as it would need to. Torching is a form of immortality. If someone who can do it suffers lethal damage, they reset to a healthy state."

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"That... sounds too good to be true, what's the catch?"

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"Torching will not, on its own, remove you from a lethal situation, which could allow for prolonged trapping. It is also quite permanent. Otherwise there is none; it does not even have the prices of minting or enchanting."

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"I'll take it, then," he says.

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She torchables him. [And here is the brainphone,] she adds, [which will allow you to notify me if you do become trapped somewhere, however unlikely that may be.]

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[Wow, that's impressive,] he says. [Does it just - work like this no matter where we are?]

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[It does not work between worlds. Otherwise, yes. Also, it is possible to set a message to refuse incoming queries, although mine are layered and in direst emergency you will always be able to speak to me unless you abuse the privilege.]

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[Okay.]

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"Torching is from yet another world besides the one that produced minting and the one from which enchantment came," Isibel adds conversationally.

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"How many worlds are there?"

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"We don't know. But we were aware of eighty-eight and looking into an eighty-ninth at the time of Jane's breakage."

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"...Wow," says Lycaelon. "That is a lot of worlds."

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"Yes. Only thirteen - and the one some of us were looking into - have Bells in them, though. Bells is what those of my template call ourselves."

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"Template?"

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"I mentioned that they are versions of myself; we are all versions of each other. Sewn in the same pattern, as it were. The recurring sort-of-person that we are is our template."

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"Oh," says Lycaelon. "Does everyone have one?"

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"No. At least, we don't think so. Certainly some templates are much more common than others - Bells most so, thus far, closely followed by my beloved."

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"Really? How many of your Bondmate are there? It must get crowded if you put them all together. Dragons are big."

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"There are eleven of my beloved, or fourteen, depending on how you count - one world does some peculiar things to personal identity. Only the one of them is a dragon. I am also the only Bell who is an elf, so far. Most worlds don't have either species, although humans appear everywhere we've looked."

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"...Where do the three extras of him come from? Or go to? What other species are there besides humans, everywhere else? Or is it just humans? You'd think it would be just elves if it was going to be just anybody; you were here first, weren't you?"

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"The histories of worlds don't match in that way - well, many do, but ours is off-type," says Isibel. "There are all manner of species, although some worlds have only humans among those who think and speak, and others blur the question of whether their inhabitants are the same species or not. The world that does peculiar things to personal identity has its inhabitants' souls exist outside of them, in the form of animals generally speaking, called daemons. There is one of me and one of my beloved from there - depending on how you count, because their souls have their own bodies and names. And visitors to this world, if they go unprotected by magic, will acquire the same. My beloved and another of that template have visited the world and obtained daemons of their own. As have two of me, not including myself."

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"Talking animal souls," he says. "Wow."

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"Yes. If I had one, it would be a raccoon, but I do not particularly want my soul to be a raccoon."

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"I don't think I'd want my soul to be a raccoon, either," he says, blinking. "How did you know what it was going to be?"

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"A square suffices to show it. Do you want to know yours?"

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He shrugs. "Okay!"

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Square.

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Skunk.

Lycaelon laughs.
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Isibel giggles. "They are supposed to mean things about oneself, but I do not know how accurate these suppositions may be, particularly outside the world where they are commonplace."

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"I like my skunk," says Lycaelon, looking at it approvingly. "I mean, I don't want my skunk, but skunks are all right."

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"I have similar feelings about raccoons." She dismisses the illusion. "Those of me who have instantiated daemons have birds. An owl, a hawk, a duck."

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"Is there some reason for that?"

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"It is not clear. The accuracy of anything natives of Alethia have learned about what daemon species mean is in question. It is probably not a coincidence that those with birds were more interested in acquiring them than me, although there were more possible birds among us and two of us would have received tiny dragons -" She holds her hands three feet apart. "And had not chosen to do so last I heard."

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"...Tiny dragons," he giggles. "That's adorable."

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"It is!"

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"Why is the accuracy in question...?"

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"Because there are so many kinds of animal a daemon could be," says Isibel. "If one is very common, of course the people who have it will be different from each other - any large group of people are different from each other. If one is less common, there is no way to know whether commonalities between those people are related to their daemon or sheer coincidence. They have drawn some conclusions anyway - but then daemons normally choose forms around puberty. Acquiring them as an adult might be different in some way; we do not know."

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"Do all the worlds have... weird, unexpected things about them like that?" wonders Lycaelon.

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"Not all of them. But they do have many strange properties. And people from them think many things about Thilanushinyel are strange, too."

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"Like what?"

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"Dragonbonds. The way Wild Magic works - High Magic bears more resemblance to some offworld forms than does Wild Magic. The way unicorns communicate with the Wild Magic. The other and better-known property of unicorns. Our persistent problem with the Dark."

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"Our problem with the Dark is a lot less persistent than it used to be," he comments.

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"One hopes. It has been coming every thousand years or so for some time now. I do anticipate being able to interrupt it before the next appearance."

Her recent run-in with the Dark was not particularly well-publicized.
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"...Interrupt it how?"

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"I do not yet know. But I probably have about a thousand years to locate assorted avenues by which it might reappear and places where it may yet lurk and preemptively destroy them."

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He gives her a studying look.

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"It looks as though you may harbor thoughts on this subject."

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Lycaelon laughs. "You caught me," he says. "I'm thinking that seems kind of ambitious."

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"I am," says Isibel, "kind of ambitious."

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...He cracks up.

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Still giggling.

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"All of me are. It is a Bell thing," Isibel volunteers.

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"Well, good luck rooting out the Dark," he snorts. "Maybe you can get tips from the rest of you, if you see them again."

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"Yes. Or from my unicorn friend; he is routinely helpful."

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"You're friends with a unicorn?"

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"Yes. His name is Liselen."

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"I don't have much to do with unicorns," says Lycaelon. "I've healed them a few times. Uncomfortable for everybody. They sure are pretty, though."

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"Oh, Liselen in particular is not uncomfortable around the things that bother other unicorns."

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He gives her a suspicious look.
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"One of my friends wished it, when they first came here," she explains.

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"I thought it might be something like that," he says. "Does it work the other way around, do you think? Wishing someone not uncomfortable to unicorns even though...? Because that would make a big difference when it comes to healing them."

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"I don't know. And I should ask Liselen before I try it; Thilanushinyel magic can react oddly with the offworld kinds. But potentially."

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"Well, keep it in mind," he says. "It would make a big difference if more Wildmages could heal unicorns easily."

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Isibel nods. "I would need to think about it for a while to try to design an enchantment to accomplish it, and I cannot afford to spend coins of that size on the project, but it will be worth doing if I can."

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Lycaelon nods.

"It seems to be the kind of thing you were looking for," he says.
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"It is! Thank you."

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He grins. "There's more where that came from, believe me."

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"I have a very long to-do list."

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"It's about to get longer," Lycaelon predicts.

This turns out to be extremely true.

He has been a lot of places, and seen a lot of kinds of people, and healed many of them from injury or illness that would have killed them if he hadn't been there. And in between these events, he has spent a lot of time alone in various kinds of wilderness. He is personally familiar with every climate on the continent he calls home, from the Madiran Desert to the Lost Lands of the north.

After several hours of rambling discourse on the subject of people and their preferences and problems, he concludes an explanation of centaur architecture and stretches. "About time for me to hit the hay," he says. "We can pick this up tomorrow."
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"Very well," agrees Isibel, rising to her feet. "You can brainphone me when you are ready to talk more."

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"Sounds good," he yawns.

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Isibel teleports away.

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The next morning, about an hour after dawn, he brainphones her.

[G'morning.]
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[Good morning.]

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[Ready for more interesting stories about far-off places?]

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[Yes.] And Isibel appears at his door, and knocks.

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Lycaelon opens it. "C'mon in," he says cheerfully. "I made tea. I didn't make it very well, but I made it."

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"I am sure it will be fine," laughs Isibel, stepping inside.

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"Well, you're welcome to try it."

He sits down and picks up his own cup of tea, gesturing to where the teapot sits beside an empty cup.
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She pours herself some tea and tastes it.

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It is imperfectly brewed, but adequate.

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"In the future you may find it improved by waiting a little longer after the water boils to pour it."

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"I'll remember that," says Lycaelon. "Thanks. Anyway, where were we? Centaurs?"

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"Yes."

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"Right. After that is when I hiked up to the Lost Lands..."

And spent most of a year there, working both magically and physically to help life return to the mage-blasted ground. There are no thinking creatures in the Lost Lands anymore, although he says he found the ruins of several old villages - human, if he's any judge, and abandoned for hundreds of years at a bare minimum.

"It was the best time of my life. I want to go back someday," he says, smiling wistfully. "I know I'm probably more use as a healer, but clearing fouled springs and herding lost rainclouds with a mountain range between me and the nearest settlement suits me much better."
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"Hopefully you will not find your time in this village too crowded for comfort."

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He shrugs.

"I survived Armethalieh. This is easy in comparison. Although that reminds me - have you noticed that almost everything on this island is poisonous, venomous, or both? The whole balance of life here is strange."
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"Not everything is," says Isibel. "But I had noticed, yes. Nothing harmful will come into the village; most of it is not inclined to attack outside of it either."

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"I'll see if it needs any help while I'm here," he decides.

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"That is kind of you. Mind that you do not eat anything that will hurt you if you attempt to live off the land. There are booklets available that say what things here are safe to eat."

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"Where can I find one of these booklets?"

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"You ask the village. You can also ask it for food, if you had not noticed, but it does not deliver into the wilderness."

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"...Ask... the village?"

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"It's part of the enchantment. It looks after the people in it. It would have fed you without being asked if you had run out of food, but it otherwise waits." She touches the wall of his house. "Please bring one of the wilderness pamphlets. And a plate of cookies."

Presently his window opens itself and in floats a tray with a pamphlet and assorted desserts. Isibel takes a cookie from the top of the plated heap and bites it.
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Lycaelon gives the cookies a look of deep suspicion.

But he takes one, and nibbles on it.

"Pretty good," he says grudgingly.
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"I am glad you like it."

The tray settles itself on a table. The pamphlet flutters open to the first page.
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Now somewhat distracted from telling stories, Lycaelon eats his cookie and flips through the pamphlet.

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It has drawings of various flora and fauna and says which are safe to eat and interact with under what conditions.

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"Where'd this come from?"

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"I wrote it. And the drawings are wished, as I am not much of an artist."

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"I mean, how'd you find out all this?"

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"From my beloved. It was here that I found him."

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"...You came to this island and just sort of... found a dragon lying around?"

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"In a cave," says Isibel.

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"I guess that's a reasonable place to find a dragon."

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"Yes."

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He snorts and shakes his head.

"So, the Lost Lands," he says, and goes on from there.
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Isibel listens attentively.

She may eventually trust this man enough to say what she has not been saying about her beloved.
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He talks for the rest of the day, with a break for lunch, delivered by mysterious flying tray. The progression of his actual journey around the world is the framework for what he's saying, but he frequently goes back and forth when new things remind him of old ones.

And then he says goodnight, and mentions that he thinks he'll take the next morning to hike around the island.
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"I hope you enjoy your hike," says Isibel, and she lets herself out. She designs spells; she has one ready by the wee hours of the morning, teleports to the optimal casting site, and focuses and channels. The Lost Lands will be the better for it, and come back to life at a swifter but gentle pace.

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That afternoon, Lycaelon brainphones her.

[I'm back! And I made better tea!]
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[Welcome back.]

Port. Knock.
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He opens the door and beckons her inside.

The tea is indeed better today; he followed her advice.
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"This is much improved," she remarks.

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"Good!" he says. "I'm glad it worked. So... how much do you know about this island?"

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"A fair amount."
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"Because it's amazing," he continues enthusiastically. "It's the most cultivated wilderness I've ever seen. I have no idea how it happened, but I want to meet whoever did it. And maybe kiss them. It's just so—" He opens his hands in a helpless shrug.

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Concerned: "What is it?"

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"I -" She rubs at her eyes. "It's only - yes, the island is amazing."

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"It's amazing but I wasn't expecting you to cry over it," he says. "What's wrong?"

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Softly: "I have a co-Bonded. He made it. He is in the other world, with my dragon."
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"I'm so sorry," he murmurs.

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"And they - are so close as to be one person, one mind, they have been together so long and began so similar," she says shakily. "And I miss them so much."

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Helplessly: "Do you want a hug?"
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She nods.

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He gets up and crosses over to her chair and hugs her.

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Hugs.

"I don't usually mention this part," she murmurs.
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Hug hug.

"Why not?" he murmurs back.
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"Because - people would not understand if I explained my co-Bonded."

He already has enough clues to guess. The island took thousands of years; no Wildmage or High Mage lives that long, and Isibel is obviously the Elfmage in the group.
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Lycaelon thinks about it.



He thinks about it for a while.



He doesn't stop hugging her.
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"The King of the Elves knows. Magania - I do not know if you have encountered her; she is sometimes here, she was part of the original colony expedition - knows. My parents. The other dragons. My friends, of course, who don't have Thilanushinyel preconceptions. No one else."

Hug.
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"And... your co-Bonded is a demon," he says softly. "How...?"

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"They lived together on this island, alone, for thousands and thousands of years. He did not know he was the last until I told him."

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"How is he not evil?"

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"He is himself, instead. It may have to do with the template. But he is free of taint; he is not even burned by the touch of a unicorn's horn, anymore."

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Lycaelon laughs shakily.

"Wow."
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"Yes. Perhaps on your hike you saw the unicorn statues."

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"A few of them."

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"I saw those first. And I knew that whoever had made them loved that unicorn. And then I saw my beloved - the smaller of the two - and I did not run away."

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"Wow," murmurs Lycaelon.

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"We had no common language. I had to teach him. And he told me what was and was not safe to eat, of the plants and animals he had made."

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"...That definitely explains the booklets."

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"Yes. It also explains some of the fruits that the elves who live here like so much, if you have seen those. He made them. He likes to make custom fruit for people."

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"I haven't noticed the custom fruits. But I'll keep an eye out now that you've mentioned it."

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"He has not made any specifically intended for humans that are here in this world, although the elf fruits will be safe for you if you want to try them."

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"I might as well."

He has stopped hugging her, but he has not yet gone back to his own chair; he stands by hers.
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"This is," she adds, "why they left the world. One of my alts wanted plants and animals on a planet that had none of its own."

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"...And he can do that?"

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"Yes. Even on a planet so unlike our own. It is full of beautiful life, now."

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"I want to see that someday."

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"Someday perhaps you will. You are immortal now."

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"Yeah. I guess I am."

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"My beloved has shown me what he has done with the planet in our shared thoughts. I could conjure illusions, if you wished to see."

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"Sure."

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She squares up illusions of some of her favorite organisms that now live on Saturn.

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"Amazing," says Lycaelon.

"...What does he look like?"
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Isibel hesitates, but conjures up a picture of both her beloveds, side by side. Ansharil is a scale model.

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He flinches slightly when he sees the demon. But only slightly.

"They're beautiful."
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"They are," she sighs, resting her chin on her hands and looking at them.

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Lycaelon hugs her again.
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Hug.

"I miss them so much," she murmurs. "And they miss me - but at least there are more of them in the world they are in, for company."

She looks at the illusions a moment longer, then dismisses them and shuts her eyes.
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Hug.

"More of them?"
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"Of their template. There are two who live in that world. They work for my alt there."

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"How did there get to be two...?"

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"They are not from the world. My alt hired them from other worlds to make coins for her. There was one who was native to it, but he moved away, on purpose."

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"I can't imagine leaving the world to go and do magic somewhere else," he says, shaking his head. And hugging her some more. She's very huggable.

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"This will be easier to talk about if I tell you their names," remarks Isibel. "My beloveds are called Aianon - the demon - and Ansharil - the dragon. The world they are in is named Origin. The Jokers who moved there are Queenie, and Ghosty, and the one who was born there and moved away is only called the Joker. He did not move away to do magic; he moved to be with his boyfriend in a world called Aurum. Ghosty and Queenie had both died when they met the rest of my friends and did not particularly want to stay where they were."

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"...Is Ghosty," he inquires, "by any chance a ghost?"

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"Yes. Of her own sort, though. We don't know of any who are the same kind of ghost."

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"...Really? I was expecting a... world full of ghosts, or something."

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Isibel shakes her head. "She died, and became a ghost, and there is no sign of other people who have died in her original world doing the same thing. Her world is attached to the same afterlife most of us use, now."

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"That is bizarre," says Lycaelon.

Hmm, he still appears to be hugging her. Well, she seems all right with that.
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She is all right with that.

It's nice.

"Yes," she agrees. "Most Jokers live in their original worlds. With their Bells."
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"...'Their' meaning...?"

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"The ones from their worlds." Pause. "Generally romantically entangled. Pattern, the Bell from Origin, is the only Bell we know about who was born in a world with a Joker and did not wind up that way."

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"Oh," says Lycaelon, almost elvishly.

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"Perhaps you have heard about how elves find soul-sympathy."

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"...I haven't, actually."

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"Ah. It is a subtle - fitting, between two souls, almost like a lesser dragonbond. It is difficult to detect until it is already firmly in place. If you have heard a relatively unadulterated story of Idalia and Jermayan, she initially spurned him because she feared dying before he did and leaving him unable to get over her loss - this was based a misunderstanding of the phenomenon on her part; he was already committed. I found it for my beloved shortly after I was through convalescing."

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"Oh," he says again, this time without so many questions attached.

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"Hopefully that addresses your curiosities."

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"Some of them."

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"If you have others, you may describe them."

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"Some of them are embarrassing."

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"Ah."

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He laughs.

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"It would not do for you to be embarrassed."

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"Yeah," he says.

He is still hugging her.
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He is. This is all well and good.

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Good! Because he likes hugging her, but he would not like to hug her if she wanted him to stop.

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That is the correct attitude for a hugger of her to have.

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Perfect.

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"I still communicate with my beloveds, of course. They have been sleeping, but when they wake up I will probably tell them about you."

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"What will you tell them about me?"

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"It is reasonably likely I will reproduce all of our conversations in complete detail, if you would not object. They cannot be here in person, but I can keep them up to date."

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"No reason not to, I guess."

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"Thank you."

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Hug.

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Hug.

"If I have satisfied your non-embarrassing curiosities now, you could continue to tell me about the world and what I can do for it."
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"Sure," he says agreeably.

Leaning against her chair and hugging her is reasonably comfortable; he doesn't bother to stop doing those things while he tells her about the moonturns he spent in the Madiran and what he learned there. For the most part, the desert is doing well, but he suggests that its sandstorms could be gently diverted from passing over inhabited areas.

"As long as you don't try to get rid of them completely," he adds. "The desert depends on them too much."
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"Weather is tricky in this way," she agrees. "But I can keep the storms away from people."

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"That'll help a lot."

From there, he took a ship to Armethalieh, and then another one to the Selken Isles, where he spent about half a year healing sick and injured people. He recounts everything he can think of about the (mostly human) inhabitants of those islands.
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Isibel nods, and probes unquestioningly for details where his descriptions are incomplete.

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One of the people he healed was a man in debt bondage, which is a thing the Selken Isles do.

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Isibel's eyes narrow.
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Lycaelon explains as much as he knows about the practice, which isn't a lot. He had his mind on other things at the time; there were a lot of difficult healings to do in those six moonturns.

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"I will need to think of something to do about that. I don't like it," murmurs Isibel.

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Lycaelon shrugs. "All right."

Then it was back to Armethalieh, where he spent another little while - as long as he could stand it. Industrial accidents are a big problem in that city.
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"That would be easier to solve with a wish than an enchantment - an enchantment would be likely to throw off the industries themselves unless I knew more about them. Hmm."

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"You could get somebody to look at exactly what was going on and suggest more specific ways to fix it, but I'm not volunteering," he says.

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She nods. "I can probably find someone to look into it."

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"Good, because I really don't want that job," he laughs.

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"I understand," she laughs softly. "You are being quite useful as it is."

(The hugging is more useful than she'd like to admit aloud. Her parents aren't really huggy, and she doesn't see them that frequently - Liselen is affectionate but it's not really the same with an ungulate - this helps.)
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"It's what I'm here for."

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In Origin, Aianon wakes from his three-day nap.

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Isibel shifts position. "He's awake," she says. Hello again, beloved.

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Hello, my love. How are you?

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She is okay! She has met this Wildmage, who is helping her. She sends what has passed between them.

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...This Wildmage is adorable. Aianon is pleased that he likes the island so much.

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"...Should I say hello or something?" says Lycaelon.

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"You may. My beloved thinks that you are adorable and is pleased that you like the island so."

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...Lycaelon blushes.

"Well, uh. Hello. It's a really nice island."
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Isibel passes this on.

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Oh, Aianon just wants to kiss him. But he doubts that his beloved would like to reproduce that particular message.

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Isibel squirms, and goes bright red.
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"...What is it?"

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Aianon laughs.

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"Not all of the messages my beloved might care to pass on are verbal."

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"...I am so curious right now," says Lycaelon.

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"If he were here he would want to kiss you," murmurs Isibel. "Well - if he had been here. If he just appeared here right now I think carrying me off would take precedence." (She is copying her beloved on this conversation.)

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Very likely. Well, he might find the time to kiss Lycaelon once first, since they were talking about it and all. Just as long as his time with Isibel went uninterrupted for at least a sennight afterward.

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"If he were here I'd want to kiss him too," laughs Lycaelon. "And then get out of his way."

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"Perhaps once he has returned to me and we are sufficiently reunited this can happen," says Isibel, still blushing hard.

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Lycaelon is blushing, too.

"If I'm not needed elsewhere before then," he says.
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Isibel shrugs a little. "We can teleport. There is the brainphone. Finding you to deliver a promised kiss even after a long interval is the sort of thing he would do."

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"Oh," says Lycaelon, and he blushes some more.

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He is so terribly sweet. Is Isibel very sure she doesn't want to kiss him?

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Not very sure.
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Perhaps she should find out what Lycaelon thinks of the idea. If she wants.

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She does not know how to go about asking it.

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Of course.

If only Aianon were there - well, had been, as she said - he is sure he could find a way to get them talking about it. But then, if he were there, perhaps the prospect of kissing Lycaelon would seem less attractive to her.
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"What are you talking about?" wonders Lycaelon.

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"About - passing on messages. That are not verbal."

She wouldn't think twice about kissing Lycaelon if she had her beloved, her own, with her - but she does not. It may be any number of years before she has him back again to leave her brimful with kisses.
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"Should I stop asking?" he wonders.

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"I don't mind the asking."

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"Oh. Good."

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They should definitely kiss.

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"My beloved is of the opinion that I should kiss you."

She doesn't specify whether this would be on her beloved's behalf or not.
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"...For him, or...?"

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"I do not think that if I do, it will stop him from doing it himself later on when he has come home."
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"That's... not really an answer," he observes.

"Do you want to kiss me?"
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Squirm.

(Also not an answer. But a hint.)
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"That's not an answer either," he says, laughing.

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"I know!" she laughs. "This is - complicated!"

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"Does it help if I want to kiss you, too, or does that just make it more complicated?"

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"It makes it continue to be complicated. If you do not want to kiss me then that is that, of course."

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"Well, here we are, then."

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Is there some reason why she has not kissed him already?

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She has never kissed anyone but her beloved before! She is nervous!

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That is sweet. She is sweet.

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She is squirming.

(But in a snuggly way.)
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Lycaelon hugs her.
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Hugs.

And a swift little kiss.
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Awwww!

How about another one, then?
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Okay.

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Awwwwwwwwwwwwww.

Kisses.
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Kisses.

She missed kisses. She misses her beloved too - but kisses are nice elsewise.
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Kisses are very, very nice!

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Yes. Kisses.

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Many snuggly kisses.

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She would never be able to do this if she couldn't feel her beloved's unreserved approval in the back of her mind; it would feel like a betrayal of the soul-sympathy whatever he said, but she can feel it, and knows it's all right.

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He thinks it's wonderful. He would snuggle them both if he could.

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She loves her beloved so.

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He loves her too. He is glad she can have kisses.

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It is not much time later that Isibel elects to spend the hex from her supply minting Lycaelon. (It's not, really, that small a supply - the only trouble is she has no idea how long it will need to last her. Even if he can make no sustained hex output he can probably at least replace the one it took to mint him.)

"Moving pain across your mind should make sense now," she tells him, when she's done it.
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He bites his lip experimentally.

"Strange," he says, examining the resulting triangle. It's mostly black, with a soft buttony shine, and has thin white lines radiating from the hole in the center out to each of its points.
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"It is," Isibel agrees.

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"Well, all right."

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"Now you and I are the only two mints in the world."

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"Guess so."

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"My beloved and his alts have invented a more - sophisticated version of the agony beam. I have not upgraded, due to a need to conserve coins and because I had nothing to use it for anyway, but it does work reflexively, if you find that it would be useful."

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"Yeah, that does sound handy. I can replace the coins you're using now, too," he offers. "And then go make some more."

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Isibel nods, and takes another hex out of her sorter and lets out a sigh and spends it.

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"Interesting," says Lycaelon.

He makes a pentagon. Then several more pentagons. Then a small pile of hexes, with a slight thoughtful frown but no other sign of pain.
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"You are much calmer than I would be," she murmurs.

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He shrugs, still pouring hexagons into a pile in his lap.

"It's not that bad."
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"I wonder if the Wild Magic had this in mind," she laughs softly, "when it sent you to see if I needed help."

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"Probably."

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She reaches for the coins, but doesn't pick any up. "You should probably carry some of these yourself, for when you travel, in case there is no time to call me for help or I am busy - I do not know how many would be best."

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"How do you carry yours?"

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"I have a magical coin sorter. It takes a hexagon to make one. Before this technique was designed, we used to carry our coins on bandoliers."

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"Well, here's plenty of hexagons. How do magical coin-sorters work?"

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She picks up a hexagon; it disappears and then reappears in her other hand. "It stores the coins - tucked away where nothing can touch them until the person the sorter belongs to wants to retrieve them."

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"That sounds handy," says Lycaelon.

He wishes on one of his hexagons, and then slurps up about half the pile into his new coin-sorter. Hexagons continue tumbling from his hand onto what's left.
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Isibel starts collecting the unslurped coins. With her other hand she takes and squeezes one of his.

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Aww. He squeezes back, smiling.

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"Thank you very much," she says warmly.

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"You're welcome."

Hugs? He thinks it is time for hugs. Hugs and hexagons.
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Hugs and hexagons. Her coinsorter takes them from him as soon as they're made.

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That's convenient. Large piles of coins aren't very snuggly.

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They're not! They are pointy and hard. Not soft and warm like the people who are currently snuggling.

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Mmm, soft warm snuggles.

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Soft warm kisses.

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They are soft! And warm! Mmm.

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Indeed.

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Soft warm snuggly kisses.

Yes. This is good. He could get used to this.
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It is much nicer than no kisses. Much, much nicer.

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So much nicer!

Mmmmsnuggly. There is definitely snuggling.
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Definite snuggling is happening, yep.

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And it might be getting more definite than usual.

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Oh.

That's nice.
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Good! It's good that it's nice.

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That is good. Many things about this situation are good.

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Many, many things. Soft warm snuggly things.

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All good attributes for things in any quantity, especially large quantities.

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They are such darlings. It's nice that they are having a good time together. A soft warm snuggly time.

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Isibel loves her beloveds so, and all the more for not asking that she go without comfort in their absence. It is comforting.

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They could never ask such a thing; it would be just the opposite of what they want. She should comfort herself as much as she desires, however she pleases.

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Love love love.

And elsewhere, warm snuggly - comfort.
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It is very warm and snuggly and comfortable.