fonsvitae | (no subject)

[ History may have remembered him as an ornery, antisocial man, but that hadn't always been the case. Solomon ibn Gabirol had grown up devoting himself to a patron, after all, and had spent most of his life working in the service of others. Sometimes willingly, sometimes grudgingly, but always aware of his position in life. Hierarchies, though hardly noble, were an inevitable facet of life he'd long since accepted.

And so Avicebron has no real qualms about devoting himself to the man he currently views as his King: Lancer of Black, Vlad.

Even now, in this peaceful context, the sheer charisma and aura that Vlad exudes is awe-inspiring. There's a gravity to his presence that mortal Kings could only dream of, and as he approaches the throne, he finds himself sinking to his knees without a second thought. ]

My Lord.

[ His mask gives off the air of unflappable calm, but there's a hushed tone to his voice, unlike when he speaks to Darnic or Roche. Something more respectful and humble. The voice of a man who knows his place.

It's easy to brush aside any hesitation when faced by such a commanding presence, and his movements are as calm as ever as he reaches forward. His hands aren't glad in his usual gauntlets, his fingers gingerly brushing aside the folds of Vlad's long robes as he reaches for the fastening to his pants

JUST KIDDING you can respond to that if you want but also here's a proper prompt:

[ History may have remembered him as an ornery, antisocial man, but that hadn't always been the case. Solomon ibn Gabirol had grown up devoting himself to a patron, after all, and had spent most of his life working in the service of others. Sometimes willingly, sometimes grudgingly, but always aware of his position in life. Hierarchies, though hardly noble, were an inevitable facet of life he'd long since accepted.

And so Avicebron has no real qualms about devoting himself to the man he currently views as his King: Lancer of Black, Vlad.

It's been a day since he'd been summoned, and the first hours had been a whirlwind of activity. Setting up his workshop had been of highest priority, of course, establishing a list of necessary materials and laying down the groundwork so golem production could progress as quickly as possible. But now that the most urgent work has been taken care of (and Roche is off elsewhere), Avicebron enters the quiet throne room.

Even now, in this peaceful context, the sheer charisma and aura that Vlad exudes is awe-inspiring. There's a gravity to his presence that mortal Kings could only dream of, and as he approaches the throne, he lowers himself to one knee. ]

My Lord.

[ He keeps his head bowed even as he speaks, his voice calm and low. ]

I apologize for the delay in paying my respects. My work has started proceeding as planned, but if you've any further wishes, I will see to it that they are done.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

[ For once, it isn't Darnic that breaks the silence in the throne room.

Contrary to popular belief (if popular is the right term for it. 'infamous' may be more suitable), Vlad Țepeș is hardly someone who revels in indulgence. Ascetic to the point of brutality and discerning to the point of madness, he seems more at ease without the cloying presence of his Master vying for his favor; after all, in life and death, Vlad Tepes was always the lone king. The sole defender of his land, the man who stood vigil over his self-made slaughter.

Jaw against his knuckles, elbow to a gilded armrest. Vlad settles his attention on Avicebron like a stormcloud. ]

Spare me your apologies. You've paid your respects by proceeding with your work, Caster.

[ Implicit is the suggestion that he would have found it insolent, if Avicebron were to assume that whatever personal requests that may be on the table would take precedent over their eventual victory.

Still, the other Servant's commitment to decorum is laudable. Vlad won't begrudge it of him, which is why the even keel of his voice remains neutral and unbarbed; one pale hand lifts, in a silent indication that Avicebron is allowed to raise his head if he wishes. ]

And if there's anything I require, I'll make it known without your prompting. [ Read: "so don't kowtow, it's embarrassing for the both of us." ] —What of you? Darnic doesn't seem to be wanting for resources, but are they sufficient?

[ Avicebron sees the dismissive wave of a hand out of the corner of his vision and raises his head, regarding Vlad quietly for a moment. And then he nods. Subtly, some of the stiffness in his posture melts away to something less formal and a little more frank. Even given this implicit permission, it’s not in his nature to be truly casual or at ease, but he certainly isn’t the type to maintain unwanted decorum. ]

Certainly.

[ After all, those who were most insistent on formalities were often the most insecure, he’d observed during his life. Vlad seems truly unlike those blustering, arrogant courtiers he’d had to cater to in the past — a man with an unwavering conviction and presence, self-assured and dignified. Good. If he’s permitted some level of bluntness and there’s no need for shallow flattery, then he won’t waste their time. His posture straightens slightly as he continues at a brisk pace. ]

The quality of materials Darnic has been able to procure is impressive, far better than I would have expected in this day and age. Though the creation process requires some time in the beginning, once preparations are complete, manufacturing the golems will be simple as long as the supplies last. At the very least, I can guarantee an army of five hundred. But barring any unforeseen obstacles ... it should be possible to create twice that.

[ Avicebron’s voice isn’t enthusiastic, not exactly. Everything he says is perfectly matter-of-fact, with no exaggeration. But there’s a hint of pride in the way he continues, like a craftsman presenting a finely-honed sword. ]

Though a single golem would only be able to stand up to the weakest of Servants, their strength lies in numbers. I believe I can create an army worthy of your command.

[ Efficient, to the point, and dedicated. Vlad knows enough about Solomon ibn Gabirol to understand what kind of man he's dealing with, what he can expect from a misanthrope who nevertheless has everything to gain from their eventual (preordained) victory. If there's one thing that a man with drive respects, it's a man who lives and dies by their own idiosyncrasies; Solomon ibn Gabirol was dismembered and buried six feet under for the words that he spun, and curiously enough—

—Vlad the Impaler, crusader and heretic, can relate.

(how refreshing, he thinks, to have comrades-in-arms in death.)

In the empty expanse of the throne room, Avicebron's carefully-articulated inch of pride reverberates. Vlad hears it, and the thin line of his lips curve just a fraction. ]

You 'believe'?

[ Again, this would've been a threat in any other context— "spare me your belief"— but it manages, this time, to sound almost like a mild tease. A callout, even. An indication that he finds it almost humorous, this incongruity between Avicebron's confidence and his verbal humility.

The flat of his heel clicks against marbled flooring. When he stands to full height, he seems to fill the space around him like fog; oppressive but delicate. ]

Very well. Darnic is busy attending to his kin; he won't be disturbing me for some time, yet. [ A soft breath through his nose, almost derisive but near-fond. Like a father with a troublesome child; the true marking of a ruler who tolerates the inadequacies of his subjects. ] Lead me to your workshop, Caster.

[ An invisible weight settles over his shoulders at the sound of that subtle rebuke, doubling when Vlad stands. It's not an overwhelming pressure, but a persistent one, nigh impossible to ignore. And Avicebron, accustomed as he is to the delicate balance of catering to patrons without compromising his pride, feels a strange thrill pour down his spine.

How easy it would have been, had all of his patrons felt this worthy of the praise and flattery they demanded from him. It's been a long, long time since his youth, when he last felt such an innate desire to take up the quill for another person. And this, despite his knowledge of Vlad's bloody past. Truly, the Black Faction may be destined to win this War, with this man as their leader.

Avicebron nods, confident, as he rises to his feet. ]

Gladly.

[ The click of his footsteps reverberates through the cavernous hallways as he leads the way towards the area he's claimed as his workshop. Inside, homunculi are already busy at work moving about heavy equipment and large vats of materials. A large table is piled high with rare jewels and parchments, scattered with notes scrawled in Hebrew.

In the center of the room, a single golem stands, lit from above. Even misshapen and rough, it exudes a magical energy far beyond what most human magi would ever be able to create. ]

This is only the prototype. [ Avicebron gestures with a hand, and the golem shifts to stand at attention, eyes glowing faintly. ] I've prepared to make further improvements to its strength and endurance.

[ There's a short pause before he adds, ] -- it would be presumptuous for someone of my standing to claim to know what a sovereign would find truly worthy. But I believe you won't be disappointed, at the very least.

[ Despite his modest words, his tone of voice is dry and confident. It's never been in his nature to easily admit loss when it comes to a matter of words; even coming from a King, that 'tease' from earlier isn't something he'll just let go without a retort. ]