9416/In The Garden of Statues

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In The Garden of Statues
Date of Scene: 02 January 2022
Location: Courtyard: Themysciran Embassy
Synopsis: A demigod talk to a statue- and the statue talks back!
Cast of Characters: Iason, Morgan Finn

Iason has posed:
Statues are unchanging- they never grow, they never change position, but rather endure the days and nights of centuries with passivity. They do not grow, but some of them diminish, worn down by wind and weather until their features are smooth and indistinguishable, silent witnesses to the passing world, left behind by it. But they don't mind- for they are insensible, and do not care about being forgotten.

Some statues don't get a choice.

Iason sighs, rubbing his eyes momentarily as he closes the book he had set on his lap. In a rare outing out of his room, he had decided to continue his studies in the courtyard, sitting by a group of statues portraying the Hesperides, golden apples poised gracefully in their cupped hands. He glances up at one of the white marble statues.

He wasn't like them at all. They- pale marble, him tanned skin, the standard handsome Hellenistic youth with wavy black hair, not a hint of the bronze from which he had been born.

And yet.

He reaches over and takes a bite out of the apple he had set down next to him on the grass. It is not gold, despite its name, but it is delicious. He gives it a few thoughtful bites and then returns his attention to the history book and opens it again. Patriarch World's history was a mess, especially after what he had known. So much to catch up on. And he still didn't have a good hold of the language.

"I'm never going to get through this," he grumbles to himself. He is wearing standard 'civilian' attire- jeans and t-shirt, seemingly not bothered by the winter weather. He reserved his 'traditional' garb for working at the Arts Center.

Morgan Finn has posed:
Morgan is usually here only in the early mornings for training in the arena. Likely Iason has seen him before in the company of Diana or one of the Amazon warriors who also do his training. Tonight, he's by himself. He's dressed in all brand new clothes! Christmas at the embassy was good for Morgan. He has on hiking boots, jeans, a blue flannel, and a grey down vest. His hands are in his pocket and his gait is meandering and aimless. His breath feathers out into the cold winter air.

He hears someone talking among the statues. Okay that's interesting. He changes course and heads in that direction. He sees someone sitting there in the cold without proper cold-weather attire. Admittedly, though, it is unseasonably warm for January in New York. "Hey man, you okay?" he asks in a soft, gentle tone.

Iason has posed:
The cold never bothers him, anyway- not because he is an ice princess, but because he was fashioned from bronze. Even though he might have skin, technically speaking he is not fully human.

But he can definitely be startled like a human, even if the voice and presence is a gentle one. Iason turns to face Morgan, the book slammed shut with one fluid gesture. That he doesn't reach for a weapon (that is not at his side) speaks volumes to how comfortable he has grown with his surroundings in the past year. "-Oh. I am sorry, I did not hear you approach."

He sets the book aside and untangles his legs, standing up with one fluid motion, hands immediately going into his pockets, a gesture he has learned by osmosis from watching teenagers at the center.

"I have seen you. At the center," he states in a calm, low voice. "You are often accompanied by the Princess."

Morgan Finn has posed:
A friendly smile takes its natural place on Morgan's face. "Psh. Naw. /She's/ accompanied by /me/," he says in a playful tone. He seems to sense that something is out of the ordinary here. He's not a brilliant kid but he's perceptive. No jacket. The strange manner of speaking. Reading outside in the winter. Some things just aren't adding up. But his expression and tone and body language all combine to suggest he doesn't feel at all threatened. I mean, the head chef is a frickin' minotaur, so weird is the new normal when it comes to the Themysciran embassy.

"I'm Morgan. Sup?" the kid says smoothly as he extend a fist for a bump.

Iason has posed:
Iason stares at the fist, his hazel eyes full of puzzlement at the gesture. It's like a very very slow punch that stops halfway. He is not familiar with this at all and the young man's expression reflects his perplexed state. He does try to work it out, though.

"I have already supped," he says hesitantly, and then gestures to the half-eaten apple on the frosty ground, "but thank you for the offer. I am Iason."

And then, realizing that the gesture must have been some sort of traditional introduction, he holds his arm up, bent at the elbow, with his fist closed, mimicking Morgan.

Morgan Finn has posed:
The teen nudges his fist against Iason's. He grins a charmed smile. "You're like from somewhere not around here or something?" he says in that soft, soothing tone of his. When the fists touch, Iason might feel the small surge of energy that some people feel when making skin-to-skin contact with the empathic healer. Some find is pleasant.

"It's called a fist bump. It's like a way to say hello to someone." He is slow and patient with his explanations. "And I didn't mean 'sup' like to eat. It's a slang for 'what's up'. Just a way of saying 'hello, how are you'." He looks up at Iason and grins.

Iason has posed:
Iason opens his mouth and tilts his head back with that 'aaah' gesture that people make when absorbing new information. "I see, it /is/ a type of greeting, merely not the one I thought of." He leans his hand into the 'fist bump', filing the information into his mind. Certainly at some point someone will tell him it is not an appropriate greeting for, say, Queen Hippolyta if she happens to visit. Hopefully.

"What's up," he repeats, and to his credit he does not go for the literal reply, but actually answers on topic. "I am studying. Or I was. Or I was attempting to. I think my mind may be fatigued, it has been several hours." He glances down at the book, and then back up at Morgan. "There is so much I must catch up on. I am, as you surmised, not from 'around here.' I am of Alexandria."

Morgan Finn has posed:
Morgan sits down on one of the benches sideways, straddling it with his legs. "Wow studying outside on a Saturday night. Yeah, you definitely are not from around here, my dude!" he says with a laugh, causing his warm breath to cascade out in a big plume in the cold winter air. "I ain't all that good at geography," he says. "Where's Alexandria?"

Iason has posed:
"Not where, but when, as it pertains to me." Iason glances at how Morgan is sitting, and mimics it. His actions betray careful observation and imitation, almost as if he has never been around people his age. Or people much, at all. "I lived in Alexandria one thousand, six hundred years ago. The city that was founded by Alexandros Magnos." As he speaks, a distant look comes across him. "A city of knowledge and commerce. But I never saw it in its glory."

His eyes return to the present, looking at Morgan. "When I saw it, only the shadow of the great library was there. Nowadays, I hear not even that remains. But the city is still there. But changed." A glance at the book on the lawn. "It is in Egypt."

Morgan Finn has posed:
The teen demigod raises his eyebrows. "Holy shit, you're sixteen hundred years old?" Morgan asks, surprised. He chuckles, eyes glittering. "You barely look older than me," he exclaims.

Empathy is Morgan's sphere. He looks long and hard at Iason. "You seem so out of place," he says gently, no judgement in his voice. "Like you haven't learned how things work here. I think we should be friends. I could teach you!" He leans closer and extends that fist out again -- you know, the slow punch that stops? "What d'you say?"

Iason has posed:
The young man lets out a little laugh, and brushes a wavy lock out of his face. "I am most likely as old as you. I... slept for many years. I was not alive during them, my body was submerged in a shipwreck. I only awoke... last year."

He glances at the gesture, and then he returns it, brushing up his fist against Morgan's. "I... would welcome that. The Princess has been most kind giving me a place to live, and her sister has told me of when the Amazons met my sister. There is a great deal I do not know, however. The princesses are often so busy, I do not have the heart to bother them much. But I have been given a lot of books..." he gestures to it again, "to complete my education. But I am not very familiar with how you speak nowadays. The books seem to be almost written in a different language."

Morgan Finn has posed:
Morgan Finn fist-bumps and then sits up straight again, rubbing his palms together, grinning. "We're gonna get you trained up right. Consider me your new social mentor." Yeah, Iason is fucked...he's just fucked.

"Okay there will be a lot of ground to cover. I'll prolly have to come up with a lesson plan. There are a lot of topics: sports, social media, romance, video games, Netflix and other streaming services, the best foods, avoiding unwanted adult attention, how to blame a fart on Diana...the list is just endless."

Iason has posed:
Iason frowns at the young man. Yes, it is very evident that the books he has been reading are in a different language. "What is a Net-flicks? Are streams that important still today? I was given the impression that the majority of merchandise was moved via those horseless chariots instead of rivers nowadays."

He doesn't even get to ask about video games or the other elements of the list, however, because he very solemnly says, with total earnestness: "Princess Diana does not fart."

Morgan Finn has posed:
Morgan collapses forward on the bench as he busts out laughing. His ears and cheeks turn bright red. Sixteen hundred years frozen as a statue and Iason's still got it!

When the fledgling demigod finally manages to compose himself he sits back up. "Okay...we have a LOT of ground to cover...for example..." And he continues chatting with his strange and wonderful new friend.