Time is an illusion. A correct statement in so far as it can be; it is an abstract shoddy attempt at rationalizing one's existence in an ever flowing expanse of existence.
Time stops for no man. A false statement that is baseless; time is not real therefore whether or not it can be manipulationed is irrelevant.
What fragile minds truly seek is the awareness that the very fabric of reality is a arduous miasma of all encompassing vitriol that buries it's tendrils into soft flesh from the moment of conception; relentless in its hunger, it is not time that ages it is the burden of fueling the universe.
Giving such an answer, though, to weak willed and simple minded species, would be cruel; to give them hope of fighting an enemy they cannot begin to perceive, to give them the concept of stopping an unseen force that brings them closer to decay with every breath taken.
Not that it's an impossibility, of course, circumstances depending.
Time isn't real therefore is a mere idea that cannot be swayed. Reality is a heavy hand with threads of hardened metal that can be moved, or shattered into pieces if one's fortitude is made of something stronger.
Perhaps, rhetorically speaking of course, that is why he has an inconceivable bounty on his head from the law; a good thing, for him at least, he's well versed in ripping seams and manipulating the strings.
"What did you do this time?"
"What makes you think I did something?"
There was a distinct noise offered, somewhere between a resigned grunt and an accusatory growl; Camillus didn't need the gift of sight, unoffered anyway in the dark space of the bedroom, to know he was on the receiving end of what was probably a very impressive glower.
"I didn't do anything," much, "technically speaking," depending on whom was asked; not that he was, or would.
"Sure," came out in a sigh. Zed could ask, sure, and get the answer without applying much force, but it'd been an exhausting night; his most infuriating regular had lingered, picked a drinking fight with three fae, at some point blades were drawn and it'd taken threat of poison to get one side to back down. The brat was stubborn but fae had more pride than they knew what to with, a volatile combination if there ever was one.
He ran a hand up his face, fingers digging in at the hard scales near his eyes. If he bothered, this would be a guaranteed migraine. Best to leave it for now and let it be morning Zed's problem to deal with. "Chances of them ripping a hole in my house to drag you away?"
Camillus clicked his tongue, affronted. "What do you take me for?"
"A reckless idiot who gets off on flirting with his own destruction."
"Wow." He couldn't help but marvel, equally considering leaving all of his clothes on—boots included—just for the quickness of the response.
"Am I wrong?"
No. No he was not. "You're the worst," Camillus snapped, choosing to ignore the snickering in favor of kicking off his boots and tugging off his hoodie; tempting as it was to get mud and dimensional slime all over the bed, as spot on as part of the call out really really was, he was not an idiot.
Narrowly escaping his own destruction absolutely got him worked up in the best way, and Zed was.... well perfectly capable of using force and bringing him to heel in a very desirable way, but dragons were quite particular; getting crap in the bed would not end well.
(He'd done it once and it's ended with fire at his back and a threat on his neck while being forced to do laundry.)
"You know," Camillus drawled, slipping into the soft bed and under the blankets, falling easily next to Zed's solid furnace of a body. "You're quite a surly asshole when you're cranky."
"And yet here you are."
Camillus hummed, letting him sink into the heat after spending far too long traipsing through the coldness of space. "Here I am, yes."
Common Experiment #84
