He knows it's too easy, but he didn't expect Orev not to be suspicious. Even if he actually didn't know the man, he's a gambler: he knows people don't trust as easily as they claim.
(No one but Cala, anyway.)
Still, it's worth a try.
"I have something in mind. Maybe it'll satisfy your curiosity about the baker," he shrugs. Unfolding his arms, he rests his hands on his knees. "Cala. I won her. Not that I was trying to," he adds, his remark carrying some hints of disdain. "Some piece of shit tossed their contract into a pot he was sure I'd lose."
Of course, he hadn't begun losing that night.
"I didn't realize what it was until after, and now I've got a too-trusting, 'charming' Threadborn at my beck and call. Can't tear up the contract because she didn't make it with me; I just inherited it. So that's what we're out to do: get her autonomy back."
A little wave of one hand. "The baker said she knew I owned Cala's soul. She said our redemption's at the Drowned Crossroads."
[orev, insight check: 20 not-nat]
[jack, deception: 29]
As far as Orev can tell, Jack is telling the truth as though his life depends on it.
<.>
It seems he isn't the only one in the business of owning souls.
That isn't a helpful thought. It also isn't strictly true, and he's not about to say it, for fuck's sake. For several moments, he only lets himself consider the information. Thinking—
Well. The girl is probably better off with this man than whoever came before him.
And. There are always ways to slip out from a contract. (A thought - a knowledge? - that stings sharper than he'd like, with roots he cannot trace.)
Slowly, eventually, he nods, eyes not-quite-settled on the window. "The baker. It might be wise to pay her another visit."
Then, perhaps (??) attempting levity (??), never mind that the words fall a bit flat, "You do still need to eat, in any case."
His arms have settled at his side, and one hand flexes again, again in thought. "Do you know how she came to— Mm. Be parted from her soul in the first place?"
<.>
Jack looks faintly surprised - perhaps that Orev is so amenable to helping - but replies, "I didn't ask. I get the impression her parents sold her. It happens. I don't think it's anything she cares to talk about."
There's another silence from him before he goes on, "You're concerned about me eating. Why? It's not like I'm starving myself."
<.>
"...You mentioned your hunger. I would prefer that you not pass out while we're attempting to get our bearings."
That's definitely the entire reason. Or. It's the entire reason that Orev's given to himself; he's not going to touch the impulses behind it, because it doesn't particularly make sense that he'd give a shit one way or another about this boy's care, certainly not. It's all practicality. Yes, practicality and tactical cohesion.
He shakes his head, huffs a perhaps-forced sound of derision. "I can't begin to imagine what the Old Ways have to say about fainting. The barber might attempt to exorcise you via an over-bloody dental extraction."
He clears his throat. Looks back at the boy. "Are you familiar with the Drowned Crossroads?"
(And. A thought occurs, briefly, dim: Is your soul your own?)
<.>
The joke about the barber passes without reaction.
Jack shakes his head. "I've never heard of it. Them. Whatever they are." The Drowned Crossroads, he means. "But I find out what I need to know over a game of dice, when Cala isn't trying to throttle me for -"
For just a moment there, he had half a fond smile on his face. However, he seems to remember who he's talking to and the smile abruptly vanishes, replaced with his familiar cold impassiveness.
"I have rations. I'll eat when I need to eat. I don't need you mothering me."
<.>
[q: does orev have any scattered memory flashes related to the drowned crossroads, or to crossroads in reference to the owning and exchange of souls?
Nope. However, everyone in Druskenvald knows - the crossroads are where one goes to make a deal with "the devil". Or whatever entities want to accept the terms. This is, of course, known to be a superstition, so whatever the baker meant, Orev would know it's probably not that]
"I'm not—" He snaps his mouth shut, jaw tightening. Suddenly, he's glaring very sharply through the window.
Fine.
It's fine.
Let the boy do what he pleases, it isn't (it ought to be) (it *is*) Orev's business. He could point out that Jack's state this very morning suggests some need for care, but no, no, he wouldn't want to *mother* the boy.
Prickly little (brat) *shit*.
"Do as you please. Though I'd venture to say that the information may be gleaned without the company of dice."
And, moving quickly along, "I'd like to see the contract sometime. If— She doesn't mind. It might help."
<.>
Jack lets the silence drag out, offering no response to anything Orev says. He seems to be wrestling with himself, perhaps trying to convince himself 'do as you please' isn't a command.
Finally, he asks quietly, "Was there anything else?"
<.>
"...Am I detaining you."
<.>
Jack raises an eyebrow and counters with rising, perhaps performative, suggestion, "I came up here to sleep. Am I tempting you to stay in my room while I get in bed?"
<.>
His response follows on impulse, too quickly, "And here I thought you'd had your fill."
Fucking. Tolliver.
Orev.
Immediately.
Regrets saying that.
(Well. The boy wasn't entirely wrong; he's already got Orev feeling an uncommon amount of regret. ...Shit.)
He takes a breath. Sighs deeply. (Thinks that. Sees that. Yes, this man is... attractive would be an understatement. Appealing. Something about him is— Uncommon. The boy is uncommon. And if Orev were to let himself consider it, wouldn't it be nice to—) (For SHIT'S sake, he can't think about this!)
Again, he clears his throat.
Again, he finds he's not quite looking at Jack.
He makes himself focus on the man.
Breathes again.
Attempts to compose himself, intends to speak, something wry or something vaguely dismissive or something to excuse himself from the room.
What he says instead: "I'm not certain how you knew me. Or what I was to you. But the— The knowledge is lost to me.
"It might do you well to know this."
And once again, he knows Regret.
<.>
Jack holds his eyes unflinchingly, then replies softly, firmly, "I never knew you."
There's a breath half-drawn. An unsteadiness, and then, "I never knew you. You weren't anything to me. You're not anything to me now."
He shakes his head as though unconcerned, his half-smile showing a glint of teeth. "You're never going to be anything to me. Probably will do you well to know that."
no subject
(No one but Cala, anyway.)
Still, it's worth a try.
"I have something in mind. Maybe it'll satisfy your curiosity about the baker," he shrugs. Unfolding his arms, he rests his hands on his knees. "Cala. I won her. Not that I was trying to," he adds, his remark carrying some hints of disdain. "Some piece of shit tossed their contract into a pot he was sure I'd lose."
Of course, he hadn't begun losing that night.
"I didn't realize what it was until after, and now I've got a too-trusting, 'charming' Threadborn at my beck and call. Can't tear up the contract because she didn't make it with me; I just inherited it. So that's what we're out to do: get her autonomy back."
A little wave of one hand. "The baker said she knew I owned Cala's soul. She said our redemption's at the Drowned Crossroads."
[orev, insight check: 20 not-nat]
[jack, deception: 29]
As far as Orev can tell, Jack is telling the truth as though his life depends on it.
<.>
It seems he isn't the only one in the business of owning souls.
That isn't a helpful thought. It also isn't strictly true, and he's not about to say it, for fuck's sake. For several moments, he only lets himself consider the information. Thinking—
Well. The girl is probably better off with this man than whoever came before him.
And. There are always ways to slip out from a contract. (A thought - a knowledge? - that stings sharper than he'd like, with roots he cannot trace.)
Slowly, eventually, he nods, eyes not-quite-settled on the window. "The baker. It might be wise to pay her another visit."
Then, perhaps (??) attempting levity (??), never mind that the words fall a bit flat, "You do still need to eat, in any case."
His arms have settled at his side, and one hand flexes again, again in thought. "Do you know how she came to— Mm. Be parted from her soul in the first place?"
<.>
Jack looks faintly surprised - perhaps that Orev is so amenable to helping - but replies, "I didn't ask. I get the impression her parents sold her. It happens. I don't think it's anything she cares to talk about."
There's another silence from him before he goes on, "You're concerned about me eating. Why? It's not like I'm starving myself."
<.>
"...You mentioned your hunger. I would prefer that you not pass out while we're attempting to get our bearings."
That's definitely the entire reason. Or. It's the entire reason that Orev's given to himself; he's not going to touch the impulses behind it, because it doesn't particularly make sense that he'd give a shit one way or another about this boy's care, certainly not. It's all practicality. Yes, practicality and tactical cohesion.
He shakes his head, huffs a perhaps-forced sound of derision. "I can't begin to imagine what the Old Ways have to say about fainting. The barber might attempt to exorcise you via an over-bloody dental extraction."
He clears his throat. Looks back at the boy. "Are you familiar with the Drowned Crossroads?"
(And. A thought occurs, briefly, dim: Is your soul your own?)
<.>
The joke about the barber passes without reaction.
Jack shakes his head. "I've never heard of it. Them. Whatever they are." The Drowned Crossroads, he means. "But I find out what I need to know over a game of dice, when Cala isn't trying to throttle me for -"
For just a moment there, he had half a fond smile on his face. However, he seems to remember who he's talking to and the smile abruptly vanishes, replaced with his familiar cold impassiveness.
"I have rations. I'll eat when I need to eat. I don't need you mothering me."
<.>
[q: does orev have any scattered memory flashes related to the drowned crossroads, or to crossroads in reference to the owning and exchange of souls?
Nope.
However, everyone in Druskenvald knows -
the crossroads are where one goes to make a deal with "the devil".
Or whatever entities want to accept the terms.
This is, of course, known to be a superstition, so whatever the baker meant, Orev would know it's probably not that]
"I'm not—" He snaps his mouth shut, jaw tightening. Suddenly, he's glaring very sharply through the window.
Fine.
It's fine.
Let the boy do what he pleases, it isn't (it ought to be) (it *is*) Orev's business. He could point out that Jack's state this very morning suggests some need for care, but no, no, he wouldn't want to *mother* the boy.
Prickly little (brat) *shit*.
"Do as you please. Though I'd venture to say that the information may be gleaned without the company of dice."
And, moving quickly along, "I'd like to see the contract sometime. If— She doesn't mind. It might help."
<.>
Jack lets the silence drag out, offering no response to anything Orev says. He seems to be wrestling with himself, perhaps trying to convince himself 'do as you please' isn't a command.
Finally, he asks quietly, "Was there anything else?"
<.>
"...Am I detaining you."
<.>
Jack raises an eyebrow and counters with rising, perhaps performative, suggestion, "I came up here to sleep. Am I tempting you to stay in my room while I get in bed?"
<.>
His response follows on impulse, too quickly, "And here I thought you'd had your fill."
Fucking. Tolliver.
Orev.
Immediately.
Regrets saying that.
(Well. The boy wasn't entirely wrong; he's already got Orev feeling an uncommon amount of regret. ...Shit.)
He takes a breath. Sighs deeply. (Thinks that. Sees that. Yes, this man is... attractive would be an understatement. Appealing. Something about him is— Uncommon. The boy is uncommon. And if Orev were to let himself consider it, wouldn't it be nice to—) (For SHIT'S sake, he can't think about this!)
Again, he clears his throat.
Again, he finds he's not quite looking at Jack.
He makes himself focus on the man.
Breathes again.
Attempts to compose himself, intends to speak, something wry or something vaguely dismissive or something to excuse himself from the room.
What he says instead: "I'm not certain how you knew me. Or what I was to you. But the— The knowledge is lost to me.
"It might do you well to know this."
And once again, he knows Regret.
<.>
Jack holds his eyes unflinchingly, then replies softly, firmly, "I never knew you."
There's a breath half-drawn. An unsteadiness, and then, "I never knew you. You weren't anything to me. You're not anything to me now."
He shakes his head as though unconcerned, his half-smile showing a glint of teeth. "You're never going to be anything to me. Probably will do you well to know that."
[orev, insight check: 1]
Jack seems to be telling the truth.
<.>