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kingdomsofrain2026-01-17 02:26 pm
onefellswoop) wrote in kingdomsofrain2026-01-17 02:26 pm
shitlords!
placeholder title above! hmmmm
1) Prelude: Ill-Natured Shrubbery.
2) The Party Gathers: If a Tree Burns in the Forest...
3) Death House Pt. 1: Family, If You Wish It.
4) Death House Pt. 2: Onward and Downward.
5) Awich: The Dead All Know, The Dead All Go.
6) Awich: Investigations.
7) Awich: After the Battle.
8) Loch Bien: Complications, Concerns, Frogs.
1) Prelude: Ill-Natured Shrubbery.
2) The Party Gathers: If a Tree Burns in the Forest...
3) Death House Pt. 1: Family, If You Wish It.
4) Death House Pt. 2: Onward and Downward.
5) Awich: The Dead All Know, The Dead All Go.
6) Awich: Investigations.
7) Awich: After the Battle.
8) Loch Bien: Complications, Concerns, Frogs.
Prelude: Ill-Natured Shrubbery
Speaking to the bushes, moving away from the bushes: “Is this a game to you."
When he turns to look back after his unhasty retreat, he'll see shrubs and bushes lining the path; everything is still and quiet once more.
Dima is displeased by this. He asked a question thank you very much.
He scans the bushes. Scans the trees. And, you know what. he's just going to stay where he is for the moment. Hand brushing against his dagger. Listening, listening. And he'll try one more speaking gambit: “If it's money you're after, you'll find it's simpler to ask. I'm in no mood for games."
While he's at it, he’s just going to add in Undercommon, “Fucking noxious prick."
[ q: while dima's looking around, 1) is there anything he knows about this particular path/patch of the trail? news he might have heard? 2) is there any strangeness of sound or silence?
SURV: 13 PERC: 4]
He would know this stretch of road is barely carved out of greater wilderness; however, although many creatures inhabit the area, the ones that live near humanoid-trafficked areas tend to be little more than nuisances. He would also know many travelers have sustained strange slashed wounds, but have all been reluctant to talk about what happened.
Perception-wise, he sees bushes and shrubs.
As Dima stands there, wary (?) and inspecting the treeline, one of the shrubs rustles, its branches beginning to tremble as if jostled by some animal. The shrub uproots itself and moves toward Dima, lashing out with its branches.
Dima casts Chill Touch on the offending buSH. Dima somehow crits the hit on the shrub for 12 damage.
The shrub turns brittle and motionless as though in the dead of winter; its leaves shrivel and shed, and it falls sort of...sideways.
Clearly, he has killed this plant. Well done Dima, Bush Slayer.
Dima would like to inspect the plantly remains and see if he can tell anYthing about the magic animating it? Or rather if there is any trace to tell by?
[ARC: 8]
As far as he can tell, there's nothing interesting about the shrub, and in fact he has no proof he didn't imagine the entire encounter.
Dima kicks the bush's remains. Frozen as it is, it breaks down further into brittle pieces. Like he dunked it in liquid nitrogen and smashed it.
[ …q: can dima scoop up some of the remains in a vial. keep it for later? or for ditching if he gets tired of looking at it ofc ]
It's pretty easy to bottle up. Dima now has a trophy of his first kill of the adventure.
[PERC: 11]
Dima isn't sure, but upon giving a perfunctory glance around the area, it seems as though there are fewer shrubs than before. Almost as though - if there were more - upon perceiving the gruesome death of their comrade, a lot of plants noped the fuck out.
Dima takes this as a sign that he has done his job well and given the shrubs an apt fright!
He nods to himself. gives the bush's meager remains a final stomp. And says not super quietly, "Yes, we'll SEE if you try that again."
Then quieter, to himself, "Godsdamned shrubs. As if any SHRUB were equal to a Voronin.”
The Party Gathers: If a Tree Burns in the Forest...
As the sun sets on the horizon and the stars appear one by one overhead, there can be seen not-too-distantly the glow of a campfire.
Nearer, it can be ascertained that the fire is about thirty feet from the trail in a clearing, and two figures can be seen seated on stones forming a ring around the firepit.
<.>
He knows he ought to halt his travel soon.
He knows better than to linger long where strangers stay.
But! The thing is. There's nothing furtive about this fire's presence. And it can't hurt to take some measure of whoever, or whatever, is responsible for the fire.
And maybe (maybe!) whoever this is knows something of these pernicious bushes.
So. For the moment, Dima would like to pause where he is, and listen to see whether he can overhear anything, or sense anything odd in the air.
[PERC: 13, with advantage bc dumbass crit failed his first roll]
<.>
Listening, he can overhear the sounds of faint, calm conversation, but can't really determine the subjectmatter. There's nothing exceptional about the site: it appears to be a well-traveled area, used frequently by those taking the road to and from Awich. Of the two figures, one wears a hooded cowl which in the twilight obscures their face; the other's is turned towards their hooded companion and thus their back is to Dima, but from this distance, it's easy to determine their build is slight, perhaps the same height or slightly taller than Dima.
<.>
He'd like a better look at these probable travelers. He'd like to determine whether they have anything worth knowing.
So Dima moves up the path fifteen feet or so. Moves to stand precisely on the path's edge, then—
Well.
No.
Before he steps foot off the path, he'd like to take a look at the shrubbery around. Does any of it appear to be. Rustling with ill-intent?
[ARC: 14]
<.>
Everything seems quiet; however, due to his background in the magical arts, Dima has probably learned that certain types of malignant foliage can appear to be absolutely normal until it moves.
One thing has changed; when Dima pauses at the path's edge, the figure facing his way gestures to indicate his presence and the other falls silent and turns back to look at him.
<.>
Well! No use playing coy now, is there? (And he'll simply have to keep his very well-remembered lessons in mind, and keep an *eye* on all of these bushes.)
[q: What can he see of the figures’ faces? ]
<.>
From this distance, both faces are thrown in shadow by the firelight.
<.>
Dima takes a few steps - moving with care, but without hesitation - off the path, toward the firelight. Then speaks, voice self-assured but not over-loud: "Staying for the night?"
<.>
The figure in the hood seemingly cocks their head, then exhales a sound that could be a mirthful - if muted - snort. Though they face Dima, their features are still thrown in shadow, but their traveling clothes - worn, a not-uncommon mingling of leather armor and linen fabrics - can be seen. A blanket wrapped around their shoulders and their hunched manner of sitting obscures their build.
The figure nearest Dima, now in clearer view, is an older human male, his greying hair somewhat tousled as though after making his trek all day, sweating and mussing it, he has hastily attempted to bring it to order. His clothes are dirtier than a day's travel would suggest.
He casts a glance back at his companion , then, turning to Dima again, offers a welcoming grin. "The woods are treacherous at night. All sorts of buggery about. Better to be well-rested for safer travel, wouldn't you say?"
<.>
Buggery? Well— That's one word for it.
Dima's eyes narrow briefly as he considers - looks from one figure to the other, taking in what glimpses he can through the shadows - then nods once, firmly. "So I hear.
"Have you room for one more?
"I won't keep you long, but as you say, the woods are— Mm. 'Buggery' isn't precisely the term I'd choose, but it serves the purpose. And I could stand a moment's respite."
<.>
"Oh, you'd have to ask my friend here," the man replies, gesturing almost theatrically.
The hooded figure shakes their head, then gestures with one large hand to the third of the encircling rocks.
"Can't get him to shut up." The first man makes this jest as he rises, presumably out of courtesy, and extends a hand. "I'm Wythall. This is - well, I didn't catch his name, but he's generous with his campfire, aren't you, boy?
"And who might you be?"
<.>
His 'friend.'
Interesting. This... 'Wythall' has an interesting way of choosing words.
It doesn't feel entirely rotten to be invited toward the circle. Dima also isn't ready to trust a man who smiles so readily at strangers.
He steps forward, gives a suspended look to the man's hand—
And doesn't reach for it.
Instead, Dima glances at the silent figure, looks to Wythall again.
And Dima would like to attempt to discern whether there is anything trustworthy about this scene at all.
[INS: 21]
<.>
The seated figure seems sketchy as fuck in his hood, with his taciturn behavior and curt gestures.
Upon reflection, Dima might get the feeling this is intentional, as though he has just walked into the middle of something.
Wythall apparently genuinely wants to make Dima's acquaintance.
Roll another perception check?
[PERC: 11]
There's nothing about either of them to trigger alarm bells, but Dima notices Wythall isn't wearing shoes.
<.>
The sense of walking into the middle of something doesn't deter Dima in the slightest. If anything, it only encourages his curiosity.
His eyes linger on the man's feet a moment longer before he looks up again. Still not reaching for Wythall's hand, though he bows his head in acknowledgement, and speaks with undaggered courtesy: "A pleasure, Wythall. And it is a rarity, to meet such companionability in the midnight wilds.
"My name is Altair." He cants his head in a sideways nod, then looks toward the seated figure.
"And you? This fire is your work?
"I take it you bear a name, as well?"
[DEC: 15]
<.>
"Oh! Well, we have a gentleman in our midst!" Wythall is grinning now, speaking - apparently - to his companion, though his theatricality causes his voice to project somewhat. It seems he has interpreted Dima's nod as an actual bow.
The hooded man has only watched through this exchange, drawing his hand up to what is likely his mouth in apparent contemplation. When addressed, it takes him longer than one might expect to respond.
"Might as well call me 'Altair', too. The fire's mine. The name isn't.
"But you might as well, since it's not yours, either."
<.>
no subject
Dima just barely stops himself from scowling. Manages to hold his expression unwavered - thanks you, years of practice in diplomatic negotiations - and even arches an eyebrow, cants his head and keeps his eyes fixed on the hooded figure, watching Wythall from his periphery.
"It isn't, and it is. As I conjured the name first, I believe it is more in my claim than your own.
"Still. If you insist—
"Tell me, Altair: Have I interrupted something."
<.>
Wythall falls still, clearly watching both of the men before him, head turning with each comment as though following a tennis ball. Awkwardly, he motions towards a stack of wood nearby and makes noises about feeding the fire.
There's a sound from 'Altair' that might be a huffed laugh, as thought Dima's reply caught him off-guard.
"What could you possibly be interrupting?" He raises his head just enough that firelight briefly illuminates his face: young, ought-to-be-joyful, smiling. The light catches his eyes oddly, the way it would an animal's, but only for a split second.
<.>
Oddly, Dima's first clear thought is that he'd like a longer, better look at this pseudo-Altair's face.
(And he'd like to hear that laugh again. Strange, it's... Very strange, that he should entertain this thought at all.)
He hasn't lost track of Wythall's movements. Or in any case, Dima attempts to keep an ear and eye half-toward the man's motions while his eyes hold fixed on (Wythall's 'friend') ('the boy') ('Altair,' whose eyes seems briefly set aglow) the seated stranger.
He flexes his fingers against the air idly, a habitual gesture of contemplation and pitches his voice just a little more arch, a little eased in velvet: "I might spend the night in guessing; I find it far more expeditious to ask."
And, cocking a finger toward 'Altair': "Or do you find this overbold?"
There's something else.
As he cocks his finger, as he points at the seated stranger and finishes the question, Dima casts message, whispers soft, soft, lips near motionless: ’Do you know this man.’
[PERC: 13]
<.>
Both Dima and 'Altair' have failed the perception check and no longer are keeping track of Wythall.
For 'Altair's' part, his attention is wholly fixed on this newcomer and the sensation of a voice whispering in his ear. When he cocks his head again, his eyes are visible and focused entirely on Dima - and slowly, he shakes his head.
No, not overbold.
No, he doesn't know this man.
It takes him a moment to tear his gaze from the 'other Altair' under the pretense of giving some attention to Wythall --
Who is no longer visible in the clearing.
Rollllll for initiative.
[ Faolan: 4
Wythall: 13
Dima: 6
The Awakened Shrubs encircling your campfire: 19 ]
In the brief time during which Dima and the hooded figure have been interacting and Wythall has disappeared from the clearing, seven ambulatory shrubs have left their motionless positions on the periphery of the clearing and begin to move in. Two reach the men quickly, though the others are closing in.
The shrub closest to Faolan makes its first attack with advantage and hits for 3 points of slashing damage.
The shrub closest to Dima rolls a total of 18 on its attack without advantage, which I believe is a hit. Dima also takes 3 points of slashing damage.
Wythall is still nowhere to be seen, and so next up is Dima.
<.>
That's not fucking good.
The shooting pain, the... entirely too many shrubs (it's the FUCKING bushes again), the disappearance of the shoeless fuck, and—
And he doesn't love that the hooded figure was struck. It shouldn't matter, it shouldn't register because he doesn't know this person, but Dima feels his anger sear brighter regardless, and scarcely considers his own pain as he whirls around to catch three godsfucked moving bushes as he casts Burning Hands.
He's angry. And he'll burn down half the forest if he has to.
Dima casts Burning Hands, hits three bushes. All three bushes are instantly incinerated. Watching the bushes burn, Dima steps takes a few steps back to align with the stranger's shoulder, his eyes still fixed toward the remaining bush behind, watching the area at the stranger's back.
He is, of course, watching for signs of Mr. Fucksaken 'Buggery' and any further shrubs. >:c But his turn thus ends!
<.>
At the top of Faolan's turn: he staggers up and back from the swipe taken at him, his hands immediately closing together in preparation for a spell -
He can't do that. The stranger, the one who seems to be an ally in the moment, just drew up protectively alongside him, and no matter how sensible Thunderwave might be, he doesn't think it would be polite. Or grateful. Not if it happened to kill the man.
Plan B, then: he produces a flame in his palm and throws it at the nearest shrub.
Hits for 6 points of damage; the shrub seems to shrink from the fire, but it's still up; with his movement, Faolan is going to make a dash away from Dima into the space left behind by Burning Hands.
And that ends the round, we're back up to the shrubs.
The shrubs divide up, two on each of of the men, and begin to close in once more; they seems to be moving a little more hesitantly towards Dima now that they've seen what he did to their companions.
The one that reaches Dima first makes its attack - 19 (Hit).
No damage; its attack is pretty halfhearted.
The one that reaches Faolan first misses.
<.>
Dima might, might have grinned - just a little flash of teeth - when 'Altair' produced a flame of his own. He felt the heat, heard the magic's crackle, and though he couldn't turn to view the flame, he could enjoy its presence. Briefly.
Just now, he eyes the nearest shrubs. Turns focus to the one beside him - the little shit that took a swing at him - and levels his hand, readying Chill Touch—
But. Before he casts, Dima reaches his open hand into his pocket and draws out a small vial, filled with cindered dust, and sways it between two fingers, staring daggers at the bush as he speaks, voice pitched with a hiss: "Is this what you want?
"I've done it before; I'll do it again."
[INTIM: 21, w/ adv bc the shrubs are already scared of him]
The two shrubs nearest Dima stop - and immediately begin to retreat.
Dima scowls. “That's right.” He attempts to dagger-stab as an opportunity attack, but whiffs it fully, and moves into his combat phase.
Though there's a moment in which Dima is very, very near to giving the retreating bushes a second round of Burning Hands (how dare the shrub duck from his dagger?), he reminds himself that there are more bushes, there's a smiling dickhead somewhere, and—
He turns, the better to see how the stranger is faring, notes the two shrubs.
And Dima casts Control Flame on the campfire, intending to expand it to engulf the nearby shrub that's already taken a hit. This takes out the shrub.
After, Dima will move fifteen feet in the opposite direction of the retreating shrubs.
<.>
Faolan hears something going on between the stranger and his attackers, but he's too preoccupied with the business of avoiding the attacks sent his way by an increasingly hostile shrub.
One of the two on him vanishes in a roar of flame - something he doesn't quite have time to process beyond a note of irritation that his own attack hardly made a dent.
Seeing Dima retreat, he's going to take a run back towards his original position, placing himself in range of the three remaining shrubs.
And now, with Dima just outside range, he'll cast Thunderwave.
A thunderous blast radiates out from Faolan in a fifteen foot radius, blasting the remaining three shrubs with 16 points of damage and hurtling them 10 feet from him; along with them, his pack, embers from the fire, and anything else loose is shoved ten feet in the blast; an audible BOOM shatters the would-be-silence of the night.
Faolan turns in Dima's direction with a grin as though to share in the celebration of a joint victory - but something off to Dima's left catches his eye. His smile vanishes into a look of shock and dismay.
From behind Faolan, a shrieking voice cries out, “WHAT HAVE YOU DONE?!” - Wythall running full-tilt at Faolan. The ground shudders once, again, with each impact of large roots as a maple tree stalks into the clearing.
Before Wythall can reach Faolan, he collapses to the ground, suddenly tackled by a larger, lankier man who wastes no time in attempting to plunge a knife in his back.
The two grapple, fighting over Wythall's life. The newcomer darts a look up at Faolan and Dima and shouts in apparent exasperation, "TREE-" before a fist connects with his jaw.
no subject
[Awakened Tree: 3
Faolan: 15
Sen: 8, holding
Wythall: 12, holding
Dima: 4
Rin: 15]
For Faolan's turn, he looks around wildly, thinking - what can he do? He's out of big tricks and he doubts a sword's much use against a tree!
His eyes fall on the stranger - Altair, bleeding, who has plenty of fire to bring something like that down.
In a moment of desperation - or hope, perhaps, that Altair will be able to keep it at bay long enough for Faolan to think up a plan - he casts Healing Word on the other man.
Healing Dima for a total of 7 hit points.
He'll hold his movement for now.
<.>
Halfway up the tree, a hand brushes bark, settles with a press, and a voice speaks softly: "Shhh, shhh. Wouldn't you like to go back to sleep? Don't you feel nicer with your roots in the ground?"
A mere moment later, above the crashing sounds and movements, a voice emanates booming from within the trees branches—
”What is WRONG with all of you?
”I was sleeping? Do you UNDERSTAND this much? I! Was sleeping!
”For what PURPOSE have you brought it on yourselves to wake me UP? You absolute DUNCE.”
The unseen tiefling has cast Thaumaturgy, and end their turn clinging to the branches, being very, very annoyed with the man who woke their sleeping spot.
<.>
The unexpected booming voice emanating across the clearing has brought a momentary halt to the action; Faolan, Wythall. and Wythall's attacker (now at a disadvantage with Wythall atop him) freeze, all three staring at the tree.
More than one of them thinks the tree is speaking. Faolan's hands are still held up in the aftermath of his healing spell.
Almost immediately, the action resumes: the lanky man uses the opportunity to headbutt Wythall.
<.>
There was hardly time to appreciate the sudden blast of thunder (oh, but it was exhilarating magic!). There was hardly time to register the reappearance of the man of shoeless grins, or the fact that the newcomer looks VERY FAMILIAR and sounds MORE FAMILIAR STILL, and if it were any other time that voice alone might bring on a sudden headache.
There's hardly time to appreciate the fact that he's just been healed by the hooded stranger, the alternate Altair, though Dima does take a moment to revel in the image of eyes almost aglow before—
Before the tree. Fucking. Speaks??
It might not be the tree.
It. Might. Be the tree.
And Dmitri Aubric Voronin, in a moment of calculated brilliance, points vehemently toward Wythall and calls out, very informatively: "You can thank that yolk-brained practitioner for disturbing you. I'm sure we'd all prefer you continue with your nap."
Then, shifting his finger to the tree - just in case? - he Messages in Common: ’Can you hear me?’
He's also going to take this opportunity to move ten feet to the side— Brushing a hand against 'Altair's as he moves in a gesture that is very, very like a gentle 'follow me' tug.
The tree is momentarily hesitant in its plodding steps as the voice comes roaring from its branches. Stopping where it is, it begins to shake itself, limbs flailing and sweeping dangerously. It's seemingly aware there is something humanoid far too close to its trunk.
Rin, make an athletics check.
[ATH: 22]
Rin manages to hang on just fine, and for the moment they evade any limbs that might swing a little too close to their head.
<.>
The voice from the tree DOES loudly exclaim “RUDE”, however.
<.>
Annnd we are back at the top of the round, which is Faolan -
Who at the moment has no idea what to do, but 'Altair' has given his hand a small (nice?) (kind?) ((not unpleasant??)) tug, and the man seems to know what he's doing - more than Faolan does, at any rate. He follows, his gaze cutting from the tree to the wrestlers to the tree once more.
He'll hold his action.
<.>
The voice from the tree echoes again: ”Oh, this is NONSENSE.”
If the tree isn't going to be reasonable, and if no one is going to stop whatever the tree is up to, Rin is going to attempt to scramble-leap from its branches to the ground, though first they’ll take a stab at the tree with one of their shortswords.
[ATTK: 7, miss. The tree's thrashing makes it impossible to land a decent hit; their blade glances off the bark and the tree doesn't notice the attack attempt at all. ]
A string of Infernal curses sound loudly from the branches, and Rin will now attempt their scramble!
[ATHL: 17. They land unscathed save for maybe a hair out of place.]
Whatever movement they have left, they're using to move back and in the non murder thumb direction! While fixing the out of place hair back into their cloak.
<.>
Wythall, now at a disadvantage and bleeding from the nose, has been distracted from his combat by the tiefling leaping to the ground. (Above him, so has Sen, who is looking oddly at Rin, one hand pulled back with a knife's butt threatening to land a blow to Wythall's head.)
He begins to wriggle with more intent, reaching and shouting, “Get away from my tree!” as he struggles to break free from Sen's hold.
Faolan whips around ("YOUR tree?") and acts suddenly, releasing Altair's hand (how long was he holding...?) and using the remainder of his movement to run at Wythall and Sen, drawing his scimitar as he rushes them.
And he's going to attempt to bring an attack down on Wythall's upper torso / head / neck area. Wythall is pinned and prone beneath Sen, so Faolan gets advantage., amd—
Faolan catches Wythall in the shoulder for four points of slashing damage; the man screams, but continues his struggle to free himself.
<.>
(There was a hand twined with his own, and he feels its lingered impression even as he tracks the scene unfolding, even as he reacts.)
Having determined that the tree was not in fact speaking, and seeing that 'Altair' (a little, little flex of his hand as he thinks the name) and the all-too-familiar loudmouth have Wythall in hand, Dima is going to move within ten feet of the tree and cast Burning Hands in an upward cone, figuring that if he can't take down the fucking thing, he can at least set it aflame.
<.>
The tree begins to burn, sustaining first 11, then 22 points of fire damage. There's a sound like a roar, branches flailing, the roots stomping wildly as it attempts to shake off the fire.
Behind Dima, Wythall is shouting crazed protests.
It would seem the tree is vulnerable to fire damage.
The tree is, however, still standing. And it is now said tree's turn.
Enraged, it 'turns' toward Dima and Rin and throws itself forward, the wide spread of its limbs hurtling towards the ground.
Rin and Dima each sustain seven points of bludgeoning damage and learn a very important lesson about the reach of the tree.
Which is 10ft.
[note: When Fae healed him, Dima got a few extra, temporary hit points. Which is very good because otherwise he would be very unconscious oops.]
Seeing the tree first burst into flames, then throw itself at his allies, Faolan feels a clench of panic in his chest. He turns back to Wythall and draws his dagger, now wielding both blades.
Fae gets two attacks with dual wield; first one hits. Second one bARELY hits
[FAE HOW DO YOU WANT TO DO THIS.]
As Sen grapples the writhing man and pins him to the ground, Faolan stabs deep into the man's chest with his scimitar; for good measure, he draws a clean line across Wythall's throat with his dagger.
As the man falls still, so does the tree. After a moment or two, the only noises in the clearing is the combined sounds of the four survivors' breathing and the crackling of fire as the now-still tree continues to burn.
Faolan straightens and begins wiping the blood from his blades on the hem of his tunic as he turns back to look for the two survivors of the tree's onslaught.
<.>
no subject
Dima takes a little longer to extricate himself from the burning wreck, telling himself that maybe, maybe he should be more careful with fire, though most of his attention is on the stranger (his alter Altair) (the man whose hand took his own, who followed when he nudged) and the image of the kill he was barely, fortunately able to glimpse.
That was beautifully done.
As he pulls himself up, dusting himself off and favoring the fallen tree with a brief scowl, he finds the stranger turned in his direction. There's not another glance for the tree; Dima moves toward 'Altair,' speaking as he approaches—
"I saw that." The kill, he means. And the magic. And— Oh, everything. He bows his head, extends his hand, palm upward, an offering to clasp. "Dmitri Voronin."
And: "I'd like to know your name."
Yes, Dima is bruised; yes, Dima is bleeding. No, he doesn't care, though he does flick a concerned look toward the man's own wounds.
<.>
Faolan watches 'Altair approach with something almost like concern in his expression; he looks worse for the wear and a tree did just fling itself at him. However, whatever his wounds may be, the man -
Dmitri.
Seems -
Seems.
Voronin, he said. There's a flicker of unease in Faolan's expression and whatever else might have been going through his head, it's replaced now with his usual reminders to be cautious. Don't trust, don't speak too much or confidentially. (Don't hope for anything better than what's been left.)
His gaze flickers down to the hand extended, then away - briefly - to the corpse. (Which is being rummaged through by their erstwhile ally.)
No longer shadowed by the hood that has fallen back, but by the fallen deep night, he returns his attention to Dmitri and offers a tight smile. The proffered hand - the hand he so recently held (and never will again) (why should it matter?) - is left unanswered. " 'Altair' had a nice ring to it, but I'm afraid 'Faolan Rhys' will have to do."
<.>
Sen was preoccupied with the sight of the Tiefling, whose tail flicks very charmingly, and really, who ever thought a tiefling could LOOK so - charming, yes. Even in a fit of irritation. Even battered up by a tree. (He can't look much better, himself. Wythall got in a blow or two. Or four.)
He watches until the group begins to gather, unmoving from his seated perch on the corpse. However, the nearness of Dmitri - who he was planning to rob anyway - sets him in motion. He begins digging through Wythall's clothing, coming up with a few interesting items. He feels rather badly about pocketing them, though. Gold, he'll take. The rest? Well.
"When you two are through flirting," he interrupts. "I'm going to take the gold. And any you've got in your pockets. Dima here can explain our arrangement." A beat as he examines a bag, opening it and peering inside, then reaching a hand in - and then his arm to the elbow, fitting into inexplicable space. He withdraws and tosses it up to (at) Dmitri. "That's none of my nevermind. For a shoeless bastard, he has a lot of salvage, hasn't he? I -"
His eyes light on Rin once more and words (for once) (not for the last time) leave him.
AND. An inspection of the corpse will turn up:
- The bag tossed to Dima
- 30 GP, 5 SP, 3 CP in a pouch, now in Sen's pocket
- An unlabeled potion
- A gemstone
- A pearl.
One last loot item:
- A small onyx raven totem.
Additionally, the party receives 220 XP per person.
<.>
That name, at least, explains the shift in the stranger's demeanor. Explains the hand left untaken (though it doesn't erase the sting).
Dima ought to be wary, he knows. He ought to feel ire, perhaps; if not at this man (really, Dima never was convinced that the blame for that entire 'situation' lay outside the familial 'friend' who couldn't keep his mouth shut, for fuck's sake), then at the fact that even miles upon miles away, Dima can't escape Morovsk's more mundane dramas.
If he feels any flare of pique, it's that this moment should have been marred by wayward histories. It's that the hand he'd anticipated in his own has been withheld.
If he feels worry, it's at the thought - briefly-twisting with soft panic - that the man might flee.
He hasn't let silence settle long before he speaks, voice musing, his eyes just a little wary but without hostility—
"Faolan." A name, a curl of sounds he lingers on, lets himself taste perhaps a moment too long. Taking space to breathe after, letting the name settle between them (thinking he'd like to say it again) (thinking this name never ought to have been tarnished with calumny, or spoken on lesser tongues). Then: "You're very forthright, aren't you?"
He considers his still-suspended hand a little sadly, wistful, fingers flexing in the empty air before he lets his hand drift to his side. He hasn't stopped watching the man (Faolan); he has no desire to ever cease watching this man.
"I thank you for that, and for your aid earlier." Dima attempts a crooked smile. "I'd have fared far worse without it."
"As for the rest—" He taps his fingertips against his thigh, cants his head. "I hope you aren't thinking of slipping off."
((note: bracketed words are spoken in Infernal))
Rin, meanwhile, has made it over to the corpse, and to the elf who's making very quick work of emptying each and every pocket. (Well, he's not bad at it. He's got a method, and that counts for something, even if Rin would have preferred to take dibs on rifling.) They give the body a nudge with their boot, still very cross with this man, watching the elf begin divvying goods. They don't care at all about the bag - let the caster have that - but regarding the rest—
"All of it? Excuse me, but I don't believe this [shit-for-tits] bastard turned your accommodations into a waking nightmare.
"I was sleeping, for what it's worth! He and his tree woke me up, and it's only fair that I take some compensation." A pause as they tilt their head, evidently listening to a series of soft sounds somewhere in their cloak, then nod. "Curio too. We were both sleeping."
Rin's just going to snag the pearl before the elf can get his hands on that! It's while Rin's slipping the pearl into their hand - and, why not, snagging the gemstone as well - that they catch the elf's eyes and pause mid-motion, thinking, thinking (not disliking what they see; this one's rather a dashing rogue, if a little bruised up), and—
"I think I've seen your face before. I'm very bad with faces, but you— You have quite a distinct, what is it, visage, do you know?"
<.>
He was thinking of slipping off, as a matter of fact, and his expression clearly speaks this intention before surprise shifts first to wariness, then to something not unlike weariness.
When it comes to people who know Faolan's name, there are two types of nobles: those who react negatively, and those who think of him only as utile.
Easy.
Whoring.
To be fair, he was. For a time.
(He doesn't have the heart for it.) (Not after -) (Don't think about it.)
Dmitri Voronin wants him to remain. There's no trouble guessing what else he wants. No trouble either in shattering those hopes.
Other than the commotion of the approaching tiefling and the elf ransacking Wythall's body, that is. Faolan begins twice to reply, interrupted once by his own exasperation as he takes the bag slapped against his arm.
There's too much here to process all at once (or perhaps he's been too long away from people?) between Dmitri (Dima?), the elf, the tiefling, and who- or whatever 'Curio' might be. After one final failed attempt at speaking, he only shakes his head and turns away to look for his pack. It was blown somewhere by the force of his spell. Whether or not Dmitri follows him, he finally replies neutrally, "I'm not staying. I'll find another fire for the night."
<.>
There's an exasperated look toward the perpetual chatter-mer, and Dima half-considers Messaging the jackass to stay right where the fuck he is and stop looting the body before discarding the idea; he doesn't really, really want to invite a response in-kind. Particularly not when Faolan (has he ever heard the name spoken without rancor before this night?) (that, too, is a crime) is already moving off. In any case, there's little chance of the mer slipping off without another word; Dima simply isn't that lucky.
So the fuss around the corpse is ignored, half-forgotten, and Dima keeps close to the not-quite-stranger, thinking a shock of thunder and a ball of flame, a knife drawing blood down an open throat; thinking the firmness of a hand against his own; thinking how beautifully blond hair catches moonlight.
Thinking as well that Faolan is awfully focused on finding something, and keeping his own eyes peeled as they travel the campsite, and as Dima speaks: "I don't believe that's necessary.
"If nothing else, you really ought to have your wounds seen to." Dima starts to reach forward, to settle a hand near a deep-lashed cut— But stops himself. (Faolan seems wary.) (Perhaps that's fair; certainly, it's a suggestion that Dima ought to take some care in his acts.) Instead, he furrows his brow and glances around the treeline, rolls his eyes. "Gods know what else our plant-loving shithead may have stirred up out there."
He catches sight of something. A likelihood, a hunch, and Dima settles his foot on a knapsack's strap. "Is this what you're after?"
<.>
He's being followed.
What is it Voronin wants? (And is this the eldest one, the one everyone knows is ruthless, is vicious and - well, didn't he see how Dmitri fights? Dangerous.) (Beautiful -)
(Beautiful men were always the problem for Faolan, and the problem WITH beautiful men is the damage they can do. The lies they can make a young man believe.)
He turns back to respond that there's likely nothing else 'stirred up' by Wythall, only to see Voronin has found his belongings.
Voronin is standing on his belongings, as though Faolan can't simply lift him and move him to the side -
Which means touching him.
No. He won't give him the satisfaction of that.
His gaze raises from his pack and settles on Voronin (not his eyes, only his face, there'll be no getting caught in a (blue-eyed) gaze and swept up, none of that!) His expression resounds with the same weariness, more pronounced now than a moment ago.
"There won't be any more - not shrubs or trees. Not with him dead. I'll be fine."
And. "Thank you for your concern."
He stoops to take up his pack despite the foot pinning it down, stopping only when he meets resistance. Faolan looks up (oh, blue, they are very blue even in the dark -) and, with a soft, patient (tired, and firm, and final) voice, says, "Please."
<.>
Faolan isn't really here.
Not entirely; not in his heart. Whatever ran between them during the fight - when their eyes first locked across the fire; when their hands twined; when a glow-eyed stranger offered healing words - it's turned disparate.
(It was Dmitri's name that did it.) (It was the weight of a history that's never hit close to Dima, was more story than truth for him, but must run deep for this man.) (Doesn't Dima know the look of mistrust when he sees it. Doesn't he know the sight of bone-deep weariness.)
For the first time in speaking with Faolan, Dima looks - and Dima feels - uncertain. Thinks he's misunderstood or missed something vital, and his expressed turns clouded, turns worried as he steps backward, off of the pack, eyes darting toward the ground, toward the trees— Before finding Faolan's again.
He isn't willing to lose that sight just yet.
He isn't willing to— To let this man leave? To fail to give him cause to stay?
Dima opens his mouth to speak; finds no words, finds only the shadow of an inhale. Bites his lip, tries again, and—
"Stay."
It's more request than command (he meant it to sound firmer than it does; there's no helping it now), and he quickly follows, half stumbles in his words to add: "For a brief while, at least. If you won't—" A blink; a glance at the sky, then back. "If you won't remain through the night, or if you can't, at least permit some manner of discussion.
"We ought to discuss what happened here tonight. You and I and— Those two, if they can be stalled in their plundering."
He makes himself cease speaking (before he can say too much) (before he can level demands) (before he finds himself spilling into pleas). He doesn't take his eyes from Faolan's.
<.>
He should leave. He should take his now-liberated pack and go somewhere, anywhere else, far away from Dmitri Voronin. (His eyes. His interest. His hair glinting in moonlight like raven feathers, like obsidian.) He's dangerous. Faolan knows what he's after; he can't be trusted.
No one can be trusted. Isn't that why he fled to the forests?
Wordlessly, he straightens and shoulders his pack. It takes an act of will to look away (it doesn't take anything else, though, and thank the gods for that small blessing.)
He makes it five steps past Dmitri with the vague notion of slipping away into the shadows of the trees, but there was that 'stay' and the way it was spoken. (The look that accompanied it. The way Voronin stumbled into babbling. The way he bit his lip and seems to know -
What?
What does he know about Faolan? Nothing. Nothing at all. He wants what he sees, he wants the rumor he knows. Just like any other.)
That 'stay' echoes in his head, a request - an offer of a choice.
He tells himself he really doesn't care to find somewhere else to sleep. That he doesn't know these woods as well, that maybe it would be wiser to remain and slip off at daybreak when he's rested.
He corrects his course towards the fire as though it was his intention all along to resume his seat beside it.
Well, his blanket was here, as well. He tells himself he didn't want to leave it behind.
Blandly, he tosses out a warning. "If either you or your friend try rifling through my trousers for anything at all, someone will lose a hand."
<.>
It's something, anyway.
That Faolan - who, yes, looked for all the world as if he was about to disappear - turns back toward the fire. That Faolan settles in, and Dima thinks that every minute the man stays is a win, is another chance to keep from losing him.
Now that the man's moved away, Dima is also becoming cognizant of his own weariness, and of the way his ribs ache with each breath (bruised? maybe; he'll need to do something about that), of the sensation of blood welled along his arm. Probably, he ought to sit. And if he doesn't return to the fire, the godsforsaken mer is liable to make off with the entire corpse.
So Dima heads toward the group, careful not to approach too near to Faolan (though he wants to); careful to project his intention to settle on the opposite side of the fire.
He doesn't sit immediately. Instead, he (looks at Faolan first; he can't help that) glances at the mer and the tiefling, looks at the paltry remains of Wythall's loot. Finds the tiefling tossing an item - a stone raven (!?) - idly from one hand to the other, and on impulse, Dima attempts to grab it from the air.
<.>
[DEX, d: 19
DEX, r: 18]
Dima is able to quite deftly snatch the raven out of the air.
(no subject)
Death House pt. 1: There’s a Monster Inside!
A soft whimpering draws your attention to a pair of children standing in the middle of an otherwise lifeless street. The smaller of the pair - a boy clutching a stuffed doll - is weeping, and the taller - a girl of about ten - is trying to hush him.
<.>
The first thing Dima does - jolting awake and half-upright - is make certain Faolan's still near.
The second is to reach into his pack, to feel the bundled clothes for the shape of the raven.
Once he's assured both remain, he rises to a crouch, examining the scene they've... What, been brought to? (Is this a dream?) That's been brought to them? He scans for signs of movement, signs of life. Sees that Sen is still present (wonderful; fantastic) and sees—
Okay well. They. Might be children. They look like children.
Dima would like to try to discern whether he can see anyone apart from the children, and/or whether the children from this distance appear to be actual living breathing children.
Rin meanwhile is cross all over again, because trees are supposed to be reliable and very stable places to pass the night. This is twice they've been betrayed by trees! Where did the tree even go.
Whatever the case, they don't like being in the open in such a strange place. Rin's going to leap to their feet, tail curling around their calves, trying to decide whether they've seen this place before. They're also going to try to stick to the edge of this little group they've found themself with, staying closest to the tall (he's very tall, isn't he?) elf.
And, completely brushing past the fact that one of the children is crying, they call out a question: "Is this where you live?"
<.>
Faolan wakes nearer to Dmitri than he was when he fell asleep - and much further from his hammock.
He doesn't like this. Not the town, abandoned though it might be, or waking disoriented with the only familiarity a pair of thieves and - a Voronin.
But they are familiar. Enough.
He rises and nears Sen, who is also getting to his feet with an apparent lack of perturbation.
The elf immediately begins his chatter, calling out to Rin warmly, "Doubtful they live in the street here. Maybe ask them something other. Ask if there's a tavern!"
Faolan places a hand on Sen's elbow and with a disgruntled frown, shakes his head 'no'.
[PERC, d: 11]
As far as Dima can tell, there's no one else around. The children look like flesh and blood children.
At Rin's question, the girl hushes the boy gently once more, then turns to the party and calls out, "We live there!"
She points to a tall brick row house that has certainly seen better days. Its windows are dark. It has a gated portico on the ground floor and the rusty gate is slightly ajar. The houses on either side are abandoned, their windows and doors boarded up.
"There's a monster in our house!" she adds tearfully.
<.>
Rin mutters in a voice just loud enough to be picked up by the nearest elf, "Is the monster called 'dilapidation'?" Still, it's likely worth a look; they've snagged remarkably valuable treasure from homes more ruined.
Dima examines the house, trying to determine whether he's seen architecture of the like before, mostly just trying to get some lay of the land. He glances at his three— Well, they might be called traveling companions at this point, yes? Then steps toward the children, clears his throat, and speaks in a voice intended to be courteous, if not quite friendly (how does one behave with children?): "Is there?"
And: "What manner of monster."
<.>
Sen trots away from Faolan to join Rin, so Fae first approaches Dima, then moves past him when the boy begins to cry again.
He likes children. (Always might've wanted one, himself.) (Ha.) He kneels and speaks in a low, comforting voice to the boy, drawing his attention to a serious discussion about his doll.
The girl, freed of the responsibility of comforting a smaller child, heroically sniffs against her own tears, then replies to Dima, "We don't know. We only heard its terrible howls. Our father keeps it locked away, but I think it got loose - oh, please help!"
Her reserves of strength run dry and she begins to sob, as well. Seeing this, the boy's own crying is renewed, and he latches on to Fae for comfort.
<.>
Oh... No.
Dima shifts an uncertain glance toward Faolan, who seems not at all uneasy with these children, then throws a glance back toward Sen and the tiefling, a look that might very well be a small, small cry for help. He doesn't know what to do about the crying. The information, though, he can use. So he takes a few steps near, looking more at the battered house than the child, and nods to himself, speaks again, voice unwavered: "Where is your father?"
Rin has never, never been good with children. Or people, for that matter. They have half a mind to slip off toward the house immediately, and they give the elf's side a subtle nudge, try to meet his eyes and nod toward the house.
<.>
Sen doesn't mind children, generally speaking. However, something about this situation is unsettling him, and he can't say why; while he doesn't really care to go into the house, he likewise doesn't want to stay out here.
He catches Rin's suggestion, but with a glance and nod, indicates they ought to take the other two.
Firepower. Literally. Just in case there's aCTUALLY monster.
The girl's response gives Fae a sick feeling in his stomach: she points at the house.
If she believes there's a monster and her father is in there, a corpse might be all they find.
He draws back and cups the boy's face, then places a large hand on the girl's arm. "We'll help. Or - "
He looks back at Dima imploringly - and notes Sen is already making a stealthy little beeline for the house. One last look for Dima, then he turns back and continues with renewed certainty -
"I'll help. It'll be all right. You wait out here. Right there, beside the gate."
[note: Information Fae learned while speaking with the boy: His name is Thorn. His sister's name is Rose. They are seven and ten, respectively. The doll's name is Hildabear. ]
<.>
If Dima had any intention of straying from the house - he didn't, really; he's intrigued by this supposed monster, and by whatever's brought this village to its sapped state - it would have been shattered by the looks Faolan casts his way, and dispersed to the wind when the man stands beside him. He nearly smiles; reminds himself that it really isn't the time.
Dima wants to follow Faolan, starts to follow Faolan, but - not particularly wondering whether one should question a crying child - has one more question for the girl: "How long has your village been this way?"
Rin, meanwhile, has begun to follow Sen, arcing a wide berth around the children. They're going to attempt to peer through the closest window and see what waits within, and how, mm, wealthy the inhabitants seem to be.
<.>
The girl only looks around tearfully as though seeing the village around them for the first time. She shakes her head helplessly. "It wasn't always like this."
With that, she and her brother settle themselves on the ground by the gate. Rose bundles up Thorn in an embrace, and both of them watch the four.
Looking in one of the windows, Rin can see a lavish, oak-paneled room that looks like a hunter's den. A chandelier hangs above a cloth-covered table surrounded by four chairs. The room is dark and they can't make out much else from this vantage.
Directly across from the window is a doorway leading to another, darkened room.
Entering the portico of the house, the group will find the gate is rusted and oil lamps hang from the ceiling by chains, flanking mahogany double doors with stained glass windows. These open easily, revealing a grand foyer.
Hanging on the south wall of the foyer is a shield emblazoned with a coat-of-arms, flanked by portraits of stony-faced aristocrats. At the far end of the hall is another set of mahogany double doors.
What would everyone like to do?
<.>
Rin is going to suggest that everyone be as quiet as they can. "Hey. I don't know how much time you, all of you spend as— Visitors. In other homes. How are you at subtlety?" Mostly, they're looking at Faolan and Sen. Given the 'burning down the tree' incident, Rin has sort of written off Dima for subtlety at the moment. "In case the monster's got ears, or things like ears."
<.>
Fae exchanges a glance with Dima, then Sen, and realizes maybe Rin is talking about him.
"I can try."
Sen, of course, drops a wink.
[STEALTH CHECK!
r: nat 20!
f: nat 20!
s: 17
d: …5]
Sen, Rin, and Fae immediately begin to stealthily make their way through the house - as Dima trips, crashes into the shield, and brings it down with a clatter.
After a minor hesitation, Fae doubles back, delicately grasps Dima's (not hand) wrist (totally his hand) and whispers, "Stay close."
<.>
Rin throws the most ’Of course you would’ glare in Dima's direction, then looks to Faolan with an imploring expression of ’Please yes keep an eye on thaT.’
Faolan has secured some measure of Rin's respect, stealthy as he is. Dima— Well. The tree burning wasn't bad, but come on.
There's a cant of their head toward Sen, a nod suggesting that they'll move ahead a pace or two, and trust the elf to keep his own stealth.
For Dima, frustration (okay, embarrassment) is quickly overrun with minor dizziness, a sense of gratitude. Logically, he knows Faolan is only mending (probably only mending) a problem. But the man didn't have to take his hand! And knowing Faolan's hold eases Dima, sets him into movements far less clumsy, more attentive to the space of the room.
Dima would like to pause briefly, if possible, and determine whether there is anyone or anything recognizable in the apparent familial portraits.
And. Since he means to pause, he gives Faolan's hand the gentlest pressure.
<.>
no subject
The people in the portraits are vaguely familiar - Dima might have had dealings with their relations in Morovsk, and would suspect this to be one of the Durst family households. He can't recall where the family is from.
He definitely recognizes their coat of arms on the shield he nearly demolished: A stylized golden windmill on a red field. This would confirm the family name for him.
<.>
Dima notes the information, though he'll keep quiet about it just now, having learned a valuable lesson about noise in ruined houses, and feeling there's something vital he's missing. Better, perhaps, to dig at his own memories before announcing anything; he'll keep the name in mind as they move through the house. For now, he presses Faolan's hand again, nodding forward as if to say, ’Let’s?’
Rin has continued moving toward the closed doors, glancing through the room in search of anything worth snagging on the way out— And, yes, fine, for any signs of watchful eyes or danger, also for those things.
Reaching the door, they pause. If there's a keyhole or crack in the door, they'll peer through it. If not, they'd like to listen for any sounds on the other side.
<.>
There's complete silence on the other side; in fact, aside from the cacophony a moment ago, the house seems utterly lifeless. None of the lanterns or fires are lit, nothing moves, not so much as a creaking stair.
Sen listens as well, and after a moment shakes his head 'no' - he hears nothing either. Pushing the doors open, the party will find a wide hall running the width of the house, with a black marble fireplace at one end and a sweeping red marble staircase at the other.
Mounted on the wall above the fireplace is a longsword with a windmill cameo worked into the hilt.
The wood paneled walls are ornately sculpted with images of vines, flowers, nymphs, and satyrs.
There are five doors leading from the hall to other rooms.
Fae follows the thieves, unresponsive to the press of his hand - but he does look back once at Dima, his eyes full of complicated emotions.
Sen is going for the sword to see if he can pry the cameo off without attracting attention or destroying anything.
[DEX: 22]
The cameo pops off easily and he slips it into his pocket, leaving the sword behind.
<.>
[PERC, r: 3. rin did not see this from sen and so could not be impressed by it alas!]
Rin is very busy prowling the edges of the hall. They're very interested in that staircase. They want to go up that staircase— But then, they're fairly certain monsters are usually found down, and not very often up. (It's a very good reason to sleep in trees! Usually.)
For the moment, they content themself with tracing a clawed fingertip along the sculpted walls, then pausing before the door they're fairly certain leads to the room they saw through that first window.
They're going to gently, quietly nudge it open and peer inside. There didn't seem to be much in there, but caution never hurts.
As they enter the hall, Dima finds he hasn't been breathing much at all, though he can't say whether it's owed to his attempts at keeping quiet, or the look Faolan gave him. He inhales a little deeper, shakes his head slightly, and starts to move toward the mantle. He'd like to take a look at that sword.
He also hasn't let go of Faolan's hand.
<.>
Faolan lets himself be led without protest, giving Dima gentle steering around what might be warping in floorboards. (He is and isn't watching Dima.)
The ceilings of the room - and indeed all of the rooms on this level - are 10-feet high, and Faolan sees nothing worth remarking on about them, or the walls, or - really, this room at all.
Sen meanders to one wall to examine the artwork - flowers, vines, nymphs, satyrs, and -?
He notices something, but says nothing to the group. Instead, he goes looking for Rin and finds himself distracted by what's taken their interest.
Rin will find upon passing through the door the very room they saw through the window. Throughout the room are taxidermied wolves, and before the opulent fireplace are leather chairs and a sidetable between them.
[PERC, d: 19]
"Two padded chairs draped in animal furs face the hearth, with an oak table between them supporting a cask of wine, two carved wooden goblets, a pipe rack, and a candelabrum. Two cabinets stand against the walls."
Inspection of the two cabinets will reveal that the east wall cabinet is locked.
Dima, upon inspecting the sword, determines it's a very nice sword.
<.>
Rin's response on entering the room and facing the taxidermied wolves is a very soft, very sarcastic: “Great.” It's kind of weird having these wolves-not-wolves being dead and close while you're having your fireside wine, right? Right.
Rin would like to check the sidetable for any knick-knacks, papers, or other objects.
They'd also like to get a sniff of the wine in the cask.
Dima looks after the thieves, looks at Faolan, and lifts one shoulder. Nods in their direction with an unspoken 'shall we follow' query.
<.>
Upon inspection, Rin finds nothing of note other than a few pipes. The wine smells like wine.
Sen's attention drifts around the room, lighting briefly on the wolves before settling on the cabinets. He makes his way to the east one, attempts to open it, and finding it locked, produces a set of lockpicks and gets to work.
Following Dima's suggestion, Faolan joins the others in the room - then catches sight of the wolves, freezes into a stony silence, and shakes his head at Dima. Not staying in here.
He'll try to pull free of Dima's hold, thinking he can just wait in the hall or go inspect one of the other rooms.
Sen snaps two of his lockpicks before tsking in irritation and giving up.
<.>
Dima is. Very torn.
He wants to take a look around the room— He also doesn't want to lose sight of Faolan, or leave him when he looks so suddenly uneasy.
For a moment he hesitates, conflict ticking his lip. He looks at Faolan's hand; he hasn't let it go. His fingers flex, begin to loosen pressure—
Then hold where they are. He cants his head at the man, confused, then nods, as if to say, ’As you say, then.’
A moment later, he Messages Faolan: [I know this family. Or I know their crest. Have you noticed anything?]
<.>
He thinks with a sinking sensation that Dmitri Voronin is going to let go. (He'll leave for something more interesting, and won't that just prove Faolan right about all of them?
Everyone goes. Eventually.)
The renewed pressure almost breaks something vital inside him because he knows it means a choice was made. A small one, true. And it doesn't negate anything else; Dmitri will still tire of the chase eventually. (But it's nice to know his revulsion from what he saw in the room won't leave him wandering this house alone. It's nice to know Dmitri perhaps saw his discomfort.) (Nice to have something like a friend, really, even if that's not what Dmitri is after.)
Once again, the man speaks in a way Faolan is certain only he can hear. He can't reply with the same magic, so he swallows and looks around at the hall, then shakes his head. No, he doesn't know anything about these people. (That's unusual for him - he's come into contact with so many nobles.)
His hand holds perhaps a little tighter. It might be dismissed as Dima's imagination, though.
<.>
Back in the other room, Rin, seeing the lock being very rude to Sen, would like to give it a try if they may. It seems like a good idea to check, and no loCk should keep that idea from happening!
[SLEIGHT: 24]
<.>
Rin easily pops the lock on the cabinet and opens it to reveal a heavy crossbow, a light crossbow, a hand crossbow, and 20 bolts for each weapon.
A quick inspection will reveal these are normal weapons with no magic to them whatsoever. But they are in good shape.
<.>
Rin is immediately taking the hand crossbow thank you very much. They lost their last one to an, mm, to a disagreement a few years back and they've missed it very much. Looking over the weapon, they gesture for Sen to take one or both of the others if he likes; after all, this is their joint discovery, and the elf should reap the rewards too!
...Actually.
Actually. Sen saw the cabinet first. Which means, in all fairness, Sen's got dibs. So Rin, after a moment's think, nudges the hand crossbow in his direction; it's only fair.
That's heartening, the way Faolan takes his hand a little tighter (maybe?) (Dima wants to believe it's true) (Dima doesn't know whether it's true, but why not let himself believe, for now?). Dima cants his head at the man, and now he *does* smile; slightly, encouraging. (Trying to set Faolan at ease after whatever caused him to back from the bare sight of that room.)
And, realizing he ought to have explained the magic, realizing there's something he would like to make clear, he Messages again: [When I speak like this, you can respond to me. It's a little like a whisper, Faolan, but no one else will hear... And I'll hear only what you direct my way. Would you like to try it?]
<.>
Sen nudges away the hand crossbow and shakes his head; he can handle the light one just fine - he thinks, anyhow. He's never used one, but how much different from any other bow can it be? In any case, Rin ought to have one sized for them.
(Rin ought to have anything they want. Anything in the world.)
With a nod at the large crossbow and another at the door, he asks without words if one of them ought to be given another weapon. He's content to let this one sit untouched, really, but it's up to Rin.
(He thinks - he might like to follow Rin's whims anywhere they take them.) (Lovely Rin.) (He really would like to run a caress along their horns -)
He's just going to go inspect that other cabinet and stop thinking about Rin's horns.
The way Dima says 'Faolan' - a voice, omnipresent in his ears and mind, unknowable by anyone else, and maybe a little possessive - unsettles him. It's not a good idea to let Dima - Dmitri - get accustomed to ...well. Him. Nearness with him.
He never should have offered his hand.
He does reply - softly, with shuttered eyes: [ I don't know them. ]
And, without challenge (does he have it in him to challenge anymore at all?), he adds:
[ And you don't know me. ]
He looks down at his hand in Dmitri's and back up again.
[ Stealth. Nothing else. ]
<.>
Rin won't argue; if Sen's all right with the light bow, they'll just keep this one, thank you very much! Maybe even put it to use against the monster! If there is a monster, which Rin is still not sure about. (Sometimes people make up monsters. Sometimes Rin makes up monsters. Monsters make for good stories!)
They'll grab the large crossbow after a moment's thought, intending to hand it to the human who has... Not joined them in the room? That's all right; more space for Rin and Sen to seek and take what they please!
Rin will join Sen at the other cabinet, intending to help with the inspection.
Dima—
Well. Dima thinks maybe, maybe he shouldn't have explained the spell. He doesn't know why that went wrong, or what brought what he takes as regret to Faolan's eyes; he only knows that something tenuous seems broken.
Not beyond repair! He thinks. He tells himself. (Was his mistake in mentioning the Durst family? Did it seem a slight to mention such a family, when, when... Gods, he can't fall down those thoughts right now. He has to keep some focus on what's happening. For stealth's sake, if nothing else.)
There's an impulse to withdraw his hand at those last words; it's an impulse Dima fights off, though his hand stiffens slightly, and he looks at their joined hands. Nods, looks back at Faolan: [ Stealth, then.]
A breath. A nod to himself. And: [ Please. If you see anything of note, let me know? I admit it's taking half my focus to keep from knocking over everything I see. Even with your guidance. ]
It was a joke. Or an attempt at one, anyway.
<.>
no subject
And holding hands still.
Last night, that boy was chilly to all of them, but Dima most of all. Now, he looks like he's at the bottom of a well and his only hope is that hand.
Or - that could be Sen's fanciful imagination. He IS a bard, after all.
Even so, he nudges Rin and nods at the pair - then sends his own Message to the Tiefling. [ Five silver says one of them creeps into the other's bedroll before the week is out. ]
Faolan thinks maybe he went too far. He didn't mean to hurt Dmitri (better him than Faolan, though, isn't that true?)
(It didn't used to be.) (His heart could take it, then.) (Oh, what he would have risked for those eyes three years ago. For a kiss. For a voice in his ear speaking his name. For a hand in his own like a promise.) (Only ever promises, is the problem.)
In another life, maybe he would have gone back on his words. Maybe he would have flirted, would have liked to catch Dmitri up in a kiss, and maybe their twined hands might have meant something else.
He's sorry. He's terribly sorry. A flicker in his expression says it better than words: regret, resignation - weariness.
Rather than reply, he turns to peer into one of the other rooms.
It proves to be the dining room. The centerpiece of this wood-paneled room is a carved mahogany table surrounded by eight high-backed chairs with sculpted armrests and cushioned seats. A chandelier hangs above the table, which is covered with resplendent silverware and crystalware polished to a dazzling shine. Mounted above the marble fireplace is a mahogany framed painting of an alpine vale.
The wall paneling in here is carved with elegant images of deer among the trees.
Red silk drapes cover the windows and a tapestry depicting hounding dogs and horse-mounted aristocrats chasing after a wolf hangs from an iron rod bolted to the south wall.
Faolan fixates on the tapestry, performs only a perfunctory scan of the room to be sure there's no monster or corpses, and shakes his head again at Dima. [ I’m not going in. ]
A wan smile and press of his hand. [ Unless I'm needed, I'm not going in there. ]
<.>
Rin's eyes light up, and they offer Sen a grin. They've encountered this magic or something of its kind before - it's handy among thieves - and their response follows quickly: [ Oh, delightful! ]
They mean the magic— They also mean the wager. Rin's pretty sure Sen's claimed the better bet already, but that's all right. Five silver's easy enough to steal somewhere if they lose out. [ You're on! Five silver at the end of the week! ]
Which. Come to think of it. Suggests the four of them will be staying together for a week. They'll have to, now that the bet's on! Rin's invested. And though they rarely spend more than a day among company, they find they don't dislike this prospect in the least.
Putting these thoughts on hold, Rin's going to make an attempt at opening cabinet no. 2.
[note: Note: The cabinet opens with ease; within is a small box containing a deck of playing cards and a collection of wine glasses.]
Rin is going to offer the deck to Sen; he looks like the kind of very dashing knave who might excel with cards. The glasses— They'd like to throw a glass. For fun. But no, no, stealth comes first. If Sen seems to see nothing noteworthy in the glasses, Rin's going to start out of the room.
Dima knows a cut across his heart; the regret, the look of erosion in Faolan's expression. It's worse somehow than the distance, the 'nothing else.' (Someone's hurt this boy. It's a thought, a certainty forming with slow ire.) (It's another thought he'll have to shelve for now.) Dima's hand loses its tension, and he measures Fae's regret with open eyes, with the subtlest of nods.
At Fae's words - at, oh, the press of his hand? (just for stealth) (maybe not entirely just for stealth?) - Dima presses back, softly, unimposing. He's going to take a quick look into the room of his own, glancing at no more than what his hold of Fae's hand allows, then return his eyes to Fae.
(Wolves again. A showcasing of hunters again.)
(Is there something about the Durst family and wolves? Are they known for their hunting? What is it itching at Dima's recollection?)
(And what it is that warded Fae from these rooms?)
[ For the moment, the room appears entirely incidental. No monster; no father. ] Another small press of Faolan's hand, and, [ If it becomes necessary, we'll send the thieves in, yes? ]
<.>
Whatever might have been said next - by Sen, by Faolan, by anyone - there's a sound just loud enough to bring a different sort of hush on the group.
Footsteps, perhaps, above them. The sound of distant - crying?
Thinking quickly, Sen hurries past Rin ( [ I'll be right back. ] ) and the two men in the hall, motioning wordlessly that he's stepping outside.
A moment later, he returns, his expression grown sober and his eyes cast upward. When the party has gathered at the foot of the stairs, he relays to them in a hushed voice that he asked the children if anyone other was in the house.
Rose and Thorn told him they aren't sure of their parents' whereabouts, their infant brother, Walter, is still in his nursery on the third floor.
"Much as I'd like to continue picking through their things, I'm not interested in leaving an infant alone, monster or none. Perhaps a more expeditious search?"
<.>
Rin's impulse is a question they keep quiet only by the grace of some god or other, because why didn't the older ones take their sibling?
Probably that's not the point right now.
Maybe little Walter's a shit. Maybe little Walter likes the monster?
Doesn't matter; Sen suggests moving on, so that's what they'll do.
First, though, Rin extends the large crossbow toward Faolan. "We found it," they explain quietly, succinct.
<.>
Faolan stares at the crossbow with a frown, then shakes his head. He doesn't know how to use that contraption - though it's nice they found some weapons. With his free hand, he taps the scimitar at his side: he's good.
Good enough to take the lead, because he suspects he might be the only one with actual fighting ability in this group, other than Dmitri - who -
Well. He's not going to think about that. (How taking the crossbow would have meant letting go. Would have been an excuse to let go.)
He starts up the stairs, pulling Dima along behind him. Sen, ever chivalrous, offers to go ahead of Rin.
On the second level, the party arrives in another hall like the one below. The oil lamps are unlit here, as well. Hanging above the mantle of the fireplace is a portrait of the Durst family: Rose and Thorn with their parents. In their father's arms is a swaddled baby, which the mother regards with a hint of scorn.
Four suits of armor wearing helms in the shapes of wolf heads flank doors on either side of the hall. These doors are carved with dancing youths.
Just off the stairs, a door opens into an undecorated bedroom containing a pair of beds with straw-stuffed mattresses. The chests at the end of each are open and empty, and a hook on the wall holds a tidy servant's uniform. Nothing else of interest can be seen in this room.
The stairs continue on upward, and there's a cold draft flowing down.
Sen breaks from the group to move toward the doors on the north side of the hall where he examines the carvings with silent bemusement. Once again, he shrugs it away, but despite the sense of urgency, he does open the door to see what's in this particular room.
<.>
Dima absolutely believes this man can wield the scimitar with aplomb.
He keeps step with Faolan, though he'll pause at the top of the stairs, seeking anything that might prompt memory's return. He'd like to examine the painting, and examine the carvings on the doors Sen hasn't opened.
Dima also intends to keep half an eye on Fae, watching for any recurrence of the unease shown at the rooms below.
Rin's curiosity follows Sen, but they're going to swing through the undecorated room (servants' quarters?). Their first order of business is to find somewhere to stow the large crossbow; if Sen not's going to take it and Fae's not going to take it, they don't want anyone else stumbling in and laying hands on the thing. Loose weapons sink... Something.
Rin's going to look around the room for somewhere to hide the weapon. They're also going to start wondering how long those kids have been living in this very dark very empty house.
Not that it doesn't happen.
Not that Rin hasn't lived in very dark, very empty places themself.
[note: The only places to stow a crossbow in the undecorated room are beneath the beds; the weapon is too large to fit in the small chests.]
Under the bed works for Rin, and they will shove it as near to the wall as they can.
[PERC, d: 22]
<.>
Examining the wood paneling for a moment, Dima will realize the youths are not dancing, but are instead attempting to stave off a swarm of bats.
From here out, if Dima examines the wood carvings in the house, he will notice things are not as they appear.
Examination of the portrait gives him no further clue to the identity of the family.
Examination of Faolan shows his distinct unease with the suits of armor. He's patiently following Dima, but he clearly doesn't want to be here.
Sen, meanwhile, has discovered a library.
"Red velvet drapes cover the windows of this room. An exquisite mahogany desk and a matching high-back chair face the entrance and the fireplace, above which hangs a framed picture of a windmill perched atop a rocky crag. Situated in corners of the room are two overstuffed chairs. Floor-to-ceiling bookshelves line the south wall.
A rolling wooden ladder allows one to more easily reach the high shelves."
<.>
Dima leans toward the carving, eyes fixed in focus. This could be an affectation in the decor, but given the state of this place, it seems unlikely. He absolutely intends to continue examining the carvings through the house. He's also going to give Faolan's hand a slight half-tug. Partly to share the discovery; partly to draw his attention away from the suits of armor.
(Wolf-helmed armor.) (The hunted wolf.) (The hunted wolves put on display.) (And Faolan, gone silent. Faolan, looking for all the world like he'd rather claw himself away from this place—
But he hasn't done so.
He remains here, still holding Dima's hand.)
[ Do you see this? The swarm? ] He traces a finger through one of the bat swarms, then looks to Faolan for confirmation.
Rin, having stowed the crossbow, sticks their head into the room Sen's found. Wanting to get his attention without making too much noise, they offer a soft 'hoo.' If he looks, they'll cock their head, as if to suggest, ’You got this room?’ He lookS like he's got this room. And if Sen doesn't seem in need of a hand, Rin will go slip open the other set of double doors.
<.>
Faolan didn't see the swarm. He does now, however, and leans in to examine the odd carvings. (Didn't he see more downstairs? Are they all like this?)
Rin pushes past them into a room that appears to be a large, most-empty room. Gossamer drapes cover the windows; a brass-plated chandelier hangs from the ceiling. Upholstered chairs line the walls, and stained-glass wall hangings depict beautiful men, women, and children singing and playing instruments.
A harpsichord with a bench rests in one corner. Near the fireplace is a standing harp. Rin's inspection of alabaster figurines of well-dressed dancers adorning the mantelpiece will reveal several are well-dressed skeletons.
Faolan doesn't particularly want to go in that room. He'd like to continue on out of here; find the infant, find the monster. Get away from this strange house.
Sen, who is still beaming about the hoot sent his way, begins to rifle through the contents of the library, starting with the desk.
In the desk drawer, he finds an iron key and nothing else. Strange. Strange enough to pocket.
He also examines the rows of books. (Perception: 17)
He spots a fake book and, upon pulling it, finds he has discovered a secret door.
Well, of course he must go inside!
The door shuts behind him, plunging him into darkness - but not before he sees the skeleton sharing the room with him.
“FUCK.”
<.>
Rin thinks this is getting weird.
Okay, it's been weird, and the harpsicord's a bit much, but it's not as if they don't appreciate macabre tokens. It's not as if they aren't going to grab for a few of them and drop them into their newfound bag. ’One for me, two for sale,’ they figure. That seems fair.
They're considering plucking a harp string when the windows catch their eye. Rin would like to take a look outside. Just to see if anything's changed. Maybe see if they can catch a glimpse of the two kids.
Dima, having seen Faolan's continued unease, glances around for sight of the thieves, who've made themselves quite scarce— Or, no, there's the tiefling in one room, eyes out the windows.
It's the glass that catches Dima's eye. He'd like to have a look at those images, and see whether they hold any, mm, odd details.
He glances to Fae: [ A quick look? Something's off. I just want to see, and I'd rather not leave you here. ]
<.>
Looking out the windows, Rin can see that the town has been consumed by an impenetrable white mist. The children are not visible from their vantage point.
Faolan looks between Dmitri and the room and back again, then shakes his head no. He feels uneasier the more he thinks of the carving, of the wolves. (Hunted. Dead.)
Dima's right: something is off, and the sooner they find that infant, the sooner they can get the hell out of here.
And, in a low stage whisper, he leans into the conservatory and calls for Rin. ”Rin, let's go.”
<.>
Oh.
...Oh?
Of course he'll go with (Fae) Faolan. All thought of joining Rin is summarily banished, and Dima finds he's staring at Faolan just a little wide-eyed, finds he lost hold of thought for a moment there. He shakes his head slightly, the better to bring himself to the present, then nods—
[ We keep moving, then. Yes. ]
Rin's moving toward Dima and Fae, then past them, remarking quietly, sounding a little bit annoyed: "It's misty out. When'd that happen?"
Awfully convenient for mist to—
Wait.
What—
They call a little louder than they intended (just a bit above a whisper) (not not feeling sudden unease): "Sen?"
A glance back, as if expecting to see the elf poke his head around the door - no, though; that's only Fae and Dima - and Rin begins to search for signs of Sen.
<.>
no subject
Sen isn't here.
He knows Sen didn't come out of here. They would have seen him, even if he was being stealthy about it.
Unless he climbed up the fucking chimney, though...
Faolan breathes out a sound of faint distress and releases Dmitri's hand ( [ I'm sorry- ]) to reach for his scimitar. Not unsheathed, not yet, but his hand is on the hilt (and so much colder for the loss of a (Dima's) hand.)
And everyone who's looking around the library, roll a perception check.
[ f: 4
r: 17
d: 8; he’s is rather occupied with the entire Moment that happened just now, and thinks Sen probably slipped out the window, the goddamn elf. ]
Faolan and Dima find nothing of consequence in the room and Dima might even suspect there's nothing TO find.
Rin, however, will find the red-bound false book if they examine the bookshelves.
<.>
Dima can’t shake the image of Faolan’s distress; of the hand leaving his own, and the apology that followed. (He didn’t have to apologize. He should never have felt the need.) (Oh, but it was heartening to hear.) [ I’ll be right here. ] And he offers a small, tentative smile.
Dima then checks the position of his own dagger and, after a look around the room, shakes his head. Speaks under his breath, “The jackass went out the window.” Got bored with the room and moved along; that seems right to Dima.
Rin isn’t sure about that, at all. When they find the book, they hiss softly under their breath, then offer, their own voice hushed, “I don’t think so.”
Taking their shortsword in-hand, they pull at the book.
<.>
The door to the secret room swings open, prompting Faolan to grasp Dmitri's wrist and hustle over to join Rin.
The three of them crowd in the doorway to find Sen seated on the ground with his arm around the bony shoulders of a skeleton.
He has been in the process of telling it all the things it's missed since it's been dead, but abruptly interrupts himself to thrust out a hand and cry out, "No, no, don't come in here! The door's rigged!"
<.>
For.
Shit's.
Sake.
Okay, the elf didn't go out the window. Okay, this *also* tracks. Or. Sen chattering away at the skeleton tracks; the presence of the skeleton is not precisely reassuring, to say the least.
Dima wants a look at the skeleton. So he turns his head to Faolan, then back to the apparently rigged door.
"Would you mind holding the door while I examine the remains?" And, shooting A Look at Sen, "Assuming our companion here hasn't learned anything, which I don't believe is a vast assumption."
Rin's just glad to see Sen's all right, really. The skeleton is... Weird. The room is weird? There's a question about that, but first they're waving to Sen and beckoning him to join back in the world of the not-secret-closet: "Weird book, right?"
And, as they turn to begin checking the room for other little... well, surprises, traps: "Weird room, too. Is that all there is, a skeleton? Who keeps a room for a skeleton?
"...I guess I might. But maybe that's why people don't just give me rooms."
<.>
Now that there's light shed in the room, it can be seen that there are bookshelves packed with tomes bearing titles relating to the occult and necromancy. Sen and the skeleton are leaning back against an open chest.
<.>
Dima. Absolutely wants to take a look through these shelves after checking the skeleton. Though first, since he’s already going into the room, or planning to. He'd like to look at the chest, maybe, after checking the remains.
(He's not NOT considering snagging a few fingerbones while he's at it.)
<.>
Faolan reluctantly lets go of Dima's hand to hold the door; Sen is all too happy to clear out of the room without searching for loot.
Close inspection of the skeleton reveals that it belongs to a human who triggered a poison dart trap. Three darts are stuck in the leather armor at his chest.
Apparently, there's no more trap, as everyone going in and out of the room has not been hit by anything.
Clutched in the skeleton's left hand is a letter bearing the seal of a distant, well-known entity named Strahd von Zarovich.
<.>
Dima is going to bow out on inspecting the chest. Having seen the poison darts, he's going to take the letter, attempt to snag one (1) finger from the skeleton (breaking off the forefinger from the first knuckle), then move to examine the books.
If no one else moves toward the chest, Rin will move in and have a look.
<.>
Rin finds three blank books with black leather covers, three spell scrolls, two property deeds, and a signed will.
Further inspection of these items shows the will is signed by Gustav and Elisabeth Durst and bequeaths the house (deed 1), the windmill (deed 2), and all other family property to Rosavelda and Thornboldt Durst in the event of their parents' deaths.
[ARC, d: 10; with Guidance from Fae]
The books are fiend-summoning rituals and necromantic rites of a cult called the Priests of Osybus.
[INS, d: nat 20]
Dima at first thinks these tomes are intriguing, but recalling his GODDAMN EDUCATION, knows every word is totally bogus and none of these spells could possibly work.
<.>
Fae reaches to take the letter and, finding the seal already broken, unfolds it and reads aloud while Rin and Dima search and Sen peers over his shoulder.
"My most pathetic servant,
“I am not a messiah sent to you by the Dark Powers of this land. I have not come to lead you on a path to immortality. However many souls you have bled on your hidden altar, however many visitors you have tortured in your dungeon, know that you are not the ones who brought me to this beautiful land. You are but worms writing in my earth.
“You say that you are cursed, your fortunes spent. You abandoned love for madness, took solace in the bosom of another woman, and sired a stillborn son. Cursed by darkness? Of that I have no doubt. Save you from your wretchedness? I think not. I much prefer you as you are.
“Your dread lord and master, Strahd von Zarovich."
[HIST, d: 11]
Dima can't remember anything more, but something about all of this just keeps niggling at him.
<.>
[q: Does Dima recognize/know anything about this Priests of Osybus cult?
a: His history check says nope.]
Dima, growing increasingly irritated by his failure to catch whatever memory keeps slipping his hold (and, perhaps, by the hand he's lost hold of), feeling uneased by the letter, begins with "This stinks of desperation. The melodramatic, the megolomaniac as well." Speaking partly in order to find some way toward a point; none of this is adding up. He's missing something key.
And, flipping through another of the books, lip ticking. "It's nonsense, all of this. None of this is functional.”
He's been talking more to himself than the others, but when he glances back, meets Fae's eyes, he feels a little bit more grounded. Cants his head and thinks, thinks. "The letter was to your" (nodding to Sen) "skeletal friend, or to someone else entirely. Begging the question— Where is the altar."
Rin, rocking back and forth on their heels, hasn't really been listening to Dima. They have been trying to examine the deeds, but they also really, really don't care for legalize, and they wave the papers toward Sen, "Do you know about houses? Or windmills." And, idly, not really considering the remark, "You know what, I don't think stillborn infants do a lot of crying."
<.>
Sen takes the papers and examines them thoughtfully. "If there is some stillborn infant in question here - well. Judging by his condition-"
He motions towards the skeleton.
"It was certainly long enough in the past for another babe to come along, surely."
Looking back down to the papers, he simply shrugs. "These are only land deeds. Some windmill in Vallaki - haven't the foggiest where that is. The other is for this place, I imagine. Boravia? We're apparently in Boravia. I don't suppose any of you know where that is?"
Before anyone can answer, he nods to the letter Faolan is silently re-reading. "I think Dima has a point, there. What altar? What fucking dungeon? I -"
He stops abruptly and fishes out the iron key he found in the desk drawer, slowly waggles for the other three to see.
"In case we find a door with a lock. But I didn't see anything on the first floor leading down, so perhaps we continue 'up' for now."
Faolan folds the letter carefully and passes it back to Dmitri before speaking. "We heard someone moving around up here. Maybe we ask them the questions."
<.>
Something about this still doesn’t sit right with Rin. But also maybe they just don’t trust kids who run up to the first strangers in view and forget to mention their tiny brother.
…They do have one question though. “How old’s the skeleton?”
Dima will answer if his look over the remains made this clear; if not, and if Sen learned nothing, Rin will simply let the question be.
[note: It's hard to tell; it's clearly been in here for some time; granted, it's a locked secret room that may have been untouched for years by the master of the house. After all, he hardly needs bogus occult tomes.]
Dima conveys this information; Rin decides there’s more to be seen and anyway the skeleton’s not going anywhere. Rin’s ready to move onward and upward.
Dima is going to suggest taking the items from the chest and putting them in Rin’s bag, if nothing else; he’ll take the scrolls if no one else does - for examining another time - then reclaim Faolan’s hand, Messaging [ Thank you. ]
Dima is now ready to move on as well, and will be holding Fae’s hand just a little tighter. Thinking to message ‘Stay with me, please,’; deciding it doesn’t need to be said.
<.>
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
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Death House pt. 2: Onward and Downward
When they reach the bottom of the seemingly endless spiral, a narrow tunnel stretches out southward before branching out east and west.
The party begins to hear an eerie, incessant chant echoing throughout the basement.
Rin’s going to stealth and lead.
Sen is going to give Rin some inspiration: I believe a kiss on the hand for them.
After Sen does this, Faolan looks at Rin, then at Dima, then at Sen again and says, "I hope you don't tongue me when you give me mine."
<.>
Rin winks, blows Sen an air kiss, and starts down the westward path.
[STEALTH, r: 20; Rin is officially vanished into the shadows.]
They're going to move five feet over to take a look at how many stairs there look to be (or ten feet if they need to). Here, they'd like to pause and try to discern whether anything's changed in the echoing sound, whether it sounds nearer or farther or anything.
[dm: They can't tell where the sound is coming from at all. It's almost an ambient, if distant, noise.]
Though they’d intended to go check the other hallway, having seen the steps, Rin now knows a strong desire to see what's down the steps, and they're going to move to the bottom stair.
[dm: They come to the bottom of a short flight of stairs; the hall opens out into a room with a wooden table and four chairs. They can't see much in the dim lighting, but it looks like the room might branch off into other spaces.]
Rin thinking to themself, very emphatically, shit.
They'd like to pause for half a minute to discern whether there are signs or sounds of movement before heading back up the stairs.
[dm: There's no movement at all. Just that weird noise.]
Okay moving back up the stairs. They'd like to take a small look down the first branching hallway if they may before returning toward the group.
<.>
Sen is, meanwhile, uncomfortable standing here with Faolan and Dima in silence
And as he rolled a 19 on stealth, he's going to scout the other direction.
<.>
Checking out this hallway, Rin discovers more branching. And. Well. A little more searching wouldn't hurt. And Sen can reach them if anything's needed! So Rin's going to scooch down the left branch.
[dm: Down this branch, Rin finds an empty crypt. There is no name and no corpse. The blank stone slab meant to seal the crypt leans against a wall.]
’Seems like a waste,’ Rin thinks. And. They're just going to slip out of here.
They don't really like having walked into a crypt. This is supposed to be a house. And thinking about what happened with Sen in the library, Rin resolves to return to the party— After taking a careful look down the right branch. Then they'll go back!
[dm: This is likewise a crypt hewn from the earth. The stone slab meant to seal it leans against a nearby wall. Etched into it is the name Walter Durst. The crypt is empty.]
....Rin nearly. Nearly says out loud, ’I knew Walter was trouble.’
They did not know any such think. They also don't do more than think the words, though they'd like to take a moment to see just how dusty this crypt is, and whether there are tracks anywhere within.
[dm: There are no tracks; the general dust and cobwebs are about the same as everywhere else down here.]
That's enough for now; Rin's going to head back toward the others. Probably, it's wisest not to stay split for too long down here.
<.>
Sen, not knowing where Rin is, exactly, is going to message Dima.
[ Is Rin back yet? ]
<.>
Dima has been trying no to look too long at Faolan; it isn't the right time (to say the fucking least), and he doesn't want to discomfort the man any further. He studies the rings on his hand, reminds himself to stave off worry for later, and he's about to dare a press to Faolan's bicep when—
Godsdamnit Sen.
He sounds huffy even in his thought response: [ No, they haven’t— ]
Which is when the tiefling slips back into view, seems to instantly note Sen's absence, and fixes Dima and Fae with sharp eyes.
[ They have. I believe they're looking for you, o intrepid adventurer. ]
<.>
Faolan's attention is on Rin, so he fails to notice that Dima and Sen are communicating.
[ If we come down this way, don't bother with the first corridors, left or right.
I'd go so far as to say, keep Faolan out of them. Yourself, as well, with your little passengers. ]
Sen is, as it turns out, standing in the crypts of Rosavalda and Thornboldt Durst.
A perfunctory look down the other hall has told him these are the crypts of the children's parents.
<.>
Dima: [ …I'll want to know what you've seen. But I take your suggestion in this case as word. ]
<.>
Sen: [ Final resting places of those not yet finally resting. And those who ought not be finally resting, come to think of it. It seems Father and Mother Durst have done one good thing for their children, after all, and expired. ]
<.>
A moment as Dima first forgets, then remembers to breathe, and: [ Thank you, Sen. ]
And.
[ I'd be interested to know who sealed the shitminded parents into resting. For now, you'd better return before the tiefling throws a fit. ]
<.>
No need to tell him twice; he didn't think about THAT.
- Who buried the parents, OR Rin throwing a fit
<.>
After messaging Sen, Dima's going to softly share with Faolan and Rin some part of what Sen relayed: That there's nothing that needs searching in the first passages to the east.
[DEC, d: 12]
<.>
Faolan regards Dima for an uncomfortably long moment, then decides not to investigate further. (Yet.)
Sen, on returning, says there's nothing at all down either passageway.
[DEC, s: 15]
Rin buys it. Faolan is still not having this shit, but also kind of figuring at this point mAYBE they're lying for a reason.
So, the stealthed thieves just returned to report Nothing. Faolan also decided to stealth himself and is silently judging some not-truth-tellers.
<.>
Dima, seeing everyone going stealth, will try his hand at it again, though his hopes aren't particularly high and he's planning on keeping to the back of the party.
[STEALTH: 20]
Rin does not trust Dima to lead the stealth train. They're good with themself, Sen, or Faolan.
Dima. Does not want Fae to lead. For no particular reasons. And suggests one of the thieves - who are presumably accustomed to odd houses - should take point.
<.>
Sen is not as accomplished a thief as Rin and will gladly defer to their guidance.
<.>
Rin gives Sen a smile and a [ Why thank you very much! ] With a wink because you see, they learned this trick too!
"Before we move— Okay, so we're gonna want to go down a small flight of stairs. There's a hallway to the right, but it's just a couple of empty crypts." They pause. They think. "Mostly empty. There was a name in one, but nothing to go with it. Point being it's not really worth our time so. Down the stairs we go!"
If no one has questions or comments, Rin will begin moving toward the stairs they found earlier.
<.>
no subject
The room is unchanged, the only sounds the strange ambient chanting they've heard since they came down the spiral stairs.
<.>
Rin's going to lead around the table to the entry on the far side, intending to listen/look in.
Dima, taking up the tail of their train, is thinking on that empty crypt with a name, though he won't prod about it now.
[note: The entry is a hallway; around the corner is another flight of stairs.]
Rin turns back to Sen: [ Too many stairs in this place. Clear this floor first, or down we go? ]
[note: It's still the same level, just about three or four stairs.]
Rin would rather take a look around the other entries leading from the table room before continuing in this direction. They look back to the others, pause, then scuttle past Sen to continue toward the next opening.
<.>
The other doorways prove to be alcoves; in each one is a bed with mouldering straw and filthy blankets. There's nothing else to be found.
Faolan is just watching quietly, almost expectantly, as though waiting for Rin to tell the party they found something.
(It's better than looking at Dmitri. He is trying very hard not to do that just now.)
<.>
Rin gestures for the group to cluster and speaks softly: "Four basement beds. That's weird, right? If the staff lived upstairs, what was all of this?"
<.>
Sen looks contemplative; he's not sure what he thinks, or how all the pieces fit together.
Faolan, however, thinks about the letter and frowns. "'Visitors.'"
<.>
Dima has - of course he has - been watching Faolan, and now nods. "Visitors eager to keep hidden. Or visitors required to hide." The letter; the books; the entire aura of this house. "It might be related to the books upstairs, to the cult referenced." A shrug of one shoulder. "It may not."
It makes sense enough to Rin. They think about it. Think about it. "One way of finding out."
Rin's going to move toward the small set of stairs, and move downward.
[dm: From their vantage at the bottom of the stairs, they can see the room opens up. At the center, they can just see 3-foot high stone rising from the ground in what might be a sort of wall.]
Rin's moving into the room; they'll give the perimeter a check, but they're very, very interested in whatever that stone thing is.
As they move, Dima Messages Faolan: [ Any thoughts on who or what those visitors might have been? ]
As Rin enters the room to begin their perimeter, they'll be on the lookout for signs of movement or traps.
<.>
There are no signs of traps or movement. Upon entering the room, they can see it, too, branches off into five more alcoves. At the center of the room is a well with a three foot high lip. Above it, suspended from crossbeams, a bucket hangs unmoving.
Faolan finally does exchange a glance with Dima, blinks, and looks away thoughTfully. [ The letter said people were being bled on an altar. Tortured in a dungeon. You found those books. Maybe it was a sort of cult. ]
Sen, meanwhile, slinks off to the right to stick his head in one of the doorways and see what there is to see.
<.>
Seeing Sen start checking the right, Rin heads toward the left. They throw a glance back toward the bucket - what's the bucket for? watering the monster? - but want to see what these rooms hold, and whether it's safe (safeish) to look at the bucket.
[dm: The bucket is hanging about five or six feet above their head. The underside looks as though the wood is rotting away.]
Look up, Rin thinks they really want to poke that bucket. Or throw something at it.
Later!
Dima is going to hold that glimpse of Faolan's eyes close to his heart. [ Yes. I'd say it's odd that we've found no signs of carnage— But then, we can't be sure how far this house extends. Given the sound we're hearing... I'd guess it's had some distance to echo. ]
<.>
From their new vantage point, they can see at least one of the alcoves contains another, slightly better bed. A chest sits beside this, locked with a heavy iron padlock.
Sen sees something similar in the room he's investigating, and with a glance back to ensure Rin sees him stepping into this particular room (just in case) he moves toward it and will attempt to pick the lock.
Faolan is silent for the moment, then nods in agreement. [ *What we've seen already outpaces the sprawl of the house. It could be vast, yes.*]
And, after another pause, he tightens his hand on the hilt of his scimitar. [ I feel useless here. ]
Sen rolls a 15 total dexterity check and manages to pop open the lock. He likewise tries to see if there are any traps, whiffs his check, and decides the chest is totally harmless.
It is, but it might not have been. Inside the chest, he finds a pouch of strange leather, containing 11 gp and 60 sp.
<.>
Rin begins to make their way in the direction of the room and chest they spotted, thinking ’Oh that's much better!’ They'll have to ask Sen what he found in his room! First, though, they're going to check this chest for traps and make an attempt at opening it.
[PERC: 8; chest looks totally fine!]
Then they’ll open it!
[DEX: 16]
The lock opens easily. In this chest, Rin finds a silvered shortsword.
It sort of becomes clear to Sen and Rin by now that these chests contain the personal belongings of whoever was staying here, and they're unlikely to have any traps on them.
Rin Messaging Sen to ask if he wants to go splitsies on opening and going through the chests!
<.>
no subject
<.>
Sen you are a gentleman! And! Rin promises to show you everything they find! They do not promise to share, but it's not entirely outside the realm of the possible.
Meanwhile, Dima's watching Faolan with more focused intensity (a feat, when his eyes were already sharply fixed), and shaking his head. [ You've done a good deal already. With the specter, with the children. With— My actions. With your reason.
And I've seen your magic, Faolan. You aren't useless in the least.
We don't all need to spend our time in cracking chests. ]
Dima will continue gazing very fixedly at Fae.
<.>
Sen fails the second chest he attempts and messages Rin, asking to swap and see if they have more luck.
Faolan doesn't want to talk about what happened - not anymore than his piece that was spoken earlier. He doesn't want to think about the feelings that overwhelm him when he remembers how Dmitri spoke to the children. (Or now, when he's watched the way he is.)
Swallowing hard, he answers, [ At least they're having fun. Two children at play. ]
And, quite suddenly, he half-blurts, [ It changes nothing. What you did - are doing - for the children. Not because of what you thought about doing, or anything you've done at all. ]
A tight smile turns weary and Faolan does give Dmitri his gaze again. [ You're not the first man to look at me like that.
It'll pass. ]
And, as though looking to keep track of their thieves, he tears his gaze away once more. [ It always does. ]
<.>
Rin immediately agrees to the swap, dropping their focus on the chest to dart for Sen's room. They don't mind at all which chests they open, and this little dash was fun! They'll start working on this chest now!
[DEX, 7; thaaat’s a fail]
And in their irritation, they're going to poke at the bed a little, see if it seems to be covered in the same dust as everything else, before telling Sen [ It's just a shit lock :/ ] and moving along.
<.>
A small thump would suggest Sen has kicked the chest in frustration.
<.>
Rin would like to pop up beside him and give the chest a try, confirming with a scowl that "Yeah, these chests are major shits."
[note: Faolan is watching this back and forth.]
[DEX, r: 16
Hey the chest pops open easily for them. Inside the one by Sen is an ivory hairbrush with silver bristles.]
Rin.
Very.
Clearly.
Would like this.
But they will look at Sen before taking it!
<.>
Sen: [ It knew it was meant to be yours. ]
<.>
Rin: [ Hmm I bet it told you exactly what it had! ] They're beaming as they pick up the brush, running their thumb along its backing. Then, finding Sen's eyes, [ We've got to check the next one together. And this time whatever's in it is yours! ]
Without waiting, they scuttle off, brush in-hand.
Dima is. Much less happy.
Dima is feeling very cold.
(Because of what he did; the intention Faolan saw in his dagger.)
(Because Faolan might, must doubt Dima's intentions regarding the children.)
(Because he knows the man has little cause to trust him; he knows few people do.)
(And because, yes, yes, it becomes clearer and clearer that existence has left Faolan wounded. Whatever happen with the scandal, whatever preceded it, something's left a deep mark on this man, this... He really can't be much older than a boy, and yet he's learned so much.)
Dima's quiet for a moment, letting Faolan's words find their place in him. Trying not to think of other men who looked at Faolan with... with... With whatever name might be placed to Dima's expression. Trying not to think how he could be like them.
The thing is.
The thing is, for all his impulse, Dima knows his mind, and knows the firmness of his drives. It's nothing he can make Faolan believe. It might not be something he can push far now. But he can't let those last words linger any longer.
[ No; it won’t. ]
A blink, an attempt to offer the trace of a smirk that doesn't quite appear. [ Do you truly believe I am like any other man? ]
That, too, he won't let linger long, and Dima continues, all solemnity—
[ I guard what is mine, Faolan.
I follow what calls me, and I keep its song.
Still, I— Know this. You will be safe with me. I can't promise I won't watch you. I can't promise I won't ask that you remain.
But I mean no harm to you. I want your peace. I want you well. ]
<.>
Faolan can't look at him. (They always want to believe they're unlike any other man. That they're different. He's never met a man who doesn't like to be told he's special.)
It's that 'mine' that gives him pause. He thinks about pointing out all the ways it's a ridiculous thing to suggest when they two have only known one another for a day.
Instead, he answers honestly, softly, without malice.
[ The problem with thinking about people as 'yours', Dmitri, is you forget they don't belong to you, and aren't yours to do with as you please. ]
Faolan breathes a mirthless laugh through his nose, then gives the other man a sidelong look.
[ I don't know if you're like any other man. I don't want to find out firsthand that you are. ]
And meanwhile, Sen is going to try that third chest.
Which he unlocks! FINALLY. Inside of it, he finds a silk eyepatch set in with a carnelian stone, which he IMMEDIATELY puts on.
<.>
He can't say Faolan doesn't have a point, just as he can't say he's given the man cause to believe different of Dima.
(Dima. Dmitri. He likes his name in this man's voice. He'd like to hear it once again.)
[ I am quick to glimpse my inclinations; my certainties. Overeager, at times— And perhaps overbearing.
I would like you to be mine; I would like to know myself as yours. ]
He's just going to rush past that into: [ But I'm mistaken in placing my wishing upon you. Or to expect your trust without showing cause.
I'm sorry, Faolan. I am.
I can't promise I won't look at you a little long. I can't promise I won't seek your council.
I ask— Mm. I ask that we may share company. As adventurers, as friends, perhaps.
If nothing else, I'd ask that you keep with us here. There's work yet to be done, and you ARE skilled. ]
Rin is very busy pointing at Sen's eyepatch and grinning, running their brush through their own hair. [ You ARE the most dashing pirate I've ever seen! ]
A thought. An excited scramble as they reach for the silver shortsword and stand upon the bed. [ I believe I'll knight you for your bravery in lockpicking this day! ]
<.>
Sen immediately kneels with a flourish, because of course he would like to be knighted! (By Rin.) [ I believe I'll be honored to be knighted by one with such well-brushed hair, who has far keener lockpicking skill than I could ever hope to attain! ]
Faolan listens, and this time with his eyes on Dmitri. (Assessing. Thoughtful. Wary, ever wary, of the pains he might endure.)
He thinks of asking how Dmitri believes he could ever be Faolan's. If the man has considered the divide between them of title, of scandal, of wealth. But of course, Dmitri hasn't considered that because he doesn't have to. None of them ever do, and why should they, when they make the rules?
(But briefly, his thoughts trace the edges of a world where he and Dmitri look on as Rose and Thorn play, and his heart clenches painfully.) (He wants that life, not Dmitri.) (But if he did want Dmitri in that life, he would call him 'Dima', and his Dima would call him 'Fae'-)
(He slams a door against these thoughts, unaware of the ghosts of emotions that might have passed through his expression.)
[ You don't know me, Dmitri. ]
He draws a deep breath and turns away once more, then shakes his head in resignation.
[ Where were you going? To Awich, or further?
I'm on my way to Lob'en. ]
He pronounces it law ben and immediately bares his teeth at the error: it's slang, the way the poor pronounce the city's name. He never could shake some turns of phrase, some mispronunciations that marked him as a peasant.
Maybe it's better Dmitri knows he's no middle class-born courtesan. Maybe it's better if Dmitri thinks he's grasping, power-hungry gutter trash. (Maybe it's better if Dmitri sees the vastness of the divide between them.)
Still, he enunciates, [ Loch. Bien. ]
<.>
Rin tosses their hair, assuming an expression of majestic approval before their grin cracks back to being. [ My, that was a VERY good flourish! I've seen so many knights, you know— ] 'Seen.' 'Robbed.' [ —And not a one possesses half of your finesse! Not one could solve a single, solitary lock with such elan! ]
Another toss of their hair; another grin. [ Not one could lead me to the very brush my hair has yearned for. Good Sen, you have brought me to such sheen! ]
Theatrically, deftly, they settle the blade first to one shoulder, then the other. [ Here: You are now SIR Sen, Lord of all the Locks and Picks, a rogue to out-dash them all! ]
Dima could, if he focused on the thought, draw out an assortment of causes for Faolan's wariness. He captures what he can: the emotions passing across Faolan's face; the places the man picks to focus in discussion; the name and its correction (Dmitri won't mention this, nor did his expression shift at the colloquial pronunciation); the man's insistence that Dmitri (his name again!) doesn't know him (his name, not in the brightest context).
It's true they only just met. It's also true that Dima trusts his instincts regarding who is worth his time and who is something more than that.
It's Dima's impulse that needs restraining, here and there. It's Dima's impulse that can lead him far awry. And he thinks, he fears with a chill that he's pushing Faolan away, speaking too far, suggesting too much.
He thinks, ’I’d like to know you.’ Thinks, ’Let me learn?’
What he Messages, though, is: [ I'm afraid the answer may not please you.
My destination matches your own; Awich was only ever meant to be a passing-through.
My— Plans, my intentions grow muddier beyond that point. But I am expected in Loch Bien. ]
He wants to say he hopes they can travel together. He judges, for once, that moderation might be in order, that there will be time to speak toward this later, and for now he keeps his tongue.
<.>
Faolan doesn't react. He doesn't know if this is a lie to give cause for Dmitri to follow him to Loch Bien, or the truth, and some measure of coincidence.
He knows that an unspeakable joy filled him for one brief heartbeat before he wrenched away from it. He tells himself it's only because he'll see the children again.
(He knows, also, a sick drop in his stomach: Dmitri will be there when he does what he plans to do.)
But he does relent all the same. [ It's sensible to travel together. Safer, perhaps.]
And, abruptly changing the subject, he nods towards the alcove where the thieves vanished.
[ Could you ask them to hurry it along? ]
no subject
(Faolan didn't need to say anything about traveling together. But he did, he chose to, and might that not mean something?) (Whatever it means, it's no cause for Dima to rescind thought of caution.)
Whatever those words mean, Dima can't keep himself from smiling just a little, a relieved, minor crook of his lip.
[ It is. It will be; that's so. ] Even if the shrubs are finished, there's no telling what else may fling itself upon them.
Then, nodding to Faolan, he glances toward the room, toward where the thieves seem to have gone, and messages Sen: [ Anything worth lingering over, or are you reciting poetry to the tiefling? ]
<.>
Sen was, in fact, thinking of reciting poetry to Rin. He looks momentarily perturbed, then tsks and leans back so he can see out of the alcove at the waiting men.
[ They're ready to be boring somewhere different ], he observes to Rin. He rises and, on a whim, offers Rin a ride on his back - stealthed, of course!
When the pair reach Faolan and Dmitri, Sen recalls suddenly the pouch he found. Easing Rin from his back, he produces it, dumps the coin (gives it to Rin for dividing up fairly!) and holds it out to Faolan - who seems he might know and appreciate leather bags.
[INS or NAT, f: nat 20]
Faolan stares at it a moment, then slowly takes it. He waits until Sen and Rin move off again to scout ahead before just as slowly passing it to Dmitri.
[ It's human. ]
<.>
Rin of course agrees, wrapping their arms around Sen - not too tight, and making sure not to get in the way of his movement! - and responding, [ They can be as boring as they like; WE'LL have an adventure! ] The coins, of course, go into the bag of holding, for later and very fair dividing, and Rin turns their eyes ahead, because it's time for getting back to work!
Dima—
Well.
In the first place, there's a fluster through his stomach, a clamoring of moths between his lungs. Of course Faolan may only have wanted nothing to do with this object, or may have determined it better suits Dima's use, but—
But it's not not a gift.
It's not not the kind of gift Dima might hope for, if he ever anticipated gifts at all.
Dima holds the bag, brushes his fingertips across the surface. He'll ask Faolan what he thinks, but first, Dima will attempt to examine the bag himself, with a particular eye to any magical properties.
[INS, d: 7; If there's anything magical about it, he can't perceive it, and he can tell nothing else about it other than what Faolan already said.]
Dima's fingertips continue to travel the surface of the pouch as he looks up at Faolan. [ Thank you. It’s— ]
'Lovely,' he was about to say. Or 'beautiful.' Instead, his lip ticks slightly, and he alters his approach: [ What do you make of it? ]
<.>
...It shouldn't surprise him. He's beginning to gather Dmitri dabbles in necromancy. Of course he would be thankful for a pouch made from human skin.
He still gives the man a perplexed glance, then shakes his head. [ It's not unexpected, if this was a place of sacrifice and torture. ]
And, after a beat, he adds hesitantly, [ You're welcome. I think. ]
<.>
[ That's so.
What's strange is that it should have been left behind. An object of this sort— It isn't unheard of, but it's rare. Valuable, among the right circles. ]
He's staring at the pouch again (he thinks, next time he has an opportunity, he just might stow the raven totem in here) (he also thinks that might not be the wisest course), and he blinks, stows the pouch in his pack, and meets Faolan's eyes again.
[ I find interest in it. I find value— And I will find use for it. It was good of you to give. ]
Dima begins to extend his hand, realizes his own gesture, and blanches, turns what would have been a reach for Faolan's hand into a gesture toward the hall.
[ Onward, then. ]
<.>
Faolan saw that.
The hand reaching for his, then withdrawn again. (It's a metaphor for his life.) He saw, too, how Dmitri paled, how he made it something other to cover his error.
He turns away, thinking how no one ever withdrew a hand because reaching for him at all was the error. (Only being reached for in kind.)
As he starts after the thieves, he turns his head just enough to glance over his shoulder - then, eyes forward once more, he draws a hand behind his back, palm out, in subtle offer.
Just in case.
(Just to see.)
<.>
He'd fallen behind, not quite able to move yet, watching after Faolan with something like worry, something like regret. He's finally moving - step after step, it isn't difficult, or shouldn't be - and when Faolan's hand extends—
There's no thinking; no pause to deliberate the meaning in the gesture, or whether it's the offer Dima would like for it to be. He sees what he takes to be an invitation, and he moves, steps suddenly swift, silent, focused on Faolan's hand.
He wraps his hand in Faolan's. With perhaps a little too much pressure at first, so Dima relaxes, lets the hold be something simple. Something... Faolan can slip from, should he wish to. Something that still tells of Dima's appreciation.
He ought to say something. He wants to express how much this offered palm means, but he also doesn't think loquaciousness is wanted here, and what he lands on is—
[ Hello. ]
Smiling softly to himself.
<.>
He grabbed so quickly and held on so tightly.
(No one's ever done that before.)
Faolan's eyes close briefly and maybe for a moment the pressure of their hold is shared.
When Dmitri speaks, Faolan doesn't respond, but there's a faint squeeze of his hand.
They should focus and not make more of this than it is. Any of it.
Sen, meanwhile, is following Rin's lead once more.
<.>
Dima will keep that offered palm, that slight squeeze in his chest as they continue.
Rin, having slipped from Sen's back (they were having such fun! but investigation requires subtleness and focus, alas), leads down the hall with— Oh, those are more steps, aren't they? This is an odd way to compose a house.
They're going to move forward slowly, checking for signs of disturbance in the floor, alert for any rooms.
<.>
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Awich: The dead all know; the dead all go.
Sen has a bounty in several towns, so evens he has one in Awich, odds he does not—
He does not!
So: the party arrives in a decently sized port village along one of the many rivers that flow from the north to join the canal to the south. The majority of the people here are wayfarers, travelers, emissaries, and those who profit from catering to passers-through.
There's a mingling of races here, and even some Gillmen from south of Morovsk can be seen working the docks. Those residents who don't serve travelers are fishermen, sailers, and general laborers of the types one would expect: blacksmiths, tailors, etc.
The town is controlled by Loch Bien, but locally run by a lessor lord whose title here is Magister; he has final say on all dictates of the town and surrounding farms, though these are few and far between.
Awich is at the edge of civilization; the forests that span the peninsula seem to threaten to overtake the town from the south, though much of it has been cut back to the north, where the road leads to Loch Bien.
So! What would everyone like to do?
<.>
Dima thinks it'd be a wise idea to secure housing before anything else; he is, however, low on ready funds.
So actually first q from me: Is there any way for Dima to access his family's money out here? I assume not.
Whatever the case, he'll ask if anyone has a preference for place of lodging.
Rin is looking around very innocuously. Definitely they aren't picking out places to potentially break into and loot. (Definitely they ARE doing this.)
<.>
Lucky for Dima, Sen has a talent for acquiring lodgings and food. Anywhere he performs, he seems to have accommodations just thrown at him.
So he recommends finding a modest tavern in Old Reach or along the river where he can work a little magic - which will be recounting stories of their exploits (with a little artistic license) and singing.
So he recommends finding a modest tavern in Old Reach or along the river where he can work a little magic - which will be recounting stories of their exploits (with a little artistic license) and singing.
Rin will see plenty of pockets to pick and houses to rob.
The town square is one particular place where a talented thief can make a dishonest day's pay.
Sen will suggest deciding what among their spoils of war they can hawk for some fast coin.
Faolan, meanwhile, is decidedly quiet while all of this is being discussed. He's considering sneaking out to the forest and sleeping there.
[dm: Liviana's magic has returned their belongings to them because someone forgot they didn't have that shit.]
Faolan has a little coin of his own, though, and wherever Sen finds accommodations is where he'll pass tonight, at least.
<.>
Rin agrees to selling what they don't need. Their suggestion is hawk things, then find accommodations, then everyone can do just as they please!
[dm: It'll be up to Rin (and ahah you) to determine what's not needed.]
Dima doesn't look particularly eager to go about these mundanities, but he's also not about to let the thieves handle transactions alone. :/ He'd like to head to the docks; that'll wait. For now, he looks at Faolan and Messages: [ Care to help keep an eye on these two? ]
<.>
Faolan looks down at his clothes, muddied and covered in several kinds of gore, and back up at Dima again. He's too tired to make any kind of argument, however, and simply shrugs.
<.>
no subject
-the three spells scrolls
-the platinum necklace (but NOT the jewelry box)
-the bag full of bat guano bc if they can get money for shit u knoW they will try it
-possibly the iron pendant with the devil's face if no one can see any use in it; Rin doesn't care for it and thinks it's in questionable taste.
-from the loot box in the ghoul room: the chain shirt, mess kit, and bullseye lantern
They'll offer Fae the thieves' tools, in case he’d like them?
Rin will of course hear arguments against any of these, or arguments for selling anything else.
[note: Fae can use the Protection from Poison
!! oh shit nice! Then that scroll shall be handed to Fae!]
Also. Rin is going to suggest that Sen handle the bartering. Since he seems to be very convincing and they know that they can be— Less. So.
<.>
Sen will take up this cause and the dm will do some math here.
Over the course of the afternoon, Sen manages to barter for:
8gp for the lantern
500ishgp for the necklace to a nobleman he encounters and convinces of its value
150gp for the spell scrolls
48 gp for the chain shirt and mess kit together to a passing adventurer.
The bat guano, he trades to a farmer for a hide that isn't marketable quality, but which Sen thinks will be of use as they move north. Warmth.
He can't find any takers for the pendant, so he pockets it.
<.>
Rin suggests they should mossstly divide it evenly but also Sen should get a little more of the cut because he did the bartering!
Dima suggests that Sen has already padded his pockets with gold from Wythall, at the very least. :/
But.
Dima won't argue far on this.
<.>
Sen rolling his eyes will fish out the fifty gold from Wythall and contribute it to the pile, then ask if anyone else is holding out on things looted, hMmM?
And Sen will be a good sport and throw in the 50, as well.
<.>
Rin! JUST REMEMBERED! They reach into the bag and pull out two dancing alabastar skeletons. "One was mine. These are for selling."
[note: Sen can get about 50gp for each. The macabre nature makes people reluctant to buy them.]
Rin is going to keep the third for now, though they soft soft promise the party that if they find a Very Interested buyer sometime, they will part with it.
…And. Actually. Feeling rather bad that they've kept several items. They will reluctantly suggest selling the jewelry box.
Which Dima is going to veto.
Just in case. Any children might want it.
<.>
Faolan and Sen both, possibly unprompted, will argue against selling the shortsword or the hand crossbow, and think Rin should keep both.
No one mentions the skin bag Dima has.
<.>
Rin appreciates this! And is inclined to agree! But also.
They did HAVE a shortsword before, as well as a shortbow. So they'll offer these to anyone in the group who might want them. If no one wants or can use them, they suggest holding on at least the bow for later potential use or selling.
<.>
Sen will take the bow, thank yoU.
SHORTBOWS DON’T JAM.
<.>
...Though Rin now remembers the ghoulskin cloak. And asks if they should be keeping that or getting it away from their party.
<.>
Faolan just. Holds out a hand for it, folds it up, and stashes it in his bag.
Never know. Nights get cold.
<.>
If no one's taking the shortsword, Rin votes sell it.
[dm: There was also a folded cloak and the potions of healing were in a small wooden coffer.
ARC, d: 19
Dima can almost immediately tell it's a cloak of protection.]
Dima immediately suggests keeping this.
<.>
On learning what it is and does, I feel like Sen and Faolan would not like emphatically suggest Dima wear it, but also they keep looking at him. And saying yes the party should keep it.
<.>
L o o K. Dima wasn't going to claim it for himself. But. Dima recognizes. It would probably be useful for him.
<.>
A lot of this discussion takes place over a hot meal in a tavern near the docks. The ghoulish items spread on the table before the party; passers-by give them wide berth and other patrons keep glancing at them warily.
However, one man on his way past doubles back, then interrupts them to ask if they're selling those things at the Nightmare Market.
<.>
Dima just looks at them. Very casually. Very 'if you have a problem come over and speak it.'
Rin occasionally hisses at passersby. Just for fun.
[q: Would Rin or Sen know anything about this market :o?
a: Sen and Fae have never heard of it.
HIST, r: 8, d:11
ARC, d: 19; Dima has a kneejerk negative reaction to the mention of the Nightmare Market, as it has the same reputation in Morovsk and Novorometz as fairy circles and Bigfoot. And as a respectable necromancer, he gave absolutely none of his time indulging that myth.
dm: And if Dima mentions it being a myth, Sen's arcana check allows him to relay the gist.]
Dima, in this case. Is going to helpfully look at the man and say, very firm, "Move along, won't you."
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"But you see, if you are going, my master will want a word." And, hastily, "He'll pay good coin."
<.>
...This may. Change matters. Slightly.
Depending.
He arcs an eyebrow, expression unimpressed. "Your master.
"And who is he, this man who pays good coin for myths?"
Dima is also going to Message Sen, who seems the most likely to have heard of the Night Market: [ You know these stories, yes? ]
<.>
Sen snorts and nods confirmation. He knows and doesn't tell the stories; he finds them absurd and only suited to particular audiences.
[note: Rin absolutely giving Sen a look of ‘???’]
The servant bows - even if he does hesitate halfway down - and replies, "Umbero Calabra of Mysos; his entourage is traveling to Loch Bien for the fifth centennial - and, of course, celebration of Lord Bien's champion."
Faolan stifles a snort at this and looks out a window, no longer interested in this conversation.
<.>
Dima worked very hard to not sharply exhale through his nose right there.
<.>
Unperturbed, the servant continues, "He charged his retinue with the task of keeping a weather eye out for those who might prove to be traveling east. There are rumors the Market will inhabit the ruins - "
"For two nights, before the whole thing vanishes like bad wind," Sen finishes for him, and answering Rin's question. "The Nightmare Market is a figment of some drunken necromancer's imagination. Are you certain your master isn't having a laugh at your expense?"
<.>
Rin's brow furrows; they quite like the sound of a Nightmare Market. And maybe it's just a story, but sometimes stories turn out truer than people think. Okay, maybe not often, and if Sen says it's not true it probably isn't, but still—
"What ruins?" They're looking at the guy with the Umbero master. "Also what's your master even want with it?"
Dima huffed a laugh at Sen's remark, and is just. Going to give Rin a subtle Look.
Dima would also like to try to discern whether the man before them is telling the truth, whether he believes this Nightmare Market nonsense.
<.>
The man seems to believe he's telling the truth.
And when asked what his master wants, he looks particularly dodgy - or wary ? - as he glances around, then tugs his vest and clears his throat. "That isn't for me to say."
Then, relenting somewhat, he adds, "I can't stay here and convince you. Listen, my master will dine at the Lion and Boar tonight. If you're interested, meet him and ask him what questions you have. If not, well - can't imagine what you want with those things, but good luck with them."
'Those' things being the odd assortment on the table.
<.>
"I don't believe your lack of imagination is our trouble." Dima has leaned back in his chair slightly, and there's a slight warning in his voice. He is not interested in entertaining this proposition or this sketchy little man. Looking away - finding that his eyes land on Faolan, and yes, Dima has to remind himself to continue speaking - he finishes, idly, "Be on your way."
Rin continues watching the guy; they're not not thinking about having a word with this guy's master. They'll just... Think about it. For a bit.
<.>
The servant leaves with another, curt bow.
Sen drums his fingers on the back of Rin's chair where his arm has come to rest - certainly only because of his impressive length of limb and need to sprawl, and not because of. Rin.
Faolan is dividing his attention between his food and the world outside the window; the moment the party was mentioned, he checked out of the conversation and remains so now.
Sen waits just long enough for Dima to know he's about to play devil's advocate.
[note: Dima’s bracing himself.]
"...It wouldn't hurt-“
<.>
[q: does Dima know anything about Calabra bc nobility connections?
a: He's heard the name as a merchant lord deeply entrenched in Mysos, and Dima's sister has probably been infuriated by his attempts to levy taxes on those from Morovsk who use the canals.]
Aaaand Dima sighing out loud, clearly exasperated. "In what world would it not hurt. We could all stand a long evening's rest, and Calabra is a perpetual pain in the throat. I've no interest in seeing the man." Certainly not, unless Morovk's business calls for it; thank the gods that Calabra's been largely Derzhena's problem.
Rin has absolutely perked up at Sen's words - and possibly, possibly because the elf's leaning on the chair, which is kind of nice? - their tail flicking. "All right. So what if we go talk to him? See what's he got to say. Sen's right, it can't hurt." They pause, humming to themself, and look at Faolan. "What d'you think?"
Dima is looking very studiously at the ceiling and muttering something about being curious whY the man chose to speak with theM.
<.>
Faolan blinks, his attention returning to the group now that it's been summoned. Something about - speaking with someone? He wasn't...listening. (His mind was two days north.)
"Don't worry what they think, Pretty Rin. If we want to go see what his lordship has to say, we shall." Which is to say, if Rin would like to go, so would Sen.
He does level a look at Dima and add, "If he's a perpetual pain, consider: suppose he does believe the Nightmare Market exists and is paying coin for someone else to go. Suppose we agree to go spend the evening jaunting around in some fucking ruins. Stargazing. Listening to foxes. That thing you two do when you're Messaging and think we're not looking, with the longing gazes and pitiful puppy-dog eyes.
"Then we come back here and tell him whatever tale he wanted in the first place of wraith souvenir stands and skeleton auctions. Not only do we have more coin, but you've gone and pulled one over on one of the many, many people you loathe."
<.>
His eyes go just a little wide at Sen's talk of Messaging, and Dima might have thrown the elf a scowl if he hadn't been distracted by the thought of— Oh. Stargazing and climbing among ruins with Faolan. (Seeing the man lit by the stars.)
It doesn't hurt that Sen's final point is aptly made; Dima would rather like to give Calabra a kick in the knee, and he's certain his sister would appreciate the story.
There are other ways to get at Calabra. There will also be other opportunities - maybe? (please, please) - to see Faolan in starlight (the image, again, jars his pulse). And Dima is not inclined to trust the bastard; his general rule is to offer trust to no one (Dima is not going to think about what level of trust he may have extend the three sitting with him), and particularly hold no trust in his fellow nobles.
Dima's folded his arms, is tapping two fingers sharply at his bicep. (A glance, a lingering look at Faolan shows that— Mm. The man doesn't look to be precisely here. He's been very quiet, but then he did seem tired, and city travel doesn't suit everyone.) (It doesn't suit Liviana, either; she'd elected to take a few hours' flight away from this place, and though Dima had been reluctant to see her go, though he'd felt a pang at her absence, they very *least* she's owed after what she went through is free flight.)
He speaks at last, staring at Sen: "If the two of you wish to speak to him, you may waste your time as you please.
"Should you care to share your findings - if there's coin worth pursuing, and if Calabra can keep his impositions to an absolute minimum - the venture might be worth exploring."
Might. Maybe. But Dima isn't going to deal with this until he has more proof it's worthwhile.
"In any case, I suspect my presence would dissuade rather than encourage disclosure of his schemes."
To Faolan, he Messages, [ Are you all right? ]
<.>
With that settled, Sen turns to Rin to plan accordingly for the night's foray into the wealthier quarter of the city; this conversation may or may not include talk of stopping off at the house of a wealthy 'friend' (or mark, as it were) and coming away a little richer for having visited.
Faolan, however. Faolan's mind is on Alfrig and his Champion. (Bastards.) (It's not important anymore.) (It - really might not be.) (It's not safe to think like that, in Dima's direction. In the direction of a future that won't exist, and this because men are more like Alfrig and his Champion than they are like Dmitri Voronin claims to be.)
Dmitri's message intrudes on his thoughts and a blush creeps across his cheeks. (He doesn't know whether he'd like it to be because of Dmitri's voice or embarrassment from his thoughts.) (He'd rather not feel his face burning.)
(He needs to put a stop to all of this. Dmitri's ever-nearing. His thoughts. He -)
Breathes.
He looks up and meets Dmitri's eyes and offers one truth. [ I'm tired. ]
It's a truth. A rather large one. Still, he adds before returning to his food, [ Just tired. ]
<.>
(He must have caught Faolan off-guard.
That must be what the— Well, it'd looked at if the man's skin flushed. Isn't it the likely answer? Never mind what Dima might like to imagine.
Never mind what he might imagine, envision later.)
Dmitri nods once. [ We'll have rest soon.
I won't say I'm not weary. And the thieves can tire themselves out how they like. ]
What worries him is the depth of meaning that seems contained within Faolan's admission. It's possible the man only needs time to sleep, and to settle all that happened so quickly, so heinously around them. (It's possible there's something more, as well.)
He clears his throat. "It would be wise to secure our lodgings sooner than not. Let's make it our next stop after this, shall we? Settle ourselves in, and then sleep or scatter as we please."
Rin's been grinning at Sen, then at their food, then at Sen again. They like very much this plan of his; it's got intrigue, it's got sneaking, it's got loot! And now that Rin's back in a city, they're eager to get some work going. They might not be here long; better make the most of it!
They realize Dmitri was maybe speaking. The gist of the words filter through, and Rin nods. "Works for me."
Then, to Sen, [ The sooner we ditch them, the sooner WE'LL have fun. ]
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6) Awich: Investigations
The innkeeper brings a generous mid-afternoon lunch, and it's after pushing the food around on the plate with his fork that Faolan finally interrupts the chatter to say, "We have a good deal to do and not much time before nightfall. We need to find the Gower girl. And you two ought to speak with Calabra at some point."
And then, remembering, he adds, "And there's the contract from Nerys. Dima -"
He pauses; clearly, he hadn't meant to say 'Dima'. Better to run with it, though. "I don't know where to begin with that one."
<.>
Dima has found - and finds now - that by choosing not to answer Sen (or by answering with a brief exasperated glance), he can avoid potentially awkward questions - or questions to which he owes Sen no address, thank you very much - because the elf will inevitably fall into another thread of chatter. This tactic becomes more efficacious now with Rin, who after only a brief silence remembers a very important detail about how one man tried to reason with a mud monster and how Rin is certain Sen could have managed it, but this man had no chance, oh no!
What Dima wants (badly) to do is scoot near to Faolan, to sit shoulder-to-shoulder and whisper 'My Fae' with a conspiratorial smile. He knows what Faolan said, what Faolan requested, though, so he tries not to watch Fae too often (his eyes stray the man's way regardless), and is nodding along to Faolan's accounting when—
He might. Freeze just for a moment (not freeze, thaw) (thaw, and turn his eyes to Fae, a little bit too hopeful) when Faolan (Fae!) says 'Dima.'
He also makes a valiant effort at regaining his composure - and mostly succeeds! - nodding and finding that his voice at least keeps remarkably steady: "The contract can wait for the moment; Moloch's frustrations aside, there isn't much particular hurry on that front. I'd like to have it completed within the month, but for the moment, Gower and Calabra first, I think."
He looks at Sen and Rin, prods at his breakfast. "You'll need to know what to tell the man, and I'm not certain truth is the most reliable route." He shakes his head, looking irritated. “I am not particularly inclined to let the bastard know of the Market's existence. And we might get further from questioning his staff than speaking to him—
"Depending on how well the silver-tongued bard thinks he can handle the man."
Rin, meanwhile, has reached into their pouch to find the five silver that they are 99.9999% sure they're going to owe Sen. Because, really? Dima?
Fishing up five silver, they Message Sen: [ Payment now, or later? ]
<.>
Sen has fallen into an observational silence. He's not entirely sure he did win the bet. What he is sure of: Faolan is being aloof (though not chilly) and Dima keeps casting wide, yearning eyes at the boy.
They aren't acting like a couple. They're acting like maybe that interlude wasn't what he and Rin might have expected.
He shakes his head minutely at them and responds, [ I don't believe the matter's been settled, Pretty Rin. You may win yet. ]
To Dmitri, Sen replies, "I can handle Calabra better than you, I imagine. That isn't a boast; that's acknowledgement that the man would sooner see you flayed than have a conversation. So: that will be our task, then: to keep Calabra occupied while you speak with his servants. And, no, I won't be mentioning the Market to him. That way lies disaster."
Faolan nods in agreement to this last; he, too, feels a strong desire to protect the secrecy of the Nightmare Market. He adds softly, "I can try to locate Morwenna and Manon. If they're here, I'll find them and meet up with you -" Faolan nods to Dmitri. "- to help as I can."
As Sen raises both an eyebrow and his fork to his mouth, he pauses with an impinging curiosity. "Who the devil is Moloch? What 'contract'? Dmitri, you've been engaging in side-hustles without us!"
<.>
Rin seems to consider this. Looks around, nods, and starts flipping the coin instead, Messaging Sen, [ Heads or tails? ]
Meanwhile‚ "We're agreed on one point, at least." Yes, Dima is rolling his eyes at Sen. Yes, there's also a note of approval in his voice; best indeed that Calabra doesn't know a godsdamned thing about the Market.
"I'll note that any 'side-hustle' I may have engaged in was struck while you were hocking your wares before a rapt and decidedly undead crowd." A lift of his eyebrow, very 'excuse you Sen.'
"...I will also note. Generously, I might add. That I am not entirely opposed to your joining in the fulfillment of this contract. If Faolan—" ('Fae'? He wants to say 'Fae.' He isn't sure he ought to. 'Dima' was introduced from the start by Sen, and might be more admissible.) (In vain, Dima wishes he'd asked Fae about this.) (In the pause between Faolan's name and the rest of his sentence, Dima is absolutely looking at Fae a little too long, eyes speaking mingled apology, plea, and admiration.) "If Faolan doesn't mind."
Dmitri waves his hand in a dismissive sign. "A subject for another time, though.
"I'm willing to speak with the servants— However." He looks to Faolan. "It's a two-person task, at least." He thinks, 'I don't want to leave you.' He adds: "There's a chance they're under guard or, if they've left, that someone's waiting in their home.
"I'd like to go with you—" A moment as he considers that in such a case stealth might come in handy, and he nods, assenting: "But if there's value in sneaking, I suggest Rin and Liviana to accompany you."
[q: has dima heard any recent or not-so-recent rumors regarding people with an itch to execute calabra's dipshit ass?
dm: People frequently pass through the Voronin household making noises about Calabra, though whether this is because they actually want him dead or they're trying to endear themselves to the Voronins is anyone's guess.]
<.>
Faolan eyes Dmitri with mild amusement, then breathes a heavy sigh and considers the situation with his eyes on his meal. Finally, seeming to come to a decision, he says, "A compromise. Sen needs Rin, it seems like. Someone to sneak around- "
Sen is nodding pointedly.
"And thieve from the man, I suppose," Faolan concludes. Sen again nods, a little more emphatically.
"Rin with Sen. Send Liviana with me; I'll send the wolf with you. If any of use meets trouble, we'll have assistance reaching the rest."
Meanwhile, Sen is sliding down in his chair to bring his head inclined and level with Rin's. He still Messages, but doesn't bother to hide he's being conspiratorial. [ Cagey bastard. Suppose you find the contract in question and give us a look? Must be worth something if Moneybags is keeping it hush. And heads, please. ]
<.>
Rin doesn’t look at Sen, though they DO look at the coin as it falls. Then, expression puzzled, still looking at the coin: [ Tails. I suspect this coin of being a conspirator, and shall have to be rid of it. ]
If it sounds like they’ve gone into scheming mode—
Well of course they have!
They nod abstractly, still examining the coin, and speak aloud, “Works for me. We’ve got to get everything we can off that jagged rag.”
And huffing to themself, Rin is just going to stand and drift their way toward a waiter, offering the silver coin for a glass of ‘some kind of nice breakfast drink please bring it to the table thanks so much.’
Definitely none of this is an excuse to be able to return to the table - in a minute, of course, they don’t want to be obvious - in a route that takes them by Dmitri. Certainly not!
Dima's eyes are on Fae suddenly, surprised and— Well. Well, yes, his chest feels warm, he feels touched to think that Faolan would permit this, let alone offer his wolf's company. After a moment, Dima collects himself and nods. "It's a fair compromise."
And, "For the sake of a consistent plan, what particularities are we after?
"I'm interested in knowing why Payl was chosen, and whether we were chosen with intention, or whether Umbero honestly sent his servant grasping at straws.
"I'd also be interested in knowing whether Calabra was surprised by the attempted assassination, and whether he seems earnestly unsettled by it."
Rin has made their way back toward the table, and they are absolutely going to make an attempt at snagging that contract from Dima's pack.
<.>
[SLEIGHT, r: 15
PERC, d: 17
PERC, f: 20]
As Rin attempts to life the contract from Dima, Faolan, with barely a beat in the process of raising his fork to his own mouth, says, "Don't do that, Rin."
Faolan takes a bite then meets Dima's eyes and nods toward Rin, who is halfway into Dmitri's pocket.
Sen kicks Faolan under the table.
<.>
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Rin huffs, shoots Faolan what's almost a glare (but isn't not a little bit impressed that he caught them), Messages [ Don't you know about honor among thieves?? ], and slips a ball bearing into Dima's pocket.
They might as well do something.
And as they return to their seat, looking suspiciously like they're in a sulk, they Message Sen, [ Maybe next time. >:/ ]
<.>
Faolan gazes back at Rin unperturbed before replying, [ Whores have no honor. Haven't you heard? ]
If Rin says anything further, Faolan's fixation on his food after that comment makes him strangely deaf to Messages.
Sen leans over and kisses Rin's horns before allowing the conversation to turn to the matter of Calabra. "I'm particularly curious about why we were approached, and what caused him to think Gower would be where we found him. That doesn't seem like a guess to me."
Faolan tosses in, "Is it stupidity or arrogance, do you suppose? Assuming he just sent out his servant with the intent of finding Payl Gower's ghost, and wasn't trying to find the Market for some other reason." It's an uncomfortable thought to entertain: what would Calabra want with the dead besides information?
<.>
Rin does in fact reply, looking puzzled all over again, [ Wait, I don't know what YOU'VE heard but that's very RUDE, Faolan. ]
And, when there's no answer: [ No, that's lies, of COURSE they do. ]
And: [ Faolan? FAOLAN. I'm not about to DO anything. ]
They'd be sulking even more obviously, were it not for that kiss from Sen. That turns them around, and Rin decides that there'll be occasion enough to grab the contract another time, and maybe also grab something from Faolan, just for implying whatever he was (??) implying (??).
Rin darts a kiss to Sen's cheek, hands him a grape. "It's all pretty suspicious, just the question's in what way. He said something about asking someone, an oracle or... What was it? Diviner, maybe that. And he seemed honest about everything, but maybe he's just good at lies. A lot of rich fuckers are."
Actually. Speaking of rich fuckers. Rin looks at Dmitri: "Is Calabra a necromancer, or what?"
[INS: nat 1
dm: Hasn't heard a thing.]
In response to Rin's question, Dmitri looks blatantly offended. "I can't imagine he would be in the least. It isn't a particularly profitable preoccupation, nor one liable to gain laudation.
"It doesn't negate to possibility that he does indeed want something from the dead, or from access to the Market. For himself, or for someone he's... Mm. Either eager to impress, or already joined with in accordance.
"The ass may also have been coaxed into meeting with a diviner out of fear for his hide. Whether he's thought much about why Gower of all people should have been sent, I can't say. Calabra has his resourceful moments, as I understand, but is hardly what I'd call circumspect.
"Whatever the case, it'll be worth inquiring among the servants whether Calabra showed signs of interest in the Nightmare Market before the incident with Gower."
Rin, who has been very busy studying their hand against Sen's, chimes in again with, "You know what's weird. Or maybe kind of weird, is why'd the guard even kill Payl at all? Payl's not really an imposing sort of person or he doesn't seem like he was, and that guard was built.”
<.>
Faolan senses Dmitri's piqued ire and without thinking, reaches out and rests a hand on his wrist. He seems unaware of the movement and doesn't withdraw immediately.
Sen, meanwhile, shoves his plate to the side and starts to fuss through his clothes in search of his pipe, leaning back only when the barmaid brings Rin their requested drink. To Rin, he replies, "Oh, I'm not sure that's much of a mystery. When everyone wants a piece of you, you set an example with poor bastards like Gower. It's a deterrent, not a necessity."
Faolan nods in agreement. "It's typical, especially in the larger cities. Up in Lo'ben -" He falters, then decides it isn't worth the energy to correct himself. They know what sort of person he is. "- they drag them out in the street and do it where everyone can see. I'll give them this, though: the nobles do it themselves. Rough bunch."
Pensively, he continues, "I heard in Morovsk and Striker's Bay they still keelhaul would-be-assassins. Never saw it, myself, though. Might just be a rumor. Whatever they do, it's not in the street. People just disappear."
<.>
Dima is keeping his hand very, very still. Not tense at all; no, his hand eased immediately the moment Fae touched (offered touch, and chose to touch) his wrist. (It's remarkable, the extent to which this man's presence impacts him.) (It's not so remarkable at all, when Faolan shines with such brilliance, such warmth.) If he doesn't draw attention to Fae's touch, perhaps it'll stay a little longer. Yes, yes; keep engaging, keep talking, and feel throughout the grace of that touch.
"Keelhauling— Perhaps out at sea. Captains are inclined to mete their own brands of justice; it isn't worth our time or in our interest to interpose." It's a policy that's kept most of those captains agreeable; it's a policy that kept no small share of them from crying against the Voronins when Darzh chose to marry an elf, and leave the family's hold in charge of their kin.
"In Morovsk itself..." He shrugs one shoulder, slightly. "As you suggest, the most severe penalties tend to be the most discrete. Power is implied; power is written in sudden absence, never quite explained.
"Some die; some remain locked away from the world; some are exiled. And some are given leash to hold their freedom, to walk as if there was no offense— Or as if their offense didn't amount to much. As if it isn't worth our time to end them."
He's not quite looking at the party anymore. Clears his throat and shakes his head slightly, reminds himself that it isn't a subject to be taken further, certainly not here and—
He darts a glance at Faolan. Lingers looking at Faolan, conflicted, wondering if he's spoken too far.
After a moment, though: "I doubt Calabra's brand of vanity would rest easy with an offender running free. Nor can I credit him with the cleverness to approach the situation otherwise."
Rin, who has been silent while taking in all of this and sipping on their breakfast drink which is in fact very nice, shakes their head suddenly, hissing through their teeth. "Well that's all pretty fucked."
<.>
If Faolan considers any of this too deeply, he'll slip into another dark mood. Instead, he focuses on Dmitri's voice, on the notes he's growing (too) familiar with. (He focuses on the feeling of the man's wrist under his palm, and thinks of last night, of how their hands twined perfectly, of Dmitri's head on his shoulder and the way their voices turned to whispers.)
Sen is the one to answer Rin's comment with 'Hear, hear' and, as he lights his pipe, to contribute, "Calabra likes to put on a show. His entire staff watching while he ate alone? That, just for supper. If he could have had his man slay Gower on a stage, he would've done."
Faolan pushes his plate a little away, most of the food untouched. "The more we talk about this, the more I'm inclined to get a start finding the girls. They might have more than the people who hired Gower after them; in Mysos, it's not done anymore, but in the last era, the entire family was responsible, so the entire family paid. It's not done, but it's not outlawed, either. If Calabra wants a spectacle, he might have them taken south."
He rises, his hand slipping from Dmitri's, and huffs a little, mirthless laugh. "I never thought I'd say so, but the sooner they're in Morovsk, the sooner they'll be safe."
Faolan pauses a step from the table and considers the room before meeting Dmitri's eyes. "He'll wait outside - if he's willing to go with you."
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<.>
Rin is going to make sure they have their weapons and the Bag of Holding, and tell Sen they'll find something good for him. Otherwise, they're ready to stealth and go—
Oh, wait!
Not without blowing Sen an air kiss with a wink, and a "For good luck ;D."
<.>
Sen catches it and sends one back their way, and Rin makes a stealth check.
[STEALTH: 22; Rin's gonna catch that kiss and put it on their cheek as they go stealth mode >;3]
Rin melts back into the shadows, leaving Sen to approach the Lion and Boar alone. He leaves the door open behind him; a servant whose task is specifically to greet guests tuts and hurries to close it - though not before Rin has the chance to slip through.
The servant eyes Sen up and down with an air of superiority, but with cool cordiality asks, "How may I assist you, Sir?"
<.>
Rin, grinning to themself, Messages Sen, [ Manners, manners, Sen!
Well, you have the best manners, since you let me in. ]
They'd like to give the servant a kick in the pants, but it's far too early to take that risk. Instead, Rin takes a look around the room, scanning for possible exits, signs of any sneaky someone watching, or other points of interest.
<.>
The main foyer of the tavern has a rustic chandelier and a plush rug, but little else of note. The wood of the walls and bannisters of the stairs leading to a second floor is a rich reddish-brown, polished to a high shine.
From this room, one may go up the stairs, or take a door to the left which leads toward the dining room where Rin and Sen met Calabra. Another door leads off to the right - presumably to a dining area, from the sound of low murmuring. If there are other rooms, one must pass through these to reach them.
Sen doesn't bother with formalities - no bowing for this man - and gets right to the point. "I'm here to speak with Umbero Calabra. I'm expected."
The servant arches a brow and replies, "Lord Calabra is out and won't return until tomorrow morning. You aren't that expected, it seems."
If this surprises Sen, he doesn't show it. Instead, he says, “…Lord Calabra, is it?"
The servant stares at him, stone-faced, so he continues, "That must have happened sometime overnight. Pity I missed it, running his errands for him. Did 'Lord' -" he air-quotes, yes, "Calabra say where he was going?"
"I certainly wouldn't tell the likes of you. Be off with you before I have you removed."
Sen, assuming Rin has gotten the idea that maybe they ought to sneak upstairs, drawls, "'Lord' Calabra is going to be displeased with you when he learns you turned away someone with vital information."
[PERS, s: nat 20]
<.>
Rin is absolutely going to make their way up the stairs, Messaging Sen as they do, [ You know what's up. ] And, just to be clear, [ Me; I'm going up. ]
They're going to be quick in their movements, careful with their steps, and check over the landing before they reach it.
<.>
Nothing's particularly notable about the landing; it's a fine establishment (for Awich). The second floor is decorated with more plush rugs, a few alabaster statues, and paintings. From the landing, a single hall stretches down the middle of the Inn; there are three doors on either side, suggesting the quarters are quite large and multi-room, intended for an entourage rather than a single occupant.
Of these doors, one is open and a woman stands fanning herself in the doorway. There's a voice from within and she turns back to the room, then enters and closes the door behind her.
Downstairs, the servant is trying very hard to undo offense and assure Sen that Calabra really is out, he took his guard and didn't say where he was going, and the servant is only doing his job.
[q: did the voice sound like calabra? and, are there distinguishing marks on or beside any of the doors?
a: The voice did not sound like Calabra. There are no distinguishing marks on the doors.]
Rin's going to move down the hallway, alert for any signs of sound. If nothing catches their ear, they'll move to the end of the hall, and check for signs of sound behind the last door on the left.
[PERC: 7; Rin can't hear anything unusual or informative.]
Rin is going to cast Disguise Self to appear as an androgynous human of Rin's height, wearing the same uniform as the servant below.
They're going to fix their hair and make a go at unlocking the door they're standing in front of (last door on the right).
[SLEIGHT: 27; The door unlocks easily.]
Rin is going to step inside, posture kept in imitation of the Very Upright Very Not Fun servants they've seen around this place, and see whether 1) anyone is immediately visible or audible and 2) what the room holds.
[dm: The room looks bare in the way unoccupied rooms appear; a quick search will verify no one's staying here.]
Rin's going to diP out of the room, check the hall to see if anyone's appeared, and if no one HAS appeared, they're moving on to the middle door on the right.
[dm: Nothing in the hall has changed; it's the middle of the day, so they can be pretty secure in the knowledge that most people are out and about.
SLEIGHT: 23; The door unlocks easily.]
Same approach as before! Entertain as if they are in fact a servant, checking for signs of anyone present at the moment or of whether the room is occupied.
<.>
The moment they step into the room, a voice from the other side of a door across from them calls out, "Is that you, Herbert? Oh, I thought you'd never arrive! I've been absolutely - You're not Herbert."
The owner of the voice is a middle-aged human man with a bit of a paunch, greying hair, and spectacles. He stares Rin up and down appraisingly, then says, "Well, I'd prefer Herbert, but I suppose you'll do.”
<.>
And Rin is going to bow to the man, then speak, "Beg pardon, Sir. Herbert sent me to tell you he has been delayed. He—" Rin screws up their face, as if trying to recall the message, "He said that he regrets every instant not spent in your company, and he sent me to assure you that he will be here in ten minutes' time, no matter what." They nod, and bow again. "Good Sir, if you'll excuse me, I must be onto my duties."
[PERS: 6]
<.>
The man looks visibly hurt, one hand pressing to his middle and the other raking through his thinning hair. "He's not coming, is he? I knew I'd gone too far last time, I knew by the look on his face."
Hopelessly, he heaves a sigh and drops into one of the chairs that furnish this sort of receiving area.
"I suppose you think this is all pitiable, but I assure you, it's - Well. It is - nothing more than a fascination. Really. And -"
As he's talking, a young man slips into the room - barefoot. "Sorry I'm late - really, I - Who the fuck are you? Ansel, who the fuck is this?!"
<.>
Ansel?
Fascination?
—And presumably-Herbert is looking right at Rin.
Oh well shit, this isn't great.
Rin offers a nervous little laugh, and speaks, "I was told you had a message? It's my first day, and now I think maybe this was some sort of— Of— Oh, a prank. I'm terribly sorry, Sir, Lord? Sir Ansel? Herbert. I'm so sorry—"
It's at this moment that Rin is going to cast Thaumaturgy, to produce the sound of a vase smashing from the next room.
If Ansel and Hansel... Herbert. Turn around. Rin is going to try slipping out of there.
<.>
The sound of a vase crashing does indeed cause both Ansel and Herbert to turn; Rin has just enough time to slip out before they turn back. The sound of an argument can be heard as Herbert flings accusations and Ansel pleads and assures he's innocent. Rin can, if they listen carefully, hear Ansel say, "Please don't punish me again."
<.>
Rin in fact is listening carefully, and they're just going to— Not. Think about that information, or where bare feet and punishment intersect.
They're just going to slip over to the last door on the left and trying giving that one a pick. As they continue to try noT to hear that argument.
[SLEIGHT: 16; The lock takes longer to pick than their patience probably allows.]
They make it about half a minute before huffing in frustration and moving to the second door on the left, scowling at the other door and mentally vowing to finish the job if they must, and when they do, they'll jam that lock with tomatoes or something.
So! Next pick attempt is for second door on the left!
[SLEIGHT: nat 20
dm: Unfortunately, the door opens to another unoccupied room.
The first door on the left is the one with the woman and the unfamiliar voice.]
Hmmm while they're IN here, Rin would like to head over to the wall that would border the third room on the left. And see if they can hear anything from the rooms with the VERY rude door.
[PERC: nat 20
dm: They can in fact hear two voices in the next room: a man and a woman discussing their daughter's upcoming nuptials.
q: Can Rin hear any details of the conversation? And. Does either voice sound familiar?
dm: Neither voice sounds familiar. The details suggest the daughter's wedding is taking place here in Awich, and would lend Rin to believe the couple is here exclusively for that purpose.]
Rin is curious, but this doesn't seem worth sticking around for, and since time's ticking, they're going to return to the hall in order to pick the first door on the right.
[SLEIGHT: 28; The door unlocks easily!]
Rin gives the door a gentle little pat, then straightens their back and enters the room. Once again, checking for signs of occupancy in general and any present and accounted for occupants.
They enter a receiving room with a single bench against the left-hand wall. Around the room are round end tables with floral arrangements - many of these, clearly imported. A small chandelier hangs in the center of the room, its candles as yet unlit.
There are two doors: one straight ahead, and one to the right.
[PERC: nat 20 (??? rin wtf???)
Listening closely, Rin can hear several voices emanating from behind the door to their right.]
Rin would like to quietly, quietly approach the door on their right and try eavesdropping on this here convo.
[dm: Pressing their ear to the door, they can hear the general, everyday conversations and gripes of servants. Presumably, behind this door are the servants' quarters.]
They'll linger for twenty second, and if they hear no mention of names or locations, Rin's going to check the door straight ahead, giving a listen outside of it before attempting to open said door.
[dm: There's no mention of specific names, but 'he' and 'godsdamned bastard' crops up occasionally in the midst of the aforementioned everyday complaints.
Listening at the other door, Rin hears nothing.]
And! Rin is going to open the door and step into the room, closing the door softly behind them.
[dm: The last room they were in would appear to be some sort of foyer; this room is a receiving room / parlor type space, with a chaise against one wall and three plush chairs in a semi-circle. A few knick-knacks decorate the space, all of them too large to reasonably be thieved at the moment.
Again, there are two doors: one to the right and one ahead, both standing ajar.]
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Awich: After the battle.
And then he looks toward Dima, his gaze briefly lighting on Liviana in passing. Sullenly, speaking from a deep well of hurt, he snaps, "I gave you a month. You couldn't make it a day. 'Please' nothing.”
Nerys, who is just brushing off his clothing as he clambers from the temple ruins, falters in his step; both he and Sen have similar looks of Not Wanting To Be Involved In This. Sen sees something across the little river to inspect because it isn't here, and Nerys mumbles something about checking on the mudmen before vanishing.
<.>
It takes several moments for Dima to move. He knows Faolan's presence nearby. He feels Liv's disapproval, as well as her understanding. He's becoming aware of his own dizziness and the ash-dusted remains beside him (Faolan did this) (beautiful, the way he wields his magic) (but the way he looks at Dima) (the way Dima brought that look upon himself; brought that hurt to Faolan).
Faolan speaks, and of course Dmitri meets his eyes. Looks down, eyes shutting hard in the silence after. Nodding once, as if to say 'Yes, I understand.'
And he does. What Dmitri did, the way he handled himself in the fight—
Well. He can't say it was without a plan. But there wasn't much self-preservation in his actions, and there's no good skirting the truth of that, or of Faolan's response.
When Dima looks up again, he's beginning to move toward Faolan. Motioning to Liviana as he passes, and now she does hop to his shoulder; now he can feel her own weariness stronger still. (It was dire, what they all just endured.) (Dire doesn't necessitate recklessness.)
When he reaches the platform, Dima pauses at its edge, watching Faolan with one hand flexing, a nerve-strung gesture, behind his back. He catches at the edge of a dozen things he could say, and what forms into speech is—
"It was a calculated risk.
"...Somewhat calculated." A tick of his lip, a jerk of his head to the side, and Dmitri shakes his head at himself. "I won't say it was a wise one.
"I thought— I believed—" Again, he shakes his head, exhales a sharp breath. "No; that isn't to the point."
After a moment, he moves forward, lowers himself to one knee before Faolan and will attempt to take the man's hand. "I'm not going anywhere, Faolan.
"I didn't."
Rin, meanwhile, hasn't precisely been paying attention to this interaction - it doesn't seem much like their business or their interest, and they're still worried about Sen - and they follow Sen more for the sake of their own curiosity, and for continuing to keep an eye on Sen, then to avoid a conversation they've already decided not to mind.
They are going to ask Sen how he's doing.
Like.
For real, Sen. For real.
<.>
Faolan doesn't pull away from Dmitri's touch, but he doesn't do anything to encourage it, either. He only regards the other man sadly, thinking of how this loss would be far different from any other. How final it would be.
Without answering right away, he clasps his hands around Dmitri's and casts Cure Wounds, healing (12 points) some of the damage he sustained.
Then slides his hands free and lets them hang limply between his knees.
"You didn't. You might have." He looks off, contemplating his words before continuing, "I've readied myself for the moment you turn on me. When we're north and you're among your own kind, when you remember you're one of them and I'm not."
He finds Dima's eyes again. "I didn't plan on having to mourn you, too."
Faolan purses his lips, then grasps Dima's hand again and lifts it to indicate the rings. "Nevermind me. Nevermind Liviana, either; we'll be fine - one way or another. But the next time you calculate a risk, remember it's not just your life on the line."
<.>
How that warmth courses through him; the sudden surge of healing energy. The gift from Faolan that sets Dima's breath steadier, eases the strain on his own body to mend itself, or regulate the substantial loss of blood.
(It's apt, he thinks, when this man could cure his every ailment.)
(...If Dima doesn't get himself killed first.
If Dima doesn't shatter what little hope this man retains.)
He shakes his head, settling a hand on Faolan's knee. Breathing, looking down, then finding Fae's eyes once more. "I am skilled with speaking, Faolan. What I lack in— Current acumen for the arcane, I hold in the practice of negotiation. Of finding where to needle; where to pry." He thought— It doesn't matter, really. Not just now.
He glances downward, presses his hand at Fae's knee. "I promise you: I'm a harder man to kill than I may seem.
"But I take your meaning. I feel it— I do. And it wasn't fair.
"To Rose; to Thorn. To Liviana. To you.
"Faolan.
"I have no wish to leave you. I want— I would like. And I would like to strive for. The very opposite of that."
His eyes are locked with Fae's now, and take on a plea - along with, yes, the ghost of a command, an ardent request - of their own. "I need you to understand— Whatever else I may be, whatever I may do, beyond my own family, I have no allegiance to 'my kind.'
"Or I mean to give you cause to understand. I don't expect your belief; not now. Not when you have words alone to go on.
"But you, Liviana, Rosavalda and Thornboldt— There is no one I hold in higher esteem. No one other for whom I would learn to... Broaden the scope of my calculations.
"Well. You will see, Faolan. And I— For what worth it may have. I am sorry."
<.>
Faolan thinks - or doesn't think. It's difficult to think clearly at the moment, because anger is so much less complicated an emotion than the terror he felt when he saw that sword swing down on Dmitri.
(He thinks - Dmitri is trying to convince him it was the right decision.) (He thinks Dmitri doesn't understand. That it never should have been a consideration at all. That words don't win out against swords.)
The sound he makes is at odds with the look of disbelief on his face: a little laugh that dies abruptly. "I'll see?”
He shakes his head and says softly, "Dmitri, I'm not giving you another chance."
Rising, he continues speaking, now more to himself than Dima. "I'm going north like I planned - and then I'm going home."
<.>
Dmitri doesn't think.
(He ought to think. Isn't that part of the point: That impulse alone can't end well? He should be smart about this.)
(He knows the incongruity in that laugh; sees unfathomed depths of pain beneath Faolan's gentleness, written in the man's (Fae's) conviction.
And, yes. (Yes, of course.) Dima is terrified.)
He reaches; perhaps catches hold of something, some scrap of fabric, some piece of Faolan's clothing.
Whether he catches anything or not, he speaks again (aware of how little weight his words can hold) (aware of vicious irony; how certain he was his speech might hold sway with Visento, and yet here, here there is so little chance): "Faolan.
"Look at me.
"Please."
Dima hasn't stopped looking upward. Hasn't ceased to see the world straining toward shatters, or ceased trying to focus, focus, set clarity of sight on Faolan. (But he can't will things right.) (Can't will things right that he's shoved out of place.)
"We could have something here. All of us. You and I—"
A click in his throat; a jarred breath. "You'll travel with us? It is— Please. If nothing else, it is safer.
"And I don't want to—" 'Lose you,' he thinks, he means, but the trouble with speaking those words is the very present, glass-edged awareness that he already has.
<.>
He feels the grasp of a hand at his clothing and grits his teeth. (But even as he wills himself to just pull away, he thinks: maybe Dmitri will say the right thing. Maybe this time, he'll hear he's wanted, he's worth staying for, keeping, living for -)
(Stupidly, he hopes for it.)
(Again.
Every godsdamned time.)
He doesn't realize it, but the hoping makes him hold his breath; it's there in how he pauses, how he doesn't quite look at Dmitri, but listens.
All of us.
Travel with us.
Safer.
Whatever else Dmitri means (what Fae waits for, wants so badly to hear), it doesn't come.
His shoulders sag slightly, the movement faint enough to be nothing. Faolan pulls free and answers flatly, "I'll hire a guard if I want safety. You should do the same."
<.>
For a moment—
For a moment, he thinks he felt it: An inclination to remain; an ear offered in... in mercy, to Dima's feeling, but perhaps more accurately an ear offered in wanting, in an opening toward what might be ((might have been?)). For a moment, Faolan remained.
For a moment, Faolan might have remained.
But something breaks, or something doesn't catch, and Dima doesn't have time to process where it was he misstepped (failed to step) (he'll realize later, when the night runs on too long and sleep won't take him). He only feels the moment slipping. Feels Faolan, now absent.
(Sees in Faolan's weariness a sense of loss.) (A disappointment.) (A wanting ground into the dust, and left to wither, and if Dmitri can't trace the scope of what he's inflicted, he knows what he's rendered is monstrous.)
He sinks to his heel, barely balanced, his hand suspended in the air (knowing where Faolan was, so recently, in his touch) (thinking (knowing?) he won't have that again).
He thinks, 'Perhaps that's wise of you.'
He thinks, 'It isn't as though I'm fit to protect you, or anyone in straits like this.'
He thinks, 'I want you to stay.'
He thinks, maybe, it would have been more merciful if Calabra's lackey had ended Dima. (He flinches at the thought, his free hand moving instinctively to cover, to rub the rings. No; that wouldn't have been merciful, at all. And Dima draws the hand to his chest, holds it there, near-cradled.)
Not looking at Faolan now, not looking at precisely anything, he speaks just above a whisper, "For companionship, then.
"I can't see you go."
<.>
Faolan stops as though frozen, the breath knocked out of him. (He knows Dmitri didn't mean it that way.) (He - doesn't actually know that at all.) (He should have known this was all he could ever expect from them.)
When he looks back, all the hurt and anger lies bare in his expression and he bites out, "There's that, then. You couldn't let me walk away without a reminder?"
(Later, he'll remember how broken Dmitri looked. How remorseful.) (It might not matter then, either.)
"I knew better. I knew. It's you and yours that humiliated me three years ago; of course you'd want companionship out of me now. What else am I good for?" He doesn't keep his voice low now; with each word, he grows louder, angrier (more wounded, unloading years of pain into a single moment born from fear.) "If you want companionship, go to a fucking brothel.”
<.>
He doesn't understand; not at first.
He can hardly process anything beyond Fae's (Faolan's) sudden stillness, or the anguish written in his eyes, through his being ahead of speech.
And then there's the cutting blade.
A lash Dmitri understands he's brought upon himself. (A lashing he can't help but feel - somewhere deep and buried; somewhere he'd closed off long ago - as inevitable repudiation, as something both deserved and senseless.) A lash whose origin turns clearly writ as Faolan continues speaking, as Dmitri hears the unintended meaning in the word he used, and how could he be so fucking careless? (Because he was grasping for straws, anything to keep Faolan near.) (Will he never fucked learn to guard his impulse?)
He opens his mouth to speak, to tell Faolan that he's worth everything, good for everything, but Faolan's speaking still and the last words—
Dmitri's eyes churn with stark confusion, with regret, with disbelief (because how, how could anyone see this man in such meager scope?) (because how could Dmitri not have seen this coming, how could he not have guarded Fae against this error, at least?). He finds he's standing; finds he's taken a step toward Faolan, wary but unwilling to keep such space between them.
Thinking he wants to mend this.
(Thinking that, given his recent track record, he's more likely to turn this error into total ruin, or further ruin.)
He stops himself mid-step; he tries to tell himself to think about this, breathe and think, but already he's reaching for Faolan's wrist, he's trying to wrap Faolan's wrist in both of his own hands, shaking his head and gods help him, but he's speaking again—
"I didn't mean that.
"You know I didn't mean that. Faolan—
"You're so much more than anything. You mean so much more than anything, and I don't—"
He's losing his point; he's losing the tension in his shoulders, feeling an onrush of exhaustion, of frustration with himself, inevitability of his own errors. But he finally, finally makes himself breathe, and tries once more: "I want to stay with you. To be near you. To talk, and know the grace of your presence. Of your soul.
"That's— Closer to what I meant.
"It's my own folly that I didn't say it."
<.>
no subject
He thinks that must be what's happening. Dmitri is trying to be sly with his words like every other man, and he is: didn't he nearly stop Visento in his tracks with a sudden, well-crafted speech? The problem is, Faolan knows better.
Yes. That's what it is. He knows better, so he isn't taken in, so what would have fooled him before only makes him ache. (Because he wanted so badly for Dmitri to be different.)
(He looks frightened.)
(Faolan feels frightened and he doesn't like that.) (He said, though. You mean so much more than anything.)
(What is 'anything' - and who does he mean it to?)
Again he begins to shake his head, he's saying the first thing that comes to mind. "There's no grace in my soul. Only rot."
Before he can fully pull his hand free, however, there's a shout from the bridge of, “Get out of me, you fucking leech!”
He turns, hand still held captive in both of Dmitri's, to see Sen grasping his head with both hands, then doubling over and dry-heaving.
Sort of.
Something does come out of him, but to Faolan's eyes, it looks more like spiderwebs pulled away from Sen's form, the shapeless thing falling into the water below with barely a ripple. Sen rights himself and backs up a step, then points at the water. "You fucking parasite -"
A small waterspout begins to form, then shapes itself until a humanoid head barely breaks the water's surface, peering up with overlarge, oval eyes. Long strands of kelp-like hair float about it, and the whole of the being has an insubstantial, transparent quality. Jellyfish-like. Squid-like. Still, not quite like anything.
Nerys is running up with the two mudmen trotting behind him, and Faolan, perplexed enough to still be held by Dmitri, likewise approaches. (Assuming Rin is also near.) They all stare at the thing in the water and Sen snaps, "There. There's your 'Moloch'. Do you want to tell them, or should I?"
The thing in the water lifts itself up to reveal an almost human mouth, slightly too wide, with far too many teeth. It makes a noise like angry buzzing, but when it sinks again to eye-level, the sound takes on a different, watery quality - a deep-ocean hum.
Sen pulls a disgusted face. "'Pact'. I had a pact with a demon, not a fucking Vodyan-“
The buzzing grows louder and Sen blanches, then reaches down to pick up the nearest thing he can find - a broken bit of plank - and throws it at the thing in the water. The creature floats easily aside and watches the wood bob harmlessly away. "Fuck off with you and your 'game'."
Nerys appears to be the only one who can comprehend what's being said, so he quirks a brow at Sen. "You tried to lie to a demon about who you were? That's ironic."
"I was drunk and I was twenty!” Sen's indignation rises and he points at Nerys. "Stay out of this -"
Nerys is clearly restraining his laughter; he speaks over Sen, who begins shouting at the water entity again. "Your bard here tried to engage a demon into a pact by lying about his identity. Moloch thought it was a game and decided to give it a whirl."
"Its name is Mykola,” Sen interrupts, "And it's a parasitic little opportunist -"
"It's a vodyan," Nerys corrects. “Your vodyan. Names don't matter to it.
"Picked it up in Mysos like sailors' pox, did you? Serves you right."
[NAT, d: 24
dm: Dima recognizes the word 'vodyan' as a water entity that lives in the rivers and lakes of Morovsk, but has been known to travel up the canal to Mysos. The vodyan are related to the cecaelia in the way squid and octopus are related: similar but different. The vodyan are humanoid and have a lower body composed of tentacles, but are translucent like jellyfish.
He would know they are capable of "riding along" with a host; generally benign, but able to take control or resist being removed. They're not particularly harmful or malevolent, but they are considered pests.
The vodyan here, Mykola, appears to be a juvenile, or at least not yet at full sexual maturity, and therefore genderless.
Ah and. He would know that they make pacts in a very Desmond like manner. You don't break a deal with a vodyan or you both grow frail and slowly sicken. Unless it kills you, which this one doesn't appear to want to do.
note: Dima is giving Sen even MORE of a look right now. While continuing to clutch Faolan's wrist for dear life.
Note also, the vodyan is speaking a sort of Infernal. Which makes it comprehensible to Rin and Nerys. Sen is understanding it, if not the language.
q: does Dima have any sense of the typical lifespan of a vodyan?
a: This one is going to die in the not too distant future without a host; without its host specifically. But they can live several centuries in ideal circumstances.
Dima would as a wizard also know that a pact with a vodyan is probably very advantageous if Sen can keep the thing under control or come to some kind of agreement about body usage. But also he's probably never heard of a warlock pact with one. What he does know is that gillmen and cecaelia are envied for their aquatic abilities, and vodyan are kind of up there, too.
Not that it matters, but Dima also would know this is a particularly pretty one.]
<.>
Dima - wanting to addressing Faolan's words, how ill-fitting they are; feeling like finally, finally he's approaching a grasp on his own speech - doesn't precisely want to move from this moment, or give so much as a glance in Sen's direction. (Whatever's happening, the elf brought it on himself, and Dmitri doubts it needs immediate attention.) (Dmitri, after all, wants to mend a shattering he brought upon himself, and more importantly, brought onto Faolan.)
The thing is, Faolan is moving toward the bridge, and Dima has no intention of letting him slip away. So Dima moves, as well. Keeping step and Messaging Faolan, [ I don't believe that.
And if I did— I am no stranger to rot, and not liable to shy from its cover. ]
He means to add more, but their approach has brought them to the sight of Moloch, the supposed-infernal being who has risen from the water and looks very much like—
There's a hissed breath from Dima, an exasperated, "For shit's sake."
Leave it to Sen to enter a - so far as Dmitri knows, previously unheard of - warlock's pact with a vodyan. He listens to the conversation, looking from Sen to the vodyan, and thinking.
Thinking that it might not be the *worst* thing for Sen to entertain Mykola's presence.
Knowing that unless they find a loophole in the original pact, cutting the pact any longer bodes no good for Sen's continued health.
[q: would dmitri have any sense of what nerys means when he said 'names don't matter to it.' or more particularly, would he know anything about how vodyan engage with names and how much names do or don't mean in their pacts?
a: He would know Vodyan don't name one another; they abandon their young, so a name is just a current label used to indicate 'self’. If Sen said he was Seddum, he was still the entity who is right now calling himself ‘Sen’.]
Dima has a question - many questions - to pose here, but before he can speak, Rin's voice cuts in, speaking the strange (not entirely strange) buzz of Infernal.
Rin's crouched beside the water, eyes narrowed, tail flicking in a fit of pique as they study the creature who they were told and apparently Sen was told is Moloch, but who is also Mykola, and they don't fault having two names but they do fault hounding Sen and being opportunistic with him!
(Well. But also. They don't not see why it might've seemed like a game. It makes sense to Rin, even if they don't very much like the situation.)
[ What do you want with Sen, anyway? He's his own elf, and he's a very GOOD one at that! And what's so bad about the water? It seems like an all right place to live. ]
They think so, anyway, though it occurs to Rin now that they really don't know.
[ Also how'd you even hear him in the first place? You AREN'T a demon, are you? ]
<.>
Mykola floats backward a foot or so, its eyes fixing on Rin; a sad sound follows this movement and briefly, it vanishes below the water before surfacing again.
[ You ARE a demon. ]
The mournful little sound follows this proclamation; clearly, it thinks Rin is Sen's new patron. (Replacing it, of course.)
Sen looks lost: while he can understand Mykola, he can't understand Rin, and so he has no idea where that statement came from.
The vodyan swims nearer, its large, strange eyes reflecting Rin's face. [ We have a compact. Our game became a vow of magic. He must allow me and I must give my magic to him. There is no water for me without Seddum. ]
It lifts a webbed, clawed hand from the river and points at Sen. [ We die together, apart. Look and see. We die more with every tide. See how he diminishes. Breathes shallows.
Together, we are strong. I have Seddum and Seddum has magic. ]
Sen doesn't answer this, either, but neither does he meet Rin's eyes. Mykola suddenly whips a splash of water at him and buzzes accusingly.
[ Tell your demon, Seddum. Tell them you are killing us. ]
<.>
Rin would like to try to assess sen's health or/and whether Mykola is telling the truth pls.
[MED, r: 19
INS, r: 13
Mykola is exceptionally hard to read and they can't tell whether or not it's lying; they CAN see how Sen was misled into thinking it was a demon, particularly if he was drunk, because Mykola has the world's best poker face, apparently. (With its natural 20 against Rin's insight check.)
As for Sen - at a perfunctory glance, he looks okay. However, now that Rin knows what to look for, Sen definitely isn't well. Someone who's known him longer - like Dmitri - would be able to tell he's thinner, that his skin's not quite the right color, that he's not as hardy as he was when they first met.
Both he and Mykola look like they're not breathing the right mixture of air / water.
In other words - Sen needs to be in the water occasionally. Mykola needs to breathe air occasionally. They've both become amphibious thanks to their pact.]
Rin doesn't want to believe it. It'd be easy to tell themself that Sen just looks a little unwell because they've all just been fighting and things have been stressful and— Come to think of it, when was the last time Sen got any sleep? (Or, wait, aren't elves supposed to not really sleep? That's getting into too many steps and Rin's mind's going to wandering if they don't shove back on track and—) So looking not so okay would be understandable - and after all, Sen's so vibrant! how could he be... not... well? - and it's possible Mykola's playing another game, because Rin knows games within games can be fun for the one playing at them.
But it's hard not to be worried.
It's hard not to look at Sen with a puzzled expression, a look of growing distress, or to hear 'we die together, apart' over and over again, or to speak in a voice that sounds very lost, "Sen?
"Sen, is it true? Sen, do you know?”
Dmitri, meanwhile - still gripping Faolan's wrist - can't track a word of the Infernal discussion, but is beginning to understand a few things about why Sen's looked increasingly, if subtly, less well with every encounter. And Dima is in fact going to speak, voice even, curiously toneless—
"'Have,' not had.
"You have a pact with this vodyan.
"Sen. How have you been feeling."
<.>
Sen's non-response - a folding of arms and a look down at his feet against the wood of the bridge - is answer enough. What he does say, after an uncomfortable moment has passed, is a bitter, "Its fucking pact. I didn't choose it; I was young and too stupid to know better. It's an opportunistic, pestilent little -"
“Hey!” Faolan snaps suddenly, taking a step or two forward and finding himself still held tightly by Dmitri. It doesn't stop him from pointing an emphatic finger at Sen and continuing sharply, “It's young. Look at it. It's still a juvenile, Sen."
This appears to be something Sen didn't know and never considered - but then, Sen has no experience with vodyan, having never lived in Morovsk like Dmitri or Faolan. He looks at Mykola, seeming to see it for the first time.
Petulantly, Mykola buzzes, [ I am grown enough. I have seen four rivers now. ]
Sen's shoulders hunch inward a little; now, he nods and replies, "Yes. It's true. Yes, I know, though I didn't when I - escaped it."
Then, darting a chagrined glance at Faolan, he amends, "Abandoned it."
<.>
Silence, following Sen's emendation. Silence in which Rin looks at Sen, then at Mykola, worried for both, thinking it's a shitty situation and not able to tell whether there's a good answer. It's not really anyone's fault, as far as they can tell, but faultlessness doesn't seem likely to make anything better. (Rin also thinks Mykola's remark about four rivers is kind of funny, but they're not going to laugh right now.)
In the silence, Dima slips his hold from Faolan's wrist to Faolan's hand (or tries to, at least), where he resettles his firm hold; where he presses, briefly, with extra tightness, feeling the jaggedness in Sen's 'abandoned it,' feeling it can't have struck Faolan well. (Thinking Fae deserves and likely needs a rest, in body in mind in heart. It's been such a trying godsdamned day.)
Finally, Dmitri looks at Sen, and there might, might be just a little worry when he asks, "What precisely is the nature of your pact?"
And, "Pacts made among the vodyan are notoriously inviolable. And inevitably, inextricably linked to the health of all involved parties.
"It might be wise for the two of you to talk. About what you expect; about what you might want from an... Association. A partnership, if you will."
And, via Message, [ I expect you know your life depends upon it. ]
<.>
no subject
An unspoken something he won't let himself read into. (You'll leave me somehow, he thinks - accusingly. Angrily. (With terror lining the thought's boundaries.)) He looks back at Dmitri and forgets he was thinking anything at all; his eyes sting with salt wetness.
He's tired. He's terribly tired and when he closes his eyes he knows he'll see that sword swinging down at Dmitri again and again, only a hundred yards from the docks where he called him My Dima and Dmitri called him My Fae. (How could everything go so quickly from perfect to nightmarish?)
He's tired and he wishes he'd never wandered into that clearing.
Dmitri is speaking to Sen, so he forces his focus that way. (But he doesn't withdraw his hand and feels craven for it.)
Sen, knowing well the things Dima says, if not the nuance, begins to bounce on the balls of his toes in agitation, then draws his hands up and back through his hair.
As the Message hits him, he retorts out loud, “Yes, I know my life depends on it."
He drops his hands and sighs. "I know."
Finally, he eases himself to the edge of the bridge, pulls off his boots, and lets his feet dangle in the water. Mykola swims nearer without hesitation and seems content to float close, one tentacle wrapping itself around Sen's calf. He watches it with a complicated expression, then looks up at Rin.
When he speaks again, it's low enough for only the tiefling and the vodyan to hear him. "Mykola, this is Rin. Rin, Mykola.
"If we're to talk, it will be the three of us. You see - "
He draws a breath and slumps forward, dangling his long forearms from his knees. "It's true: we die together, apart, you and I. But so it goes with Rin. I am their own, you see, in a way I am not yours -"
[ But mine another way. As it must be. Was promised. I was promised. ]
Forcing himself to be patient, reminding himself this is more youth than watery antagonist, Sen closes his eyes and breathes out slowly. "Yes. But I must be yours in a way that I am not theirs.
"If I am to keep both of my promises, you must agree to Rin."
[ You will die without them. ]
He hesitates, thinking he really hasn't known Rin well enough to start saying such things out loud. Clearing his throat and looking askance at them, he replies carefully, "I will wish it, because I would not wish for any life without them - which is very much the same. So, I suppose I would, yes. Little by little, without the life they bring."
Mykola stares, seeming to contemplate the tiefling; its tentacle winds and unwinds in a way reminiscent both of an octopus and, strangely, a child giving serious thought to a stranger.
[ You will die without them. We will die together, apart - from them. ] It speaks directly to Rin now. [ Stay together with us. ]
"Please," Sen corrects softly.
[ Why beg? If they wish it, there is no begging, and if they do not wish it, begging does not change them- ]
"Because courtesy matters. Just say 'please', for fuck's sake."
Bubbles break the water's surface as though the vodyan has blown out irritably, mirroring Sen's exasperation.
[ ’Please for fuck's sake.’ ]
<.>
Rin - wary, worried, and also just a little intrigued (Mykola doesn't seem like the worst not-demon, but also maybe it's messing with all of them, maybe Sen just doesn't want this, and it's all very tangled) - drops down cross-legged beside Sen, then cautiously, cautiously dips their tail into the water.
And, to Sen, "Is it okay with you?" Nodding toward Mykola, they then Message Sen, [ Does it hurt you? To be with them, however that means? ]
Out loud again, "I don't want to live without you, either." Which would be weird, if the thought didn't feel - if Sen didn't feel - right in a way no person or humanoid or place ever has. It isn't usual for Rin to want to stay around anyone, but that doesn't make any of this less fitting. Really, it only proves that they were right about everyone else being not worth time or trusting.
Flashing Sen a grin, blowing his a kiss, they add, "So I guess you're pretty much stuck with me."
Turning their focus to Mykola: "I'm not really a demon, by the way. Not much more than you are." And in Infernal, [ It's nice to share a language though. I don't run into a lot of people who know it, so mostly it's me talking to me, and that can get a little old. ]
A pause. A hum. And they look from the voydan to Sen, again, again. "Sen, I want you to be okay. And... Mykola, I don't really know you, but you seem all right, so I guess I don't want you getting hurt, either."
Again looking from one to the other, and back again, "How does it work? Do you share a body, or— I don't really know about any of this. Maybe these are rude questions to ask? I should be courteous, too; that's so." The nod, confirming this important fact! "Really, okay really, the point is if you two are okay with the... With this pact you have? It's okay with me.
"And in that case, I guess you're also stuck with me, Mykola."
And Rin's just going to blow Mykola a kiss now; much lighter, briefer than Sen's, more like a friendly greeting.
It doesn't not occur to Dmitri that the vodyan grasps Sen's ankle in much the same way he's gripping Faolan's hand.
He's not going to think about that. Whatever's occurring among Sen, Rin, and Mykola isn't his to touch just now. (Though it might be a relief, that Sen's at least willing to consider finding a way to accomodate the pact.)
What is his to touch is—
Well. Not Faolan's hand; that's a gift on Fae's part, that this contact's been permitted to remain.
Dmitri's purview is to manage the fracture he's caused, and as he and Faolan stand watching the scene at the water, he speaks softly, "The truth, Faolan, is that I feel for you what I have never felt for another."
Immediately, he shakes his head, huffs a breath; that wasn't as specific as it could have been. Fuck's sake, why is it so difficult to approach this man in words? He seeks Faolan's eyes, swallows, and: "What you are is astonishing; what you are stops my heart in its chest.
"What I mean is your being bathed in your own fire's light. Your hand wrapped in my own, or seeking mine out of your own volition. How your eyes reflect the stars; how your voice spilled reverberant across calm waters. How you allowed me— Welcomed me. To lie beside you, through til dawn.
"And Faolan. You may think yourself rotten; you may have been given infinite cause to wither. But your heart shines like no other. There is such tenderness in you— Twined, yes, with viciousness, equally to me taste." He attempts a crooked smile, nearly manages.
"There is no one and nothing like you, Faolan; this, I promise. And I should like to know your heart, and better offer you my own."
<.>
Mykola jerks backward from the kiss as though there might be something deadly about it. It sinks just below the water, its face distorted by the slow current as it stares unblinking at Rin. When nothing happens, it mimics the movement of lips, sending a bubble to break the water's surface.
Harmless.
Another of its tentacles finds Rin's tail and twines delicately, never taking any imposing hold.
After a while, Sen speaks again. "I'm not certain how it's meant to work. It needs a host, but it can exist on its own - obviously. I gather there's an element of protection in 'riding' - a symbiosis. Magic for me, safety and comfort for it. Experiences. It may feel what I feel, as well - we never really discussed it."
Raising his voice just a little to be certain the vodyan is listening, he continues, "The problem is boundaries, isn't it? It would take control of me while I slept, at first. Or while I was mid-fuck. Then it would steal entire days from me."
[ Borrowing. ]
"If you can't give them back, you aren't borrowing," he sighs, then leans shoulder-to-shoulder with Rin. "The other problem is it learned 'borrowing' from me - and lying. And gambling, as a matter of fact."
[ Cards-dice, ] Mykola bubbles, pleased to contribute to this recounting.
"Cards-dice. Yes, but you aren't very good at them, are you?" he replies without rancor. Mykola's response is another splash of water.
[ Played cards-dice as you play. ]
It's clear, despite Sen's grousing and the discomfort, the unpleasantness of the situation, there's a depth of relief for both himself and the vodyan - perhaps even dim fondness, relief at being together again.
"Broke and unable to recall entire weeks at a time? I puzzled out the culprit. It was joyriding, and that was not the deal, now was it?"
Mykola eyes Sen, then tilts itself back and summersaults slowly in the water.
"And this is generally how our conversations went. I talk, it -" He gestures to how the vodyan twists, seeming to chase its own tentacles. "I'm not sure whether it's ignoring me, but it seemed so, back then."
Sighing, he swings the foot being held by the tentacle and Mykola lets the movement carry it back and forth through the water. Bubbles float upward in bursts - laughter - and Sen smiles with something like nostalgia.
"But more to your question, Pretty Rin: yes, I would have to share. However, I think it's grasped the idea that even if it doesn't share with me, it will have to share with you. Which means it may only play cards-dice when I am aware, or when Rin is watching, yes?"
Mykola grasps Rin's tail and swings slowly between them, Sen's movements carrying it against the current, and the current carrying it back.
[ A sometimes-host for cards-dice, so it will be we three together? ]
"Ah. There was that." Sen snorts, then turns to look over his shoulder at Dima and Faolan. Turning back, he replies, "Perhaps if you ask Dima very nicely, he will find you a sometimes-host."
Looking to Rin, he mouths, Corpse.
<.>
"Oh, no." Words spoken below their breath as Sen talks about losing time. That is a serious problem, and the look Rin's giving Mykola says they really don't approve. Maybe Mykola didn't understand, but still, it can't have been okay for Sen, and Rin scoots closer to him, winding an arm around his waist. And softly, gently they sway their tail in the water, a way of showing Mykola that even if Rin doesn't look entirely happy about that 'borrowing,' it's all right for the vodyan to touch their tail like that.
They do like the idea of playing cards or dice or cards-dice all together sometime; that could be fun, right? But there's the other thing to address first—
"Mykola, you can't just borrow bodies like that, not even with pacts. It's really not fair, because— Okay, do you know dibs?" They do not wait to hear whether Mykola knows dibs; Rin is too focused on getting their point across right now. "Well, whoever's in the body in the first place has dibs, and you have to ask if you can join them. Like asking 'please for fuck's sake' and if they say yes, then you can hang around, and if they say no, you have to be okay with that.
"I'd like very much to play cards-dice, all three of us. There are all kinds of games we can play, and maybe we can all go for a swim, though I don't love water all the time, and— Did Sen teach you about pickpocketing?" They shake their head, give their tail a little flick, just at its end, so they don't shake off Mykola. "Pickpocketing's very different than taking over bodies. We need our bodies to live, right?
"I want all of us to play cards, but you have to promise not to borrow or get into Sen's body without his permission. You'll probably have more fun anyway if Sen's in on it with you.
"Besides, Sen needs to be able to remember things, because I never do, and none of us'll get anywhere if nobody remembers." Yes, that is a very good point they've made, and Rin nods emphatically.
<.>
Of all the things Rin says, the only thing that causes Mykola to still is this last: Sen needs to remember things.
Its hold tightens on tail and calf, not to cause harm, but to keep itself steady in the water so it can regard Rin very seriously. Abruptly, it releases them both and dives, vanishing into the murk of the water. A rippling trail evidences where it's gone: in a circle around them, under the bridge and back again.
"It's thinking," Sen comments approvingly. He looks down at Rin with an appreciative smile and thinks maybe if they'd been around all along, they might have been able to translate his sense to Mykola's...nonsense, really. Or at least simplify things he tried to overexplain to the vodyan, thus likely causing it to be inattentive.
He presses a kiss to one of their horns and, while Mykola continues its circuitous pondering, whispers, "You are stuck with me, as well. As long as you'll allow."
These words come punctuated by the wet return of tentacles; Mykola's eyes break the surface and it waits until both elf and tiefling are looking at it again.
[ No dibs. So Sen-Seddum may remember. ]
Sen hums as if to say, well, would you look at that, but the vodyan tugs. There's a 'but' coming.
[ Allow me. Dibs for you, allow for me, remember for Rin, and we live together, together. Apart only sometimes. We weaken together, apart, Seddum. ]
Sen considers this grimly; in the back of his mind, he wonders if maybe as Mykola ages, it will be able to remain outside his body for prolonged periods of time. If not, well. Any life is better than none at all.
"We'll discuss it again. How long and when you may have a turn at the reins. We agree only that right now, we are sick. Right now, we need to share."
[ You promised - ]
"I promised no specifics. You promised none. We need to deal better.”
[ …Unhappy with this, Seddum. ]
"Brilliant. Then you've learned to compromise."
Mykola's answer is another splash of water.
<.>
"Dibs, allow, remember," Rin muses, leaning their head against Sen's arm and nodding. "That seems all right to me." It's something, anyway, and Sen seems to think it's an acceptable something, and maybe all Sen and Mykola need is a way to start learning how existing together can working. And aloud, more like thinking out loud than making a precise point, "It's hard enough working out how to live in one body, so it takes time to figure out two, and sometimes sharing. That makes sense."
Against Sen's arm, they nuzzle a little bit, thinking how, really, how really nice it was to hear Sen say they're stuck with him, also. How that felt right. And how it's also kind of nice, just sitting on this bridge with Mykola holding on to both of them, then swimming around, then peering over the water jussst so.
Messaging Sen: [ Oh, I'll allow forever. I am VERY certain of you, you see. ] And there's a nudge of their horns against Sen's arm; there's a happy little grin.
Then speaking more directly to Mykola and Sen: "There's probably ways to make it happier for both of you. Between the three of us, I just bet we'll figure something out. Probably a lot of something."
And a thought, a cant of their head. "Mykola, where do you go when you're not sharing with Sen? Is there something we can get for you to make it easier? Like a way of travel or something, so you can be around with us even when it's not time for sharing?"
<.>
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8) Loch Bien: Complications, Concerns, and— Frogs?
After the first day there, spent completing the enchantment for Dima, Fae begins to act particularly cagey.
On the second day, he leaves the inn early, making mention only that he has to see to an errand.
<.>
Dima would like please to ask Faolan if everything's all right, if he can catch him before Fae slips off.
<.>
Faolan is behaving in such a manner that one might believe he's avoiding Dima; if Dima happens along in time, he'll see Fae slip out of his room and hurry to leave before any run-ins occur.
<.>
Fae.
Dima is casting Message.
And asking, [ Faolan, what is it? I'd like to help. ]
<.>
Fae falters in his step, looks back guardedly, and replies, [ There's nothing to help with. I'll be back later. ]
<.>
He doesn't like this caginess. He does take a step forward, extending his hand cautiously. [ Where are you going.
Fae— It is hazardous here. If anything happens, I—
I'd like to know where you are. We need to be able to find you. ]
<.>
Faolan looks almost pityingly at Dima, though it might be more self-directed. [ I lived here half my life. I know the risks. ]
He looks at the hand extended, back up again, and shakes his head. [ It's just something I have to do. It's not anything - ]
He huffs, looking away. [ It's why I'm here. Why I was coming here.
Just wait for me, can't you? ] This last has some frustration in his tone, speaking of an underlying anxiety he isn't showing. Without waiting for a response, he turns and trots off - carefully not looking back.
<.>
Something feels awry, though Dima can't quite tell whether Faolan is uneasy, or whether it's only that Dima doesn't care for being left in the dark. (He doesn't know what to make of the pity in that look; he tries not to think about it.)
He does know that Faolan has - of course he has - the right to tend to his own affairs. That Dima can't claim hold of all of Faolan's endeavors, and he takes one more step, lowering his hand as Faolan disappears. Standing where he is, wanting to follow Faolan—
But that'd be ill-advised. He has to trust the man. He has to trust he'll handle himself— Oh, of course Faolan can handle himself.
Dima does send one last Message after Fae: [ I'll be here.
When you return— Let me know. Please. ]
<.>
Sen strolls up behind Dima with his head cocked at the retreating form of their druid. Before Fae turns a corner, he drawls, "Well, if you aren't going to follow him, I will."
<.>
The look Dima shoots Sen is a mingling of irritation, disdain, and more than a little bit of wariness. "Why in shit's name would I - let alone you - do that?”
<.>
Sen regards Dima for a beat, then replies, "Usually, when someone doesn't want me following them, that's precisely when I find it most informative to do so."
<.>
He understands the sentiment.
Or he would, if the someone in question wasn't Faolan.
There's a slight tick of Dima's lip before he responds, "Fae can take care of himself."
<.>
Sen considers a moment more, then shrugs and turns back to the inn. "Suit yourself. I'm sure tonight's conversation over supper will prove illuminating."
<.>
Dima whirls around, moving toward Sen in a sudden fit of assertion, reaching for his shoulder: "Don't you dare follow him." Oh, Sen looks as though he means to head back to the inn; Dima doesn't trust that for a moment.
And. After silence has almost settled: "Do you know where he's going."
<.>
Sen takes a step back from Dima's reach with a look of perturbation. "Of course I don't. Why would he tell me if he wouldn't tell you?"
<.>
"He wouldn't. I wouldn't expect him to. What wouldn't surprise in the least would be to find you've been rifling through his possessions, or tailing him since we first arrived."
While this is happening, Rin is in fact going to attempt to slip past them and begin following Fae. Since they followed Sen and heard his proposal and it is a little weird that's Faolan's been quiet and where's he even got to go? If nothing else, Rin's curious. And they're going to Message Sen, [ I'm on ittt ] as they attempt to stealth past and stealth-follow Faolan.
<.>
Sen lets this insult pass without reply. Instead, he says, "If you want to know where he's going, perhaps you ought to ask him. Or did you do that already?"
To Rin, he sends an encouraging, [ There's my Pretty Rin. ]
Rin is able to catch up relatively quickly to Faolan's trail; he makes his way through the grey, craggy city as though he knows not only the layout, but precisely where he's going. A turn down a busy street leads toward the wealthier parts of Loch Bien - Cloud Pass and the Castle Ward. He takes no notice of Rin, and eventually he finds his way to a large set of gates; they stand open, and here, he stops, looking both apprehensive and guilty.
Faolan looks down at his shoes, then at his hand as though seeking something important - then breathes and sets his jaw. He attempts to square his shoulders, but there's a faint heaviness to them. He looks like a man trudging towards an unwanted outcome.
He passes through the gates into a public garden, its pathways lined with evergreen topiary and faded flowers. The garden stretches about half a city block, ending abruptly at a low stone wall and ocean overlook.
Nobility strolls here and there; some of them spot Faolan and sneer; one woman looks infuriated and quickens her pace, steering her husband away. Faolan's shoulders bow a little more.
Near the overlook, a finely-dressed man stands talking with a much older woman who, upon spying Faolan, clears her throat and excuses herself - though it appears Faolan's target is the nobleman. The latter grins, steps toward him, and settles a familiar hand on his arm. Faolan doesn't reciprocate the gesture; they speak in tones too low to be heard.
<.>
Back at the inn, Dima looks - is - discomforted by Sen's question. It isn't that he suspects Faolan of ill intent (the thought - perhaps strangely for Dmitri - never crosses his mind); it's that he doubts whether he ought to have allowed the man to slip away. Thinks perhaps he ought to have been more persistent, and however well Faolan knows this city, however well he's navigated it in the past, the fact is that they may all be under a particularly sharp watch by Calabra and his retinue, and opportunists are liable to snipe at a target apart from its group.
Dmitri's begun staring at a point beyond Sen. He's flexing his fingers, again, again, again.
And finally he curses, glares at the inn, at the street, then shakes his head and starts striding off in the direction Fae traveled. "We aren't going to sneak after him.
"He can see us coming. Ward us off if he likes.
"It isn't safe to be wandering alone. Fuck.”
It is also very possible that Faolan's gone too far already to be found, but Dima's going to try, anyway, bringing Liviana - after casting Invisibility on her - as well, and signaling for Sen to follow.
[PERC, d: 20; by the time Dima decides to chase Faolan, his trail has grown too cold. However, Sen, being the stellar poker player we know he is, keeps looking off after Rin, and it's easy enough to get him to admit Rin followed Fae.]
Rin has only visited Loch Bien once or twice. They never could get into the whole atmosphere of the place, and it just hasn't been on their radar very much. Still, navigating cities comes easily to them, and they're able to follow Faolan while taking in some scope of this place. They follow Faolan through the gates. They even manage not to slip their hand into anyone's pocket— Yet. On the way out, all bets are off!
They're going to position themself beside some shrubbery, moving as close to Faolan and this shit-eating man as they can while keeping in cover, and they're going to pick up what they can from the conversation.
[questions for rin!
Do they recognize the man at all?
What does Fae's body language tell them?
Can they hear anything from the convo?
answers!
Rin doesn't recognize the man with Faolan, and Fae's body language says only that he's ashamed of something.
Rin can only hear snatches of the conversation:
"-don't do that kind of thing anymore -"
"-a conversation, somewhere more sec-"
"-your conversations go -"
"-*said* you wanted my help, Fell -"
q: what does the man look like?
a: The man is around Dima's age, maybe a little older, with greying hair. He's gone soft with age, but still retains his good looks. His clothes are typical of the nobility here: warm, fur-trimmed, elegant. He's clearly very familiar with Faolan.]
Dima is both angry with Sen and Rin, and relieved that at least someone will be near him. Given that they have no real way of locating the druid and rogue, Dmitri will suggest returning to the inn, following a path that will take them through areas of Loch Bien likely to be abuzz with travelers and city citizens, on the off chance of hearing anything of interest, and keeping an eye out for anyone Dima might recognize.
He might just be trying to distract himself from a growing sense of unease.
Rin is committing to memory the words they can catch, as well as the stranger's overall appearance (they're not so good with faces, but they can usually keep a solid general idea, and they are very good at recognizing clothing). They do mouth 'Fell?' when the man speaks it, or speaks what sounds like 'Fell.'
For the moment, they're going to keep quiet and keep still, listening for anything further.
If Faolan begins to move, they'll attempt to follow.
<.>
Whatever the nature of the conversation, it appears that Faolan is seeking help for something, and the nobleman is requesting something in return. Faolan clearly says 'no' several times, only to be met with a patronizing smile and, finally, a hand touching his cheek in a way that causes him to jerk his head away.
The nobleman laughs about this.
Rin can clearly hear him say, "Fell. A drink. What harm will it do, hm?" before steering a resigned (defeated) Faolan towards the garden gates.
<.>
Rin, feeling like maybe they really shouldn’t follow, and remember also that they had promised themself some thefting, opts to try picking a few pockets before leaving the area.
[d20 roll, r: 6
Rin managed to pickpocket:
1. A preserved human ear.
2. A small wooden comb.
3. An elven arrowhead.
4. "A small carefully painted lead figurine of a human warrior with sword and shield" a tin rin
5. A Jade brooch
6. A very strange ring that seems to hum with magical energy.
and after one further roll—
They managed to pick one more pocket on the way back to the inn, and what they turned up was a glass owl. This too seems to hum with magical energy.]
...Rin is going to tap the skeleton key against the owl and the ring, then give it a turn in the ear.
[dm: nothing happens as neither of these are a lock]
Rin headed back to the inn to share their findings with Sen.
They would have told Dima only that they lost track of Faolan, which isn't noT true, and that he seemed to be sticking within the city anyway.
They would have told Sen precisely what they saw.
[q: Would rin like sen to cast Identify?
a: rin would!
The owl is, as it turns out, a Serpentine Owl.]
RIN IS VERY EXCITED. But and. Is going to ask Sen if he would like it, since they have Curio and it seems very unfair that Sen doesn't have some kind of pet-like creature. And they know Sen would put it to good use!
<.>
Sen has Mykola.
…Who would like the jade brooch, in fact, and without Sen realizing it, is going to attempt to steal it. With one of Sen's hands.
[mykola: 25
PERC, r: 25
Rin notices Sen's hand slooooowly palming the jade brooch.]
Sen is in the process of inspecting the ring and takes no notice of this.
<.>
Rin just, "Mykola!! Hey!" Just going to gently try to swat that hand. "You have to ask first!"
"When you steal from friends it is important to ask.”
<.>
Sen looks startled, staring at Rin and then staring at the hand they swatted. He watches as it curls into a slow fist, then turns palm up in silent plea.
"I say this with all the eloquence of my soul: this is fucking weird."
<.>
Rin looks at Sen's hand. Looks at Sen. "Did you feel it move at all?"
And, speaking to Sen's hand: "Myka, this seems an awful lot like joyriding. >:/" They're going to take the brooch and hold it up. "You can have this, but only if Sen says it's okay."
<.>
"Not even a little," he murmurs, flexing his hand and finding it's...under his control, but also under Mykola's. It returns to the palm-up pleading position and he shrugs. It's not the worst thing, really.
"They can have it tomorrow. A sort of penalty for stealing and getting caught."
There's a pause, and then his fingers begin to curl into a fist again - with one exception. He snorts. "Look, they're speaking shithead."
<.>
Rin flicks Sen's hand off in returning, grinning. "That seems very fair to me!
"Mykola, maybe if you work with Sen, you'll have a little more luck. That was a pretty good attempt, but you'll maybe do better if you don't have to hide from Sen and whoever you're stealing from.
"Which, by the way, should not be me. >:c"
Rin puts the brooch into the Bag Of Holding, where it can be retrieved for Mykola tomorrow and no sooner!
<.>
Sen uses his last remaining spell slot to cast Identify on the ring Rin found and starts to laugh hysterically.
<.>
"Sen what IS it?? :o?"
<.>
He hands the ring back and says, "Give that to Dima sometime."
"It'll be worth the not-knowing. I swear."
<.>
Rin doesn't think twice; if Sen says to give it to Dima, they figure they'll find out the meaning soon enough. And they do like a surprise. So they wink at Sen and the ring goes into their pocket. "Slip it onto his finger of just hand it to him very 'Please Dmitri what does this do'?"
<.>
"Put it on him, lie to him, don't let him try to sort out for you what it does or he won't put it on."
<.>
Rin likes this; it's a nice little maybe-challenge, and they nod. "Then so it will be!"
[q: is there anything Rin or maybe Sen if Sen looks would notice about the other items? slash does Sen want to keep any?
a: Sen's pretty content just to look and see how much Rin's enjoying. TBH probably went out pickpocketing, as well.]
<.>
no subject
<.>
Dima would have spent most of the evening in the tavern, with some time spent walking the nearby streets. And would have sent Liv out under Invisibility when he waS in the inn to keep an eye out for Faolan. So.
It's while Dima's checking the streets nearby - his worry becoming near-intolerable, and it helps his focus some to keep busy this way - that Liviana alerts him to Faolan's return, and there's a surge of relief as Dmitri hurries back, not not running half the way, thanking Liv as she joins him.
He's there in time to see Fae moving upstairs - badly, bearly - helped along by the innkeeper. And there's a half-shouted "Fae!” as Dima rushes forward, certain Faolan's been wounded, moving to aid in helping him up the stairs and to offer what mending he can.
<.>
The innkeeper looks relieved to see someone who knows this stumbling, slurring boy. He backs away when Dima seems to have Faolan who, now that Dmitri is close, is clearly not injured; the red-shot eyes and dazed, then miserable way he looks at the smaller man. The strong scent of booze lingers miasmic on him.
He doesn't fight, though. He lets Dmitri take and lead him, every movement heavy with resignation much the same as what Rin observed earlier. He does say, in the too-low tones of a drunken man who thinks he's speaking audibly, "Why not. What else, right? Why not."
<.>
He doesn't understand.
And while he's glad to find no sign of physical injury, something must have happened to put Fae into this state, clearly unhappy as well as booze-sick. He's been away all day; what in fuck's name has happened in that time? (Dima doesn't like to see Faolan looking as if drawn through agony. Doesn't like the way resignation settles heavy on him.) (He never should have let Fae slip away this morning. He damns himself for a careless, short-sighted brute.)
Whatever the case, Dima strengths the grip of his arm around Fae's waist, and presses his hand firm against Fae's arm, then caresses, caresses. (Listens for the innkeeper, who's meant to be bringing water to Fae's room.) Speaks in a low tone of his own—
"It's all right, Faolan. We're going to get you to your room. Get some water into you, and get you to bed. It's all right; your night is almost through, and your Dima's here."
<.>
Faolan looks as though the world's crumbling beneath his feet; he stares with wide, helpless eyes, then seems to fall into himself. "My Dima."
It's not until he's sitting on the edge of his bed, not yet sick but feeling no ease from the thrall of alcohol, that he speaks again. He looks up to find Dmitri still with him, takes a ragged breath, and says the words again.
"My Dima."
Hopeless, the way he said them on the docks - as though sure of the oncoming loss.
The innkeeper appears with a pitcher of water and a clean chamber pot that he places just beside the head of the bed. He quickly vacates the room after confirming Dima will do the looking-after.
<.>
There's a rising warmth in his chest as Faolan's eyes meet his - 'yes,' he thinks, 'yes, please, look at me, and know I'm here' - and an equal measure of spiking nausea, of worry for this man who looks so lost, who went out wary in the morning and came back reeling and looking worlds apart from himself.
He came back, though. That's important; that's a relief. Whatever happened hurt Fae, but Fae's still here, and Dima won't let him slip off again. He'll take better care of his Fae. And now, whatever's happened, he'll fix it or ease Faolan from its grasp, its memory.
To the innkeeper, Dima gives three gold pieces and a nod. And when the door closes, leaving Faolan and Dima - and Liv, of course - Dima pours a cup of water, then moves to Faolan. Brushing back his hair and offering a smile grown from relief and from a wish to guard his Fae.
And softly, gently he speaks, "My Fae."
Then, raising the cup - for Faolan to take in hand, or to drink from Dima's hold - he adds, "Drink. Please."
<.>
Faolan makes a soft, broken sound as Dima's hand brushes through his hair. One of his hands settles at Dmitri's thigh, clutching fabric, then releasing when the water's pressed towards his hands.
He stares blearily at the cup, but obediently drinks, submits with something like guilt in his actions: a dog that knows it's done wrong.
The water goes down easily and Faolan eventually places a hand - tries to place, misses once, tries again - on Dima's wrist with his uncanny gentleness, and when the cup is gone, he slumps, elbows on his knees.
He seems to decide this isn't good enough and looks around the room blankly, then up at Dima, then, unable to sustain thoughts for long, comes to a conclusion that draws that pitiful, deadened resignation from him again. "Only was s'matter of time, wasn't it."
He tries to smile, tries to laugh as though it's a joke, but that's too much effort. He shrugs, instead, then offers a hand, steady despite his state. Inviting. "Your Fae, then."
<.>
There's a sound that could shatter his heart, and Dima's fingertips turn their brush to Fae's skull, to brushing skin and hair alike and leaning nearer, saying softly, softly under his breath that "It'll be all right, all will be well, my Fae."
The water's taken, and Dima hums an approving sound; he is proud of Fae, knows how damnably difficult the mere act of drinking can be within inebriation.
The water's gone, and it's Dima's turn to huff a soft sound, grateful, at the hand upon his wrist, letting himself linger before - reluctantly; only out of necessity - moving to settle the cup on a nightstand.
He's back before Fae by the time bleak speech follows, and he can't imagine, he doesn't want to imagine (deep beneath thought, beneath the bulk of feeling, ticks a minor worry: should he imagine? but the feeling doesn't rise to thought, and what Dmitri knows mainly is fear for Faolan, for what could have happened to sink him so) what the man means. It might be nothing; might be the mingling of the morning's wariness with the current intoxication (Dima can't quite believe this) (something's wrong— but it needn't stay that way).
Then Fae's hand is offered, an undoubtable invitation, and there's the tug of a smile at Dima's lip, there's his hand taking Faolan's immediately, his grip soft but firm. And Dima sits on the bed beside Faolan, hand-in-hand, his free hand moving to brush through Fae's hair, brush along his head again.
"My Fae, precisely.
"You're home, Fae." A hummed sound. "In our temporary home, and you are safe. I'm going to stay with you through the night." There's an attempt at a small laugh, and Dima cups Fae's cheek. "I'm afraid I'll hear no arguments."
<.>
A further sinking into himself. A sadness washing over him. His eyes flicker towards the door and he sways slightly, seems to be enduring the touch to his hair now.
When Dima cups his cheek, he lets his head be turned, lets himself be made to look, and seems to withdraw behind his eyes to somewhere he can't be touched. He smiles, the expression closed-lipped and brittle to an eye that knows him well enough to distinguish it from his genuine, soft smiles.
"No arguments." He reaches a hand, runs a gentle caress down Dmitri's cheek, his hand slowly unfurling until his fingertips trace a feather-light line along his jaw.
The movement's a practiced one. It's clear he's done this before, that he's been drunk, been withdrawn, and still capable of performance. Still seemingly willing. "Anything you like, Dmitri."
Faolan's hand drops to Dima's throat, where his fingers work expertly at the fastenings of his jacket, unhurried in motion, full of promise. With his free hand, he traces aside Dima's hair and murmurs something unintelligible, moves to press a kiss beneath his ear.
<.>
He doesn't understand; not at first.
He thought— Faolan offered his hand, and for a moment, Dima thought Fae had come back a little toward himself.
But the distance in his eyes is stronger. The smile is false. And the way he echoes 'no arguments' - the way his hand caresses so precisely, at a moment that feels awry - slams cold into Dima's stomach.
(He doesn't know what's happening.) (He's beginning to understand.)
And that 'anything you like,' that ’Dmitri’ and the migration of fingers that makes no sense, or makes no sense until Dima allows the pieces to fall together, to see there's been misunderstanding, he's led Faolan to believe something wrenching, and the soft touch through his hair (what he would want) (what he *has* wanted) burns with his own careless.
He draws back; moves away from what would have been a— He thinks. It would have been a kiss. (And more.) (Gods, what did Faolan think he wanted.) (Dima knows precisely what Faolan thought he wanted.) His movement was quick but careful, an attempt not to jar Faolan. If there was a hint of panic in it - it there's panic flickered now within his own eyes - Dima tries not to let it speak. Tries to remain calm, and he draws Faolan's hand from his jacket, takes both of Faolan's hands in his own and holds them, pressing.
"That isn't—"
He catches on a breath, looks away, then seeks Faolan's eyes again, imploring. "Faolan, I'm not asking that. I should have seen—"
Another catch of breath; Dima's trying very, very hard not to let panic or frantic worry win out. He stands, hands still catching Faolan's, and moves in front of Fae. "Faolan. Whatever has happened—
"You're safe. I don't— I wouldn't."
He shakes his head, frustrated with himself, terrified of what just happened, what he must have led Faolan to. "I mean to stay here, and watch over you. I'll sit— I can stay wherever you like.
"Faolan. Fae. It's all right. I only want to watch you through the night. To guard you."
<.>
Faolan sits in confusion, his inebriated mind processing this far too slowly, too muddied to react. His hand hangs in Dima's, unresisting.
He doesn't understand what's happening. There's no woundedness in his eyes, no hurt at being stopped; only stupefaction. This has clearly never happened before. He has no frame of reference, no notion of how to proceed when he *isn't* wanted. (Or. Isn't wanted at the moment.)
Dima says I wouldn't and that makes no sense.
He says you're safe and that makes even less sense.
He says to guard you and it strikes Faolan like a deadly blow, catching his breath and there's a moment of suspended silence between those words and anything else. Then, with a slow-moving welling of shame (like tides, like sunset), Faolan starts to cry.
Curling in on himself (curling in toward Dima), he covers his face with his hands and sobs quietly, as though he can't quite find fire even for weeping. Muffled by his palms, it's difficult to make out the soft I'm sorry he speaks once, and then again, and defeatedly, again.
<.>
His poor Fae.
This wronged, this obscenely and repeatedly wronged man. A reaction of this sort - soul-devastated and uncomprehending - doesn't grow from nowhere, and hasn't it been clear that Faolan's known ill at the hands of men at every turn?
How it must have been a kind of ruin all over, to have heard predation in what Dima vowed, to hear a claim to bedding in place of safekeeping eyes. ('I won't survive you if you turn on me,' Fae had said, and did he feel the world crashing down when he held out his hand, when Dmitri accepted, so readily moved beside him?)
And how Dima's heart does shatter now, how his blood turns into plummet, as Faolan begins to cry, as he speaks words he should never feel the need to say.
He moves downward, settles on one knee and reaches up, to place one hand on Faolan's arm, to place the other on his knee. To carefully, softly brush his thumb and speak—
"Faolan. My Fae. You have nothing to be sorry for." He tries, tries to keep his own voice steady. Can't quite achieve it, though for now he manages to keep the burn of his eyes from turning to tears. He wants to be steady right now. He wants to show this man that nothing has been wounded, and nothing can't be fixed.
"Your day has been endless, my Dearest. Whatever's happened—" He shakes his head; he won't think about that now, and there's no good drawing Fae toward its thought. "It doesn't matter in the least.
"I'm here with you. And we can mend anything."
He's going to try - slowly, carefully - to take Fae's wrist, Fae's hand, and urge those hand to his knees, to be kept in Dima's hold. "Faolan. Faolan. It's all right.
"All you need to do is sleep. Let your Dima take care of the rest.
"And I'll be here in the morning. I promise you."
<.>
Somehow, he's still Dima's 'Fae'. Somehow, he's more than that. His 'Dearest'. Faolan doesn't know what he did to deserve that kind of grace; his drink-addled mind can't find a single moment beyond all his scandals and sins that might explain how this man can care so endlessly for him.
After what he's done. After everything he's done.
He lets himself be maneuvered, eventually allowing Dima to guide him to lie down. There's no groping, no undressing except his boots, no mouth covering his own, no unwanted whisper. There's only Dima, tender, and it breaks his heart all over again.
He reaches out, grasps for Dima's hand with plea rather than invitation. He may have said 'Please' or may only have thought it over and over, please, please, and he did say don't leave me, a complicated wish that means right now and ever.
And please again, until Dima agrees to lie beside him, where Faolan can rest his head against the smaller man's chest and cling tightly as though Dima is a lifeline. As though Dima is all that keeps him from drowning, from losing himself, from fading out to nothing.
When his tears eventually subside, he softly says again, "Please. Don't leave me."
<.>
Dima holds Faolan in kind, arms wrapped around him, one hand rubbing in steady-soothing press along his back, one carding through his hair, at times pausing to hold, simply hold his Faolan's head.
It's humbling, it's a warmth curling through his chest, that Fae should have allowed him here; that Fae should want him here and maybe, at least in this moment, trust Dmitri to protect him, to bring nothing save for comforting and care. And it's devastating - again, again, again - to think how many times this man's been granted only damage, use, ridicule.
He vows internally to see that Fae's life, Fae's heart will only know more warmth - and fire; infernos - from here on out. He vows and he wants to give this man cause to trust to brilliance in the world and in his own life. To know that what's wounded him is in the past.
To ruin what's wounded him, if Faolan permits.
Faolan clings tight, and Dima caresses, caresses. Feels the way Faolan holds on as though the world (as though Dima?) threatens to slip away. And Dima begins at some point to hum low, a thrumming in his chest, the melody an old one touched with sun and shade and home. And his own tears well slight, well subtle, not hitching his breath.
When Faolan speaks, Dima presses his arms, an affirmative embrace. And, nestling his cheek against Fae's head—
"I never will.
"Never, my Fae.
"I am yours for always. I will guard you always. And you will always, always have your Dima."
<.>
no subject
He doesn't wake until the morning has waned, and when he does move, he's silent about the necessities of existence; there's no complaint of an aching head, no sign of nausea. (It might be clear that drunkenness isn't uncommon for him, or at least not *unfamiliar*. It's been some time since he's reached that level of intoxication, but towards the end - with Fedir, in Morovsk - he thinks he may have been more often inebriated than sober.)
He washes himself at the basin, eyes distant as he manages the task. He removes only his shirt to do so, but this allows Dima the sight of the tattoo Faolan received at the Nightmare Market: a tree growing upward, vibrant and vivid, and mirrored by one growing downward, its branches bare and dead. Arcane symbols of death and rebirth surround this image; the tattoo covers most of his upper back.
Fae eventually seats himself on the edge of the bed, seemingly at a loss for what to do now. He needs fresh clothing, that's certain. He could use some food. There are plans to be made and things to do, but all of that requires him to leave this room.
He's not ready to face Loch Bien again just yet.
He's not ready to face Dima, either.
<.>
Dmitri doesn't sleep, though at times he fades toward the edges of unconscious, dimly aware of time's passage, his thoughts, his awareness tied near-entirely to the man who holds close, and every moment Faolan breathes deep with sleep is a relief, because the gods know he needs both its rest and its escape from thought.
He thinks here and there of what must have happened yesterday. There are conclusions that might be drawn, ties binding Faolan's defeatedness and drunkenness and the way he mistook Dima's intentions (the automatic almost-ease with which Fae slipped distant, and reached for Dmitri's - yes, he said 'Dmitri' - jacket). There's anger at the prospect of what might have happened; not toward Faolan, not for a moment, but for the men who came before, and for whomever might have approached him, dare speak with him, dare do anything at all.
His own hold on Faolan doesn't ease until the man begins to move, and then Dima rises in kind. Pouring a cup of water as Faolan moves toward the basin, and turning to see—
Oh. It's an astonishing tattoo, and Dima can't keep himself from staring, eyes moving over the sprawl of mirrored branches, the symbols clear-lined.
He does manage to move himself before Faolan turns around, settling the cup beside the bed and moving to seek out clothing for Fae. He's found no sign of clean clothing, and Dima so moves to pick up the cup and hold it to the man, then softly, slowly settles his fingertips upon Fae's shoulder.
"Drink," he speaks softly. And, "I'll have food brought up shortly."
<.>
Faolan stares at the cup and thinks dimly of the night before. (He remembers all of it. How he wishes he could just lose himself to alcohol, to black out entirely and live the next day without remembering.) Dmitri took care of him -
Oh, he didn't deserve that. He doesn't deserve it now.
But there's unsuspected grace in Dmitri Voronin, and Fae can't - won't - allow himself to abuse it. Dima didn't have to lie beside him through the night. He didn't have to keep guard, to comfort him, to call him 'Dearest'.
He takes the cup and obediently drinks, his eyes flickering to and away from Dima as though he's trying to catch glimpses of the sun. When he lowers it - empty - he holds it between both of his hands and slowly rotates it. Eventually, he tries to speak, but the only words that come are soft, almost toneless (almost beseeching), "What now?"
<.>
Again, Faolan drinks the water, and Dima rubs his shoulder, encouraging. To the question, he responds without pause, "First, you'll have something to eat. More water.
"When you feel able, I believe a walk is in order. It would help, Fae, to know the sun's warmth.
"That said, you're doing very well already. You've risen; you've washed and taken your water." The cant of Dima's head, the subtle pride in his voice says that these are no meager feats, not after the night Faolan came through. "And if you wish to keep to your room all day, I won't dissuade you— Though I will insist that you allow me to remain."
There's a slight flickering in Dima's expression, a worried regret brought by the thought that he ought to have insisted yesterday; that he might have kept Faolan from whatever wounding happened. He doesn't let the feeling linger, and speaks again, voice unshaken, "We needn't decide immediately. You needn't decide at all, in truth.
"Breakfast first; I'll handle the rest."
<.>
It's. Strange?
As Dima talks, Faolan begins to feel a creeping ease, a lessening of tension in his shoulders. Even the doom-laced thoughts crowding his head seem to abate; by the time Dima says he needn't decide at all, Fae is staring up at him in something like bemused wonder and faint gratitude.
He doesn't trust people like this. He doesn't let people tell him where to go and what to do when he isn't screwing them - but Dima seems so certain, seems so assured, and he hasn't left Faolan for a moment. And isn't it nice to let someone else think of everything for a while? After yesterday, isn't it nice to know that he can just let someone else ...take care of him?
(He likes it, he thinks distantly. He likes that Dima isn't shouting at him, isn't berating him or hounding him with questions; he's simply deciding what now. And what after that. And the whole day is planned, with Fae in Dima's care. It's almost liberating, in a way. Freedom from thought. Freedom from decision.) (Freedom to - maybe - love and be loved, and nothing else.)
He realizes he hasn't responded and that maybe he ought to say something, maybe he ought to acknowledge what's been said to him. At a loss, he manages, "All right. That's - All right."
Then, hesitantly, he offers his empty cup to Dima. He did say 'more water'.
<.>
Oh, that's—
That's. Quite nice.
And gratifying.
The ease he sees in Fae's posture. The way his eyes have moved to Dima's, now not flickering as if he can't quite look for long, now not absent in the least. The way he accedes, not as if defeated, not begrudging, but - perhaps? - almost as if relieved.
(It could be something, the way Faolan accepts Dima's direction, the way he holds up his cup as if acquiescing.) (It could be an interest, something that isn't and is precisely obedience.) (It could be— Very pleasing. If it's true; if Faolan finds it pleasing, as well.)
Dima's lip ticks to a pleased half-smile, and he takes up the pitcher, pours and nods. "Thank you, Fae."
And, "That's very well done."
When he's poured the water, he sets his fingertips to Fae's cheek, still with that slight smile. "I'm going to step downstairs to see about breakfast. I'll be right back; I won't be long."
And slowly - not not reluctantly - relinquishing his touch, "Have this cup finished before I return."
And with a nod, a further softening of his voice, "If you're able."
If Faolan doesn't give cause to halt, Dmitri is going to make his way to the door, then offer Fae a smile and another assurance that he won't be long - and Liviana will stay with him meanwhile - before slipping out the door and downstairs, where he'll ask to have food sent up to Faolan's room.
<.>
Before Dmitri leaves, Faolan begins to say I'm going to finish bathing, but something about the touch to his cheek - about the flutter of nervous energy in his stomach, about the way Dima smiled and spoke with such approval - makes him falter at, "I'm going to -"
Pausing there, he stares at Dima (at his body, at his hands, at the gentleness and viciousness of him) and thinks, maybe if he had just...listened. If he had obeyed yesterday, things would have gone so differently. He thinks: the faint praise felt almost intoxicating.
He feels shivers threatening up his spine and color burning in his cheeks.
(He realizes he's growing aroused, and that makes no sense at all. Not after yesterday, not after last night, and certainly it makes no sense having spawned from being told to drink water.) (There was a nobleman once who wanted to be ordered, and Faolan had done it and wondered how someone could be excited by humiliation, by -
Only this isn't humiliating. This feels like safety. Like Dima can, will take all his worries away. Like Dima can love him and care for him, and all Faolan has to do is heed.
And heeding is rewarded.)
Veering from his initial impulse, he amends softly, with the tentative, curious tone of someone testing unknown waters, "...I'd like to finish bathing. While you're gone."
(A dim, distant thought: maybe Dima wants to - watch? (Help?)) (He puts it aside for now.)
He's barely breathing, half-trembling, and speaks with more depth to his question than the two words might suggest. "May I?'
<.>
Impossible to miss the flush of Faolan's cheeks, or the way he seems both at ease and hummed with pinprick energies. The way he continues, continues to keep his eyes locked with Dima's, as if querying some scarce-discerned vibratory line, as though the 'something' Dmitri sensed might be true, and as if Faolan might like it.
And wouldn't Dima like it (ah, gods, he does like it, though he knows this isn't the time, he knows Faolan is rising from a rough and wounded sleep), if this could bloom between them alongside every other adoration. It fits, doesn't it? Feels right, the way Fae accepts Dima's command (that isn't only, entirely command) (imperious in its way, but not without affection; suffused with the feeling, the love he bears for this man), the way obedience does nothing to diminish Faolan or his strength. The way Dima's nerve-ends burn bright, burning to flickering, with two words that ask to transform direction into something molten, something new.
Dima's breath has caught; he manages to exhale, slightly unsteady, the tick of his lip toward a pleased smile showing a glimpse of teeth. "You may.
"You ask so well, my Fae. And you'll have opportunity to drink your water after.
"Yes: Complete your bathing.
"Cleanse yourself, Faolan. Luxuriate in the rejuvenation offered by the water. Keep your touch gentle.
"Let me returned to a Faolan refreshed, hm?" There's that ticked half-smile again, and Dima brushes the back of his fingers against Fae's cheek. (He should be careful.) (He shouldn't go too far.) (But doesn't Faolan look as if he appreciates this thrall, and doesn't Faolan deserve a little - a lot of - relief?) "You will hear my knock before I enter."
<.>
"Yes, Dima."
The words come before thought, or without thought at all - as automatic as breathing. (Breathless.) He doesn't understand any of this, but he doesn't dislike it. How approval settles around him like grace, how Dima smiles, how everything becomes clear. He has steps: bathe, gently and luxuriantly, drink from the cup Dima gave him. Listen for a knock.
And Dima will approve. (Dima will praise him?)
It's so simple, and when has his life ever been simple?
(It's more than 'simple'. There's so much more to this, a depth of emotion and rising, rising, rising desire.) (He heard Dima's breath catch. He heard the excitement in his exhale.) (This doesn't feel like the push-pull of sexual tension - not entirely. It doesn't feel as though they're circling one another, promising to collide like stormheads. It feels slow, controlled.
Dima is in control.) (His Dima. All his own, and Fae is all Dima's, entirely, happy to slip into some sort of delirious haze and be led.)
He watches the other man leave and hesitates only long enough to realize he is hesitating, he's wasting precious time. So, he obeys. He bathes gently (avoiding lingering, avoiding any exertions his body cries for), reluctantly dresses in the trousers much in need of a wash, and, seating himself back on the bed, cross-legged and facing the door, he drinks from the cup.
His entire existence, his sole occupation, is the cup in his hands, as though it contains the waters of life. (Dima told him. Dima said to drink and be refreshed.)
He hears the knock a moment after the cup runs dry, and when Dima enters, Faolan holds it out to him with (pleading) (imploring, lost but-) hopeful eyes.
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He walks from the room with those words, the ease of their speaking - like necessity and welcome; like a kind of reverence shared - and the raptness of Fae wreathed Dmitri's thoughts.
He notes other guests at the inn - milling about, taking in a late breakfast or an early lunch - without lingering on any of them. Doesn't hurry in his task (lets himself luxuriate upon those echoed words, on every image of Faolan's eyes upon him), nor does he let himself be delayed. When a half-orc attempts to strike up conversation, Dima scarcely seems to notice; offers a distracted nod, and conveys his request to the innkeeper (a hearty breakfast, please; yes, for two, and yes, have another five or six gold for prompt delivery of the food and for the aid the night before ) before making his way back up the stairs, to linger half a minute (giving Faolan time to complete his washing) (someday, someday... well, why not admit it to himself? someday Dmitri would like to aid in Fae's cleansing, but just now, it's all very new, and it's better to take his time, to let them both circle the fringes of what this might be between them; better not to force anything, or leave Fae feeling pressured) before knocking. Then entering.
Meeting the image of Faolan, perfectly positioned on the bed, his cup - now empty, oh, good Fae - upheld, his eyes wide, shivering weakness to Dima's knees.
(This man. His Fae shows himself more brilliant, more perfect with every day. How could Dima not adore him? How could he wish to bring this man anything other than care— And even harrowing, even shivered horror can be a kind of care.
It's a sentiment Dmitri thinks Faolan would understand, must understand. And he thinks, how their hearts sing out to one another. How it's fortune that they met, and not entirely apart from fate.)
He walks with swift, with precise grace toward the bed. Lifting the pitcher and holding it aloft, his head canted just so, his eyes on Faolan.
And Dima speaks, his voice in yieldless velvet: "Look how beautifully you've done.
"You have refreshed yourself, and drained your cup. Oh, Faolan— I am very pleased with you. I'm very proud." And gods, isn't he? Doesn't his heart thrum at the resilience of this man, and at how carefully he's granted care upon himself? (Faolan ought to always have that care. Ought to always give himself that grace, that tenderness of self.
It's something to work on. Something to show Fae just how worthy, how far beyond worthiness itself he is.
And someday - soon, please, soon - Dima will shower Faolan with soft touches of his own, and with lovely, loving, shivered fire.)
"A little closer, if you will." And when Faolan shifts the cup a little nearer, Dima pours, his eyes never leaving Faolan's.
"There you are, my Fae." Then, resettling the pitcher on the floor, moving to set his fingertips at Faolan's cheek and brush light, light, light—
"You see, it's simple.
"And you've made me very, very happy."
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