He's distinctly aware of the time that passes - the distance Faolan might travel - as the woman speaks (speaks?) to him.
He's also aware of his own flinch. Of how close he is to snapping back that he isn't suffering anything, that he would neither forget Faolan or force him into anything—
Another tensing through his body as she anticipates that would-be-response, as well. And he can't say he isn't interested in this offer. He can't say he couldn't use a bit of luck. (It'd be helpful, not to miss a strike at a crucial moment.) (It... Might be nice. To make himself look less of a fool in front of Faolan. To stumble less.)
The thing is, the longer he remains here, the more his chest clenches; the more worry he feels.
Dmitri straightens his spine, regarding the crone with an unwavering eye as he speaks: "I'd hate to impose on your time."
A moment; a slight relenting in his tone. "You have my interest; I'm afraid I lack the time for it just now.
"If you remain throughout the day, you may hear from me again."
He's going to turn, means to leave and start after Faolan before letting any more time intervene. He'll also carry the image of that compass in his mind.
<.>
Faolan and Nerys are waiting outside; again, they both look surprised to see him.
Nerys hums his surprise and moves away to allow them a moment of privacy; Faolan watches until he's far enough away before commenting softly, "I'm surprised you didn't want one. When you didn't follow us out, Nerys offered to go on ahead."
Unspoken: Faolan would have waited. He supposes there's no way Dmitri could have known that.
And also - they aren't for everyone, these marks. "Let's catch up with him, then. I don't want to waste his time. He seems like he handles most of the communication between the living and the dead here.
"And I don't speak Infernal. Living or dead."
He almost moves to extend a hand, but catches himself and settles it on his hilt, instead.
Dmitri can keep trying all he likes. Faolan won't give him encouragement anymore. (He...hopes, anyhow.)
<.>
Dima saw that.
The movement of a hand. While he can't say for certain if it meant anything, if it nearly became something else, he can't quite believe Faolan meant to settle where it did.
Which means, maybe, that an offering was both considered (or offered ahead of thought?) and rescinded. He doesn't like that thought. Reaches up to scratch Liviana's neck, and he finds he's looking at Faolan's hand, makes himself meet the man's eyes again.
What's hopeful, maybe: That Faolan waited, would have waited.
What stings: That Dima hurried from that place, alight with worry, only to find Faolan had gone nowhere, and there had been no risk at all. He looked, he looks, he thinks, foolish.
And still, he wouldn't change his action. Couldn't have let the possibility of losing Faolan exist.
Right now, Dmitri nods. (Infernal? What else did Faolan request?) Speaks in a voice not quite steady (though he tried, he did try to keep it even): "Of course."
He'll wait for Faolan to move, then walk beside him, taking in what sights he can as they move along.
<.>
Faolan walks beside him in silence, stepping aside to let Dmitri through a narrow passing first. Both of them follow Nerys, who leads them across the market to a blacksmith.
This place in the ruins must have been used for this selfsame purpose and the creature at the anvil has utilized the space well: on one still-standing wall hangs a variety of weapons in styles exotic and familiar. On a makeshift counter is metal armor and shields clearly crafted here by the thing wielding the hammer.
Nerys speaks over the sound of the hammer's blows and the creature stops, drops its tools like a child dropping its toys, disinterested, and moves to the wall. It has a jerky, puppy-like gait, and its hand grasps at the scimitar it's trying to reach once, then again, before finally closing on the blade.
No blood falls from where it must be slicing its hand.
Nerys makes a cooing sound and rushes to the thing saying, "Moloch, let me take that for you. There, we don't want a repeat of the neck incident, hm?"
The creature makes a moaning sound that has no apparent emotion to it. From the throat of the creature, however, comes the sound of angry buzzing like a swarm of insects.
"Yes, I know, and I'm doing my very best to get it back for you. Patience, friend."
Scimitar in-hand, Nerys turns back to the pair and shakes his head sadly. "Poor thing. There was a bit of an incident and the host it had previously has, erm, wandered away. We've been trying to find a suitable replacement, but we really don't deal in live bodies. The flesh golem's far too large a vehicle for him."
<.>
[q: might dima know anything about flesh golems? ARC: 16
dm: Dima would know about flesh golems, that they're stitched together from humanoid body parts to create a muscled brute with formidable strength.
He would also know it's not very common for a demonic entity or other undead being to take control of one. The flesh golem was not made for this purpose.]
It's a creature worth beholding, if nothing else. It's also something of a pity to witness; a mismatch of occupying entity and body. (Where did they procure the flesh golem, is one question floating through his mind.) Dmitri wishes briefly - as he sometimes does - that he'd made a point of learning languages more commonly used, a little less esoteric. He recognizes the sound of Infernal speech; he also carries no understanding of it.
Eyes on Nerys, he speaks: "What was the previous host, if you don't mind my asking."
<.>
Nerys turns to look back at the golem, which stands now staring blankly at the wall of blades and buzzing to itself. With a pained frown, he looks back to Dmitri and replies in a hushed tone, "A warlock. Seddum Madin. It was a pact, you see."
Jerking his head towards Moloch, he goes on, "He's a bit green, as they go. Very young to be possessing warlocks. A little too credulous. He honestly thought he was 'testing'' one of his constructs; Seddum fled before Moloch could...you know."
Nerys flutters the fingers of his free hand in a horizontal line, suggesting Moloch couldn't make the jump from construct to warlock again.
"It's all very embarrassing. We've had to replace the golem several times now. Moloch can't control them well - and they do go blinky after a while." Dropping his voice further, he seems ashamed as he whispers, "The decay, you know."
<.>
Dmitri nods, observing the construct, head canted. "This warlock broke his contract, then?"
And: "Who crafts these constructs? Prone to decay though it is, this is better than passable work."
He does wonder whether there's a way to prevent the flesh from its decay. It wouldn't help this Moloch's trouble, but it's an interesting puzzle, and one not outside Dmitri's realm of interest. He speaks aloud, half absently, "The decay is troublesome."
And, reminding himself that the puzzle he's circling is tangential to their aim (Faolan's aim) (which Dima takes, partly, as his own) here, he seeks Faolan's eyes. "Forgive me; I've let my curiosity get in the way of your intentions here."
<.>
Faolan gives a short motion to suggest he isn't bothered - and it hardly seems to him like Moloch cares much. Nerys is clearly tickled to be having the conversation.
"Oh, it's no trouble at all," he says. "And even if it did postpone other duties, you are a necromancer. If you haven't the skill, you might have a contact who does, isn't that so?"
"Now - the golems, right. Seddum did indeed break his pact, though I can't say whether he retained his magic afterward. And as for Moloch here -
"We - ah," Nerys raises his eyes skyward to think of a decent way of saying 'smuggle' and smiles his pleasure when he lights on a word. “Import them. You'd be surprised how many flesh golems the Market sees each year, between Moloch here and the Pit. We have necromancers here and there whom we call on."
"My apologies, Faolan. Here, for your examination while we talk a little 'shop'." Handing over the scimitar, Nerys considers the pair (Faolan, the sword, Faolan with the sword) before sliding his gaze to Dima again. "I don't suppose you'd be interested in the occasional contract. A flesh golem here, a little necrotic reversal there, some light bounty work?"
<.>
It's an attractive suggestion, in its potential for sporadic work in necromancy, which often leads to the development of new skills, exposure to as-yet-unseen methods, meeting new contacts. In the thought of working with flesh golems. And in the prospect of continuing contact with the Nightmare Market. It'd give him time to learn much, much more of how this place operates, and what it holds. It might grant opportunities, might grant knowledge not found elsewhere.
It's a better than attractive proposition - depending, yes, on the details of any potential contract - and Dima taps his fingertips against his thigh, watching Nerys, looking to Moloch, then looking again to Faolan, to the scimitar now in his hands. Wondering about its composition, and what it might carry or enhance. Thinking Faolan looks deadly, looks lovely with the sword in-hold.
Dima Messages Faolan: [ What is it? ]
And, eyes returning to Nerys: "I might be, in fact.
"I find taking on contracts expands one's horizons. And the work you mention sounds distinctly to my liking.
"You'll understand my caution when I ask what stipulations - what obligations and attachments - these contracts might entail."
<.>
Nerys regards Dmitri for a moment as though trying to work something out from a tangle of confusion. He seems to come to clarity and replies, "Forgive me. It's been some time since I've lived - as it were - among the living. I forget the vast difference in how these deals are managed."
Glancing to Faolan and back, he goes on, "We are bound by contract, though you must be careful to strike no deals without intention. We do not shake hands, we do not distrust. Word is law here and a bargain is a bargain.
"Which is to say, it is up to you to ensure your contracts are as specific as your standards demand. No one here will play wordsmith or silly buggers with you, nor do any of us break a contract without harsh penalty."
Nerys points above the heads of the men to the gibbets suspended in the middle of the market.
"And we have men - hopefully like yourself and your freshly re-armed companion here - to track down those who escape our flavor of justice. How are you liking that scimitar, Faolan?"
"It'll do just fine." Faolan smiles, more at the blade than Nerys. It takes him a moment to respond to Dmitri with, [ It's lovely, is what it is. And it's mine, unshared. Something no man in memory can claim to have been, so I'd say I'm a little richer today. ]
no subject
He's also aware of his own flinch. Of how close he is to snapping back that he isn't suffering anything, that he would neither forget Faolan or force him into anything—
Another tensing through his body as she anticipates that would-be-response, as well. And he can't say he isn't interested in this offer. He can't say he couldn't use a bit of luck. (It'd be helpful, not to miss a strike at a crucial moment.) (It... Might be nice. To make himself look less of a fool in front of Faolan. To stumble less.)
The thing is, the longer he remains here, the more his chest clenches; the more worry he feels.
Dmitri straightens his spine, regarding the crone with an unwavering eye as he speaks: "I'd hate to impose on your time."
A moment; a slight relenting in his tone. "You have my interest; I'm afraid I lack the time for it just now.
"If you remain throughout the day, you may hear from me again."
He's going to turn, means to leave and start after Faolan before letting any more time intervene. He'll also carry the image of that compass in his mind.
<.>
Faolan and Nerys are waiting outside; again, they both look surprised to see him.
Nerys hums his surprise and moves away to allow them a moment of privacy; Faolan watches until he's far enough away before commenting softly, "I'm surprised you didn't want one. When you didn't follow us out, Nerys offered to go on ahead."
Unspoken: Faolan would have waited. He supposes there's no way Dmitri could have known that.
And also - they aren't for everyone, these marks. "Let's catch up with him, then. I don't want to waste his time. He seems like he handles most of the communication between the living and the dead here.
"And I don't speak Infernal. Living or dead."
He almost moves to extend a hand, but catches himself and settles it on his hilt, instead.
Dmitri can keep trying all he likes. Faolan won't give him encouragement anymore. (He...hopes, anyhow.)
<.>
Dima saw that.
The movement of a hand. While he can't say for certain if it meant anything, if it nearly became something else, he can't quite believe Faolan meant to settle where it did.
Which means, maybe, that an offering was both considered (or offered ahead of thought?) and rescinded. He doesn't like that thought. Reaches up to scratch Liviana's neck, and he finds he's looking at Faolan's hand, makes himself meet the man's eyes again.
What's hopeful, maybe: That Faolan waited, would have waited.
What stings: That Dima hurried from that place, alight with worry, only to find Faolan had gone nowhere, and there had been no risk at all. He looked, he looks, he thinks, foolish.
And still, he wouldn't change his action. Couldn't have let the possibility of losing Faolan exist.
Right now, Dmitri nods. (Infernal? What else did Faolan request?) Speaks in a voice not quite steady (though he tried, he did try to keep it even): "Of course."
He'll wait for Faolan to move, then walk beside him, taking in what sights he can as they move along.
<.>
Faolan walks beside him in silence, stepping aside to let Dmitri through a narrow passing first. Both of them follow Nerys, who leads them across the market to a blacksmith.
This place in the ruins must have been used for this selfsame purpose and the creature at the anvil has utilized the space well: on one still-standing wall hangs a variety of weapons in styles exotic and familiar. On a makeshift counter is metal armor and shields clearly crafted here by the thing wielding the hammer.
Nerys speaks over the sound of the hammer's blows and the creature stops, drops its tools like a child dropping its toys, disinterested, and moves to the wall. It has a jerky, puppy-like gait, and its hand grasps at the scimitar it's trying to reach once, then again, before finally closing on the blade.
No blood falls from where it must be slicing its hand.
Nerys makes a cooing sound and rushes to the thing saying, "Moloch, let me take that for you. There, we don't want a repeat of the neck incident, hm?"
The creature makes a moaning sound that has no apparent emotion to it. From the throat of the creature, however, comes the sound of angry buzzing like a swarm of insects.
"Yes, I know, and I'm doing my very best to get it back for you. Patience, friend."
Scimitar in-hand, Nerys turns back to the pair and shakes his head sadly. "Poor thing. There was a bit of an incident and the host it had previously has, erm, wandered away. We've been trying to find a suitable replacement, but we really don't deal in live bodies. The flesh golem's far too large a vehicle for him."
<.>
[q: might dima know anything about flesh golems?
ARC: 16
dm: Dima would know about flesh golems, that they're stitched together from humanoid body parts to create a muscled brute with formidable strength.
He would also know it's not very common for a demonic entity or other undead being to take control of one. The flesh golem was not made for this purpose.]
It's a creature worth beholding, if nothing else. It's also something of a pity to witness; a mismatch of occupying entity and body. (Where did they procure the flesh golem, is one question floating through his mind.) Dmitri wishes briefly - as he sometimes does - that he'd made a point of learning languages more commonly used, a little less esoteric. He recognizes the sound of Infernal speech; he also carries no understanding of it.
Eyes on Nerys, he speaks: "What was the previous host, if you don't mind my asking."
<.>
Nerys turns to look back at the golem, which stands now staring blankly at the wall of blades and buzzing to itself. With a pained frown, he looks back to Dmitri and replies in a hushed tone, "A warlock. Seddum Madin. It was a pact, you see."
Jerking his head towards Moloch, he goes on, "He's a bit green, as they go. Very young to be possessing warlocks. A little too credulous. He honestly thought he was 'testing'' one of his constructs; Seddum fled before Moloch could...you know."
Nerys flutters the fingers of his free hand in a horizontal line, suggesting Moloch couldn't make the jump from construct to warlock again.
"It's all very embarrassing. We've had to replace the golem several times now. Moloch can't control them well - and they do go blinky after a while." Dropping his voice further, he seems ashamed as he whispers, "The decay, you know."
<.>
Dmitri nods, observing the construct, head canted. "This warlock broke his contract, then?"
And: "Who crafts these constructs? Prone to decay though it is, this is better than passable work."
He does wonder whether there's a way to prevent the flesh from its decay. It wouldn't help this Moloch's trouble, but it's an interesting puzzle, and one not outside Dmitri's realm of interest. He speaks aloud, half absently, "The decay is troublesome."
And, reminding himself that the puzzle he's circling is tangential to their aim (Faolan's aim) (which Dima takes, partly, as his own) here, he seeks Faolan's eyes. "Forgive me; I've let my curiosity get in the way of your intentions here."
<.>
Faolan gives a short motion to suggest he isn't bothered - and it hardly seems to him like Moloch cares much. Nerys is clearly tickled to be having the conversation.
"Oh, it's no trouble at all," he says. "And even if it did postpone other duties, you are a necromancer. If you haven't the skill, you might have a contact who does, isn't that so?"
"Now - the golems, right. Seddum did indeed break his pact, though I can't say whether he retained his magic afterward. And as for Moloch here -
"We - ah," Nerys raises his eyes skyward to think of a decent way of saying 'smuggle' and smiles his pleasure when he lights on a word. “Import them. You'd be surprised how many flesh golems the Market sees each year, between Moloch here and the Pit. We have necromancers here and there whom we call on."
"My apologies, Faolan. Here, for your examination while we talk a little 'shop'." Handing over the scimitar, Nerys considers the pair (Faolan, the sword, Faolan with the sword) before sliding his gaze to Dima again. "I don't suppose you'd be interested in the occasional contract. A flesh golem here, a little necrotic reversal there, some light bounty work?"
<.>
It's an attractive suggestion, in its potential for sporadic work in necromancy, which often leads to the development of new skills, exposure to as-yet-unseen methods, meeting new contacts. In the thought of working with flesh golems. And in the prospect of continuing contact with the Nightmare Market. It'd give him time to learn much, much more of how this place operates, and what it holds. It might grant opportunities, might grant knowledge not found elsewhere.
It's a better than attractive proposition - depending, yes, on the details of any potential contract - and Dima taps his fingertips against his thigh, watching Nerys, looking to Moloch, then looking again to Faolan, to the scimitar now in his hands. Wondering about its composition, and what it might carry or enhance. Thinking Faolan looks deadly, looks lovely with the sword in-hold.
Dima Messages Faolan: [ What is it? ]
And, eyes returning to Nerys: "I might be, in fact.
"I find taking on contracts expands one's horizons. And the work you mention sounds distinctly to my liking.
"You'll understand my caution when I ask what stipulations - what obligations and attachments - these contracts might entail."
<.>
Nerys regards Dmitri for a moment as though trying to work something out from a tangle of confusion. He seems to come to clarity and replies, "Forgive me. It's been some time since I've lived - as it were - among the living. I forget the vast difference in how these deals are managed."
Glancing to Faolan and back, he goes on, "We are bound by contract, though you must be careful to strike no deals without intention. We do not shake hands, we do not distrust. Word is law here and a bargain is a bargain.
"Which is to say, it is up to you to ensure your contracts are as specific as your standards demand. No one here will play wordsmith or silly buggers with you, nor do any of us break a contract without harsh penalty."
Nerys points above the heads of the men to the gibbets suspended in the middle of the market.
"And we have men - hopefully like yourself and your freshly re-armed companion here - to track down those who escape our flavor of justice. How are you liking that scimitar, Faolan?"
"It'll do just fine." Faolan smiles, more at the blade than Nerys. It takes him a moment to respond to Dmitri with, [ It's lovely, is what it is. And it's mine, unshared. Something no man in memory can claim to have been, so I'd say I'm a little richer today. ]
<.>