Dima blinks at Faolan's response, knowing a complicated tangle of feelings: Gladness that Faolan's so clearly pleased with the blade, that he has something of his own; admiration, in seeing how well Faolan chose his trade; sorrow, that the man's had so little of his own, that he's been truly given so little; anger that so much has been tainted for Faolan.
He composes himself, offers a smile - small, crooked, genuine - and, [ This blade, and your wolf, yes?
It IS lovely. I suspect it needs no saying, but you traded well. ]
There's a hesitation, a moment in which he almost speaks toward that troubled subject of those men before he thinks better of it, takes another long look over Foalan and his blade, and—
[ Do you have a name for it? ]
Then, back to Nerys: "An agreeable arrangement, I think. And I appreciate your forthrightness; in business, I've found it to be a rarity."
A tap, tap of his finger against his thigh. A look at Faolan, then back, and, "You have my interest. How would one go about attaining or hearing word of these contracts?"
<.>
Faolan considers the blade and not the feeling that sits in his throat like a stone. He thinks about whether he ought to name it and not about the care in Dmitri's words and the smile that accompanied them.
(Crooked and beautiful.)
[ I never gave any thought to naming my weapons. Or the wolf, for that matter. I think I'd had enough of trying to lay claim to things that weren't mine and put it off.
But what's mine - what I want to keep close and always - deserves to be claimed wholly. No half measures. ]
A little laugh.
[ We'll see how I feel about the blade AFTER it's put to use. Then I'll name it. ]
He looks up and finds his eyes catching on (lingering on) Dmitri's; the bottom drops out of the world and Faolan feels himself suspended - but not precarious. Not adrift. As though Dmitri's regard could hold him safe and -
Oh, he can't think those things.
He can't let himself look too long at Dmitri; it is rather like staring into the sun.
(How much he cares, even when he's surely in pain.) (A question that eats at him: How much pain will he cause Dmitri before he stops caring?)
Nerys considers the men, his arms folded and hand at his chin. "Oh, you come to me or one of the other Adjudicators. We're all on the same page about the needs of the Market. Of course, some of them don't speak Common, so it's best to find me or Batyah. They - plural and singular? It's complicated. They're usually found toward the center of the market. Fair warning: when you speak to them, focus on the eye in the middle. They're touchy about the others.
"We'll send word where the Market will be, when it will be there, or we'll send someone to find you."
He waves his hand from his chin almost daintily, then claps, clasping both hands together. "Well! Let's start you off with something light -
"We'd make a fair trade for a new vehicle for Moloch here. But! We'd offer a handsome bounty if you'd bring our wandering Seddum home." Moloch within its slack-faced golem buzzes loudly and Nerys nods, "Yes, Friend. I know. You'd rather have Seddum. I'm working on it. But in the meantime, wouldn't you like a more comfortable -"
Moloch buzzes louder and Nerys jumps, one hand tented over his heart in surprise. Turning back to Faolan and Dmitri, he clears his throat and seems to shake off whatever Moloch might have shouted.
"Moloch would very much like his warlock back."
<.>
(Wouldn't he like it.
To know the wolf's name, the blade's name when Faolan's found them.
To show this man, let him know that there is more in this world that could be his, claimed and claiming.
To be known, held, claimed wholly by Faolan.
Of course he would. Of course he would.)
He holds Faolan's gaze as long as the man watches him - feeling on the cusp of revelation; feeling the stars humming, about to spill open silver light - and lingers still after, knowing he could never behold this man for long enough; knowing he'd never tire of his sight, the sensation of his being.
And Dima cants his head, gives his hair the smallest toss. [ There is wisdom in letting the name follow from experience.
iWhen you find their names— Should you ever feel comfortable sharing. I would be gratified to know what you've chosen.
Not to take the names from you, of course. Not even to speak them, should you prefer their names rest solely in your speaking.
I'd only like to know. ]
Regarding Nerys's proposition, Dima finds himself further intrigued, and still more inclined to accept. (Hadn't he already been half-thinking there could be value in tracking down this wayward warlock?) (Isn't it an interesting puzzle to solve, and to become involved with this Market, to be granted means of returning— He can find many reasons to agree, and few to turn aside.) He takes the information in stride, noting the names and directions, figures he's - they're? Dima glances again at Faolan - likely to deal with.
And when Nerys has finished, there's a question: "What can you tell me about this Seddum Madin? Who is is or who he's been. His place of origin or most frequented locations; the vein of his preferred magic; the reason behind his taking the pact? Anything he might have said or hinted at."
Then, to Faolan: [ What do you think? The work intrigues me; I'd like to know your instinct. ]
<.>
Faolan shrugs lightly as he sheathes the scimitar. [ Nerys doesn't seem to be anything other than forthright. Best to remember his interests are with the Market, though. ]
A moment more as he considers how he feels about his opinion having merit - and also why Dmitri should ask his instincts about this.
[ It's a way to return here. That's something. ]
He doesn't answer about the names; there's something about the way Dmitri speaks, selflessly and supportingly, that sets him wary. This is how it always starts, isn't it? They charm him by pretending to care. (But it isn't pretending.
And Dmitri isn't asking anything of him.)
Nerys motions for Moloch to come join them - and then waves his hand to get Moloch's attention at all. The golem slowly turns and shambles over, eyes dully fixing on Dmitri, then Faolan. It's clear that one of those eyes is beginning to turn sickly white.
And there's an odor.
Nerys glances at Dmitri and Messages, [ Act natural. He doesn't know about the smell yet. ]
He sends the same Message to Faolan, who schools his expression to one of polite interest.
"Moloch, this Necromancer -"
"Dmitri," Faolan offers softly.
“Dmitri is asking after Seddum. Who better to tell us about him than you, hm?"
<.>
Dima might, might have gotten caught on staring a little to clearly at Faolan, and the sound of his own name.
Still. He gathers himself after a moment, and nods toward Moloch. "The more you can tell us, the sooner we can find your warlock."
<.>
Moloch makes a slight buzz, the face of the golem working to form words and failing miserably. It turns its head to Nerys and 'speaks', inviting an immediate, "No, Moloch. Not after last time. You wouldn't vacate poor Tennebrid and now look at her. She was -"
Moloch hisses, the buzzing becoming sibilant, an effort at speech.
Nerys sighs and shakes his head. "Fine. But this is your last warning; if you don't go back in your golem, Dmitri has my permission to slay Seddum, and back to the abyss you go."
Moloch considers this, then buzzes meekly before the golem goes slack, slumping to the ground like a ragdoll. Nerys stiffens, his eyes rolling up into the back of his head until only the whites show.
And Moloch speaks.
Haltingly, as though every word is a battle against a tide, it uses Nerys's mouth to say, "Sssseddum ssssummoned us. From the abyss. The infernal. Plane.
"A wine scrawl on. Wood. A tavern. We drank cups. Red wine like murk and r-rot. He took us to himself. For power. For the ssssecrets of the. Sstars. And void. For knowing.
"Elo- Kuh. Kuh. Elokuhw-"
"Eloquent?" Faolan offers, and Nerys gives a jerk of his head that's probably a nod.
"Ssspoke our. Pact. Tongue of ssilver and charm. We sss. Spoke. Walked the canal of Myssssosss. Hours in union. Intoxicated. Took a man. A woman. To a bed. Indulged in. Flesh.
"As was promised. As is our right. The pact. Delights of this plane to us. Moloch. Power. Knowledge to Seddum."
Moloch reaches Nerys's hand to Faolan's head; the druid jerks back, giving Moloch only a momentary pause. It levels Nerys's palm down and flat, then raises it a few inches above Faolan's head. "Thisss. Our height."
"An elf. Tall. The high elven kind. Skin ssss-mooth. Young. We are so young. In union. New. Why, Ssseddum?"
This last is a wail, sorrowful and heartrending. The wail becomes buzzing as Moloch flees Nerys's body, leaving the elf to stagger and cough, putting out his hand to stave off assistance.
The golem takes on 'life' again, but remains sitting morosely on the floor.
"Well," Nerys says awkwardly. "There you are. I suggest searching in Mysos -"
The buzzing picks up again, and Nerys hums. "He says they traveled north. Moloch, that's not helpful."
no subject
He composes himself, offers a smile - small, crooked, genuine - and, [ This blade, and your wolf, yes?
It IS lovely. I suspect it needs no saying, but you traded well. ]
There's a hesitation, a moment in which he almost speaks toward that troubled subject of those men before he thinks better of it, takes another long look over Foalan and his blade, and—
[ Do you have a name for it? ]
Then, back to Nerys: "An agreeable arrangement, I think. And I appreciate your forthrightness; in business, I've found it to be a rarity."
A tap, tap of his finger against his thigh. A look at Faolan, then back, and, "You have my interest. How would one go about attaining or hearing word of these contracts?"
<.>
Faolan considers the blade and not the feeling that sits in his throat like a stone. He thinks about whether he ought to name it and not about the care in Dmitri's words and the smile that accompanied them.
(Crooked and beautiful.)
[ I never gave any thought to naming my weapons. Or the wolf, for that matter. I think I'd had enough of trying to lay claim to things that weren't mine and put it off.
But what's mine - what I want to keep close and always - deserves to be claimed wholly. No half measures. ]
A little laugh.
[ We'll see how I feel about the blade AFTER it's put to use. Then I'll name it. ]
He looks up and finds his eyes catching on (lingering on) Dmitri's; the bottom drops out of the world and Faolan feels himself suspended - but not precarious. Not adrift. As though Dmitri's regard could hold him safe and -
Oh, he can't think those things.
He can't let himself look too long at Dmitri; it is rather like staring into the sun.
(How much he cares, even when he's surely in pain.) (A question that eats at him: How much pain will he cause Dmitri before he stops caring?)
Nerys considers the men, his arms folded and hand at his chin. "Oh, you come to me or one of the other Adjudicators. We're all on the same page about the needs of the Market. Of course, some of them don't speak Common, so it's best to find me or Batyah. They - plural and singular? It's complicated. They're usually found toward the center of the market. Fair warning: when you speak to them, focus on the eye in the middle. They're touchy about the others.
"We'll send word where the Market will be, when it will be there, or we'll send someone to find you."
He waves his hand from his chin almost daintily, then claps, clasping both hands together. "Well! Let's start you off with something light -
"We'd make a fair trade for a new vehicle for Moloch here. But! We'd offer a handsome bounty if you'd bring our wandering Seddum home." Moloch within its slack-faced golem buzzes loudly and Nerys nods, "Yes, Friend. I know. You'd rather have Seddum. I'm working on it. But in the meantime, wouldn't you like a more comfortable -"
Moloch buzzes louder and Nerys jumps, one hand tented over his heart in surprise. Turning back to Faolan and Dmitri, he clears his throat and seems to shake off whatever Moloch might have shouted.
"Moloch would very much like his warlock back."
<.>
(Wouldn't he like it.
To know the wolf's name, the blade's name when Faolan's found them.
To show this man, let him know that there is more in this world that could be his, claimed and claiming.
To be known, held, claimed wholly by Faolan.
Of course he would. Of course he would.)
He holds Faolan's gaze as long as the man watches him - feeling on the cusp of revelation; feeling the stars humming, about to spill open silver light - and lingers still after, knowing he could never behold this man for long enough; knowing he'd never tire of his sight, the sensation of his being.
And Dima cants his head, gives his hair the smallest toss. [ There is wisdom in letting the name follow from experience.
iWhen you find their names— Should you ever feel comfortable sharing. I would be gratified to know what you've chosen.
Not to take the names from you, of course. Not even to speak them, should you prefer their names rest solely in your speaking.
I'd only like to know. ]
Regarding Nerys's proposition, Dima finds himself further intrigued, and still more inclined to accept. (Hadn't he already been half-thinking there could be value in tracking down this wayward warlock?) (Isn't it an interesting puzzle to solve, and to become involved with this Market, to be granted means of returning— He can find many reasons to agree, and few to turn aside.) He takes the information in stride, noting the names and directions, figures he's - they're? Dima glances again at Faolan - likely to deal with.
And when Nerys has finished, there's a question: "What can you tell me about this Seddum Madin? Who is is or who he's been. His place of origin or most frequented locations; the vein of his preferred magic; the reason behind his taking the pact? Anything he might have said or hinted at."
Then, to Faolan: [ What do you think? The work intrigues me; I'd like to know your instinct. ]
<.>
Faolan shrugs lightly as he sheathes the scimitar. [ Nerys doesn't seem to be anything other than forthright. Best to remember his interests are with the Market, though. ]
A moment more as he considers how he feels about his opinion having merit - and also why Dmitri should ask his instincts about this.
[ It's a way to return here. That's something. ]
He doesn't answer about the names; there's something about the way Dmitri speaks, selflessly and supportingly, that sets him wary. This is how it always starts, isn't it? They charm him by pretending to care. (But it isn't pretending.
And Dmitri isn't asking anything of him.)
Nerys motions for Moloch to come join them - and then waves his hand to get Moloch's attention at all. The golem slowly turns and shambles over, eyes dully fixing on Dmitri, then Faolan. It's clear that one of those eyes is beginning to turn sickly white.
And there's an odor.
Nerys glances at Dmitri and Messages, [ Act natural. He doesn't know about the smell yet. ]
He sends the same Message to Faolan, who schools his expression to one of polite interest.
"Moloch, this Necromancer -"
"Dmitri," Faolan offers softly.
“Dmitri is asking after Seddum. Who better to tell us about him than you, hm?"
<.>
Dima might, might have gotten caught on staring a little to clearly at Faolan, and the sound of his own name.
Still. He gathers himself after a moment, and nods toward Moloch. "The more you can tell us, the sooner we can find your warlock."
<.>
Moloch makes a slight buzz, the face of the golem working to form words and failing miserably. It turns its head to Nerys and 'speaks', inviting an immediate, "No, Moloch. Not after last time. You wouldn't vacate poor Tennebrid and now look at her. She was -"
Moloch hisses, the buzzing becoming sibilant, an effort at speech.
Nerys sighs and shakes his head. "Fine. But this is your last warning; if you don't go back in your golem, Dmitri has my permission to slay Seddum, and back to the abyss you go."
Moloch considers this, then buzzes meekly before the golem goes slack, slumping to the ground like a ragdoll. Nerys stiffens, his eyes rolling up into the back of his head until only the whites show.
And Moloch speaks.
Haltingly, as though every word is a battle against a tide, it uses Nerys's mouth to say, "Sssseddum ssssummoned us. From the abyss. The infernal. Plane.
"A wine scrawl on. Wood. A tavern. We drank cups. Red wine like murk and r-rot. He took us to himself. For power. For the ssssecrets of the. Sstars. And void. For knowing.
"Elo- Kuh. Kuh. Elokuhw-"
"Eloquent?" Faolan offers, and Nerys gives a jerk of his head that's probably a nod.
"Ssspoke our. Pact. Tongue of ssilver and charm. We sss. Spoke. Walked the canal of Myssssosss. Hours in union. Intoxicated. Took a man. A woman. To a bed. Indulged in. Flesh.
"As was promised. As is our right. The pact. Delights of this plane to us. Moloch. Power. Knowledge to Seddum."
Moloch reaches Nerys's hand to Faolan's head; the druid jerks back, giving Moloch only a momentary pause. It levels Nerys's palm down and flat, then raises it a few inches above Faolan's head. "Thisss. Our height."
"An elf. Tall. The high elven kind. Skin ssss-mooth. Young. We are so young. In union. New. Why, Ssseddum?"
This last is a wail, sorrowful and heartrending. The wail becomes buzzing as Moloch flees Nerys's body, leaving the elf to stagger and cough, putting out his hand to stave off assistance.
The golem takes on 'life' again, but remains sitting morosely on the floor.
"Well," Nerys says awkwardly. "There you are. I suggest searching in Mysos -"
The buzzing picks up again, and Nerys hums. "He says they traveled north. Moloch, that's not helpful."
<.>