Faolan smiles, appreciative of Dmitri's passion for this place (and all things necromantic, apparently.) If allowing the man to tag along as he collected his payment resulted in Dmitri's continued access to the Market, he's glad for it.
...And he won't pretend he doesn't feel an ember of warmth in his chest every time Dmitri speaks of 'we', or 'us', or 'you and I'. Dangerous though it is, at least someone other than Faolan is chasing that union for once.
(It has nothing to do with what he's been through, though, does it? He looks over at Dmitri and feels like 'we' ought to be implicit. He sees the toss of hair and crooked smile, feels the way Dmitri wants to be near him just to be near, and that warmth has nothing to do with vindication.)
[ You'll have your chance to explore to your heart's content. ] There's some amusement in his tone, and equal measures of happiness for Dmitri.
[ We'd better find the thieves sooner rather than later; Nerys is going to have more luck finding our would-have-been-assassin than those two. ]
And, bemusedly: [ How DO you know Sen? ]
And just as curiously: [ And how long has he been married to Rin? I keep trying to sort out how he found a tiefling who just happens to be as - mm. Criminally fanciful? As he is. All the luck in the world, there. ]
And, quickly, [ And what's his arrangement with you? ]
Perhaps he's asking too many questions - but it's better to turn his prodigious (and heretofore curtailed) curiosity on Sen and Rin than on more likely subjects. (Dmitri Voronin, for one.)
<.>
Faolan's remark about exploring the Market draws a soft laugh from Dima (unintended) (unusual; he hasn't laughed that way - in warmth, in pleased surprise - in quite some time), and a half-smile. He'd like that chance. He will have that chance—
And he'd like to explore the Market - he'd like to see so much - in Faolan's company. Unusual as well, that, when Dima has always preferred to travel alone when possible. Even when circumstances - typically diplomatic ventures - required accompaniment of a retinue, he'd keep largely to his own company outside of his duties, his plans and the regulation of displeased parties (the regulation, typically, of fellow nobles throwing minor shitfits).
Faolan is an exception. (Faolan, Dmitri thinks, is a rule, a realm all of his own.)
...Oddly. Sen, too, is a kind of exception. And a relentless pain in the ass. (And a not earnestly unwanted presence, trying though he can be.)
Dima clicks his tongue, thinking, before he responds. [ Sen's 'arrangement' is cropping up every time I travel in order to rob me and talk my ear off. How the shithead KNOWS when and where I'll be away from Morovsk is a mystery to me. And why I tolerate him— ]
A shrug, a performative sigh. [ You've met him.
One might say I appreciate the routine; the performance of his theft. 'Criminally fanciful' describes him to a T. And it does break the monotony of travel.
He takes my gold. We have a drink, we talk; we part ways. ] It strikes Dima - it has struck Dima - that this is the longest he's spent in Sen's company. A question is why the elf hasn't - why both thieves haven't - slipped away. A question is why Dima is content to see them stay.
And, regarding the question of Rin: [ I don't believe he'd ever met the tiefling in his life; not before that night. ] He doesn't know this, true, but Dima's fairly certain if Sen had known Rin, he'd have mentioned them - would have chattered long into the night, whenever possible - long before that attack in the forest.
[ I suspect Sen may simply BE a lucky bastard.
...Though. Perhaps it isn't only Sen. Perhaps there was more luck in that grove than any of us knew. ]
And, perhaps a little too hastily - as if Dima's aware he's ushered them toward ground Faolan might not wish to tread - he adds: [ In any case, for all his absurdity, the elf is better company than I usually handle. ]
<.>
Faolan doesn't respond immediately. Perhaps it was the comment about luck that did it, or perhaps he's simply preoccupied with his own thoughts, or the undead bustle around them.
He thinks, maybe. Maybe there was luck in that grove. Good for Sen.
Bad for himself and Dmitri.
[ He seems heartfelt. About you. About Rin. Whatever else he may be, that's a quality one doesn't find often. ]
It's surprising to learn Sen only met Rin the other day; they seem like two halves of the same coin. Instantly a keen friendship, or lovers - or whatever they may be. Faolan hasn't quite worked it out, if they aren't married.
(Maybe they haven't, either.)
[ Maybe he knows you're traveling because he watches you. He jumped into that fight pretty quickly; maybe he's some kind of self-appointed guardian.
Looking out for his investment. Or his friend. Or both. ]
<.>
In the silence, Dmitri wonders whether he did speak too far (it's so much harder to curb his words, his impulses of speech around this man; much as Dima tries, and wants to try). There's no telling what Faolan thinks of his fortunes since that day— Not so very long ago, true, but a lot has happened. And Dima may know his feelings toward Faolan, but he also knows the man is wary; knows the man has cause to be. And can't tell whether the signs of... of perhaps-interest he sees in Faolan are true, or are of Dima's own imagining.
He needs to be careful, he reminds himself.
This man needs and ought to have care, he knows. (A warning, a could-be-hesitation: When has Dima learned to care for someone, truly?) (A rejoinder: He'll learn. He learns with every word, and every pained expression. And even if— Mm. If Faolan doesn't share Dima's longings, still there is care to be offered; still Dima wants him well.)
Dmitri nods, head canted in consideration. [ ’Heartfelt'; there, yes, is another apt descriptor. I've never met a man more honest in his knavery— Or in much of anything. ]
A pause, and, [ I'm more comfortable with 'looking out for his investment.' Though I— ]
Dima huffs, and shakes his head. [ Never let him know I suggested this, but. I suppose 'friend' might not be an inapt descriptor.
It isn't one that I'm precisely accustomed to. ] He lifts one shoulder in a subtle shrug, then pauses, cants his head, and—
[ Faolan. Speaking of that fight, that night—
What were you doing with Wythall? Rather. Did you know what HE was doing? ] And, voice assuring, [ I won't push, and you needn't answer if you'd rather not. ]
<.>
Faolan looks puzzled now, huffing a little laugh at the thought that he might have been doing anything at all with Wythall.
[ He asked to share my campfire. You came along only moments after.
I didn't know what he was about at the time, but I have my suspicions NOW. Those plants were Awakened. He- ]
As he steps around a shambling creature with eyes that don't fix on anything in particular, his hand brushes Dmitri's; a burst of longing makes his breath catch. (This. This is what he was trying to avoid.) (But what harm is it, really, if - accidentally - his hand brushes Dmitri's now and then?)
(A world of harm.)
He was saying - what was he saying?
Wythall.
[ He wasn't any sort of Druid - and I don't think he was much of anything else. An opportunist, mostly.
The gemstone Rin pocketed. It probably has some ability left to Awaken more plants.
In Rin's hands, that might be a bad thing? ]
<.>
There's a stammer in his step as he feels the brush of Faolan's hand (an accident, perhaps? probably) (did Faolan's breath falter for a moment, or was that Dima's invention only?), as he longs to reach out, to draw the brief touch into a twine of hands.
He doesn't. He thinks of Faolan drawing from his touch, disappearing into an empty tent. He thinks of that almost-offer earlier; Faolan's hand beginning to move, then shifting, settling on his scimitar. The man isn't— Ready, perhaps. Or it's his wariness, or he simply... Well. Doesn't wish to take Dima's hand, or - perhaps more likely - permit Dima to take his own.
It might happen yet. Dima tells himself (hopefully or hopelessly?) that their hands will link again. He needs to be patient, though. He can't force it on Faolan, if the man requires time to think, or observe, or simply wait, Dima will try to keep cautious. (When he can help it.) (When he can brush down his own impulse.)
As they continue walking, his eyes wander to Faolan's hand once, twice, several times throughout.
[ I'm curious what the man thought he was doing; what he planned to do with that tree. An immaterial question, perhaps. That he wasn't a Druid might tell enough.
Have you encountered stones like this before? ]
And, after a hummed sound, [ I'm not certain there's any harm Rin would do with it. It wouldn't hurt to keep an eye on them, but I suspect they're more likely to make up a parade of walking shrubs than orchestrate any forestation-based attack.
IF they learn the gemstone's use. And if they want the stone for anything beyond its sheen. ]
<.>
He won't think about it. He won't mention it. It can't happen again, no matter how much his impulsivity fixates on Dmitri. (Beautiful man. Why did he have to be Dmitri Voronin, why did it have to be now?)
Faolan draws up to a stall purveying a collection of items with no particular theme - a skull here, a bit of something labelled 'summer sand' there. He feigns interest in a tunic made of some silky, ethereal fabric.
[ It's not uncommon for those without magic to buy it from others and store it a while. I've done it, myself, a time or two. ]
He doesn't elaborate.
[ Maybe he was using his shrubs to attack travelers. Or maybe he just wanted the company. It's a little late to ask him. ]
He glances at Dmitri and again finds himself suspended. Again finds himself held safe in the blueness of his eyes - and for just a moment, he could believe maybe Dmitri doesn't mean him harm. Maybe all he really wants is something Faolan hasn't encountered before.
(But think. Think what will happen in Loch Bien, or in Morovsk, when Dmitri's surrounded by other nobles. Think of what he'll say, and how much more it will hurt.)
He shakes himself out of it and looks away.
[ If you were a pair of criminally fanciful thieves, where would you go? ]
<.>
What did Faolan mean by that.
Clearly it isn't a question for pursuing. (Not now; maybe not ever.) Without further context, it's nothing Dmitri can suss out for himself. He simply nods at the remarks; it makes sense enough, and whether Wythall wished to harness the magic he did or whether it was simply what he could obtain, it seems he was using it toward his own ends. Meaning - hopefully - that there's isn't an entire conclave of Wythalls bent on turning forests toward attack.
[ I'd heard talk of travelers in the area suffering mysterious attacks, unwilling to name the creatures that attacked them.
It occurs to me that few people would be eager to confess that their wounds were inflicted by a meager bush. ] And— [ I encountered one earlier on the day I met you. It was startling, I'll admit. ] He realizes he still has the vial of bush dust; he also realizes there's likely no value in employing it. Ah, well.
It doesn't hurt to have a memento. The vial of dust and the raven totem; reminders of a day that brought forth one dire meeting.
Glancing around the stall before them, Dima lifts the skull for inspection, sets it down. Nods to a half-melted candle, its wax a nauseating off-green, and asks the seller just what it might be.
Then, to Faolan: [ Gods only know. If there is a logic followed by criminally fanciful thieves - and I'll allow there may well be - it's beyond my comprehension.
I suppose they'd be attracted to either the strangest goods, or the shop with the largest array. Perhaps somewhere with a minor crowd to entertain Sen's ceaseless chatter. ]
<.>
Not the worst conjecturing, Faolan thinks. Sen's a bard, so he'll be in a crowd. He thinks he saw something like an open-air tavern near the center of the market.
The seller of the candle is explaining to Dmitri the alchemical properties and value of the candle, so he waits until the conversation finishes before suggesting, [ We should make toward the gibbets. It looked like there were tables and a barmaid. If he's looking for an audience, it'll be there. ]
And, just for good measure, [ I wouldn't buy that. It smells rancid; it can turn lead to gold but can't manage to be odorless? That's suspect. ]
<.>
There's the glint of a smirk from Dmitri, and his response to Faolan is toned with amusement: [ Let it never be said that alchemy doesn't bring its share of stench. But I agree with your suspicions; as a rule, claims of turning lead to gold are the hallmark of a useless item. ]
To the shopkeeper, he lifts his eyebrows just slightly, expression reserved, and explains that - how very interesting, and what a coincidence! - he has a torch at home that serves the same function, and so won't be requiring the candle.
Then turning, taking in the lay of the market at nodding at Faolan - catching, blood quickening, at the sight of him - he nods and begins to walk. [ It's a better bet than any. The gibbets, then. We'll see what manner of eager souls he's managed to gather. And whether the two of them have managed to refrain from stealing anything for such a terribly long time. ]
no subject
...And he won't pretend he doesn't feel an ember of warmth in his chest every time Dmitri speaks of 'we', or 'us', or 'you and I'. Dangerous though it is, at least someone other than Faolan is chasing that union for once.
(It has nothing to do with what he's been through, though, does it? He looks over at Dmitri and feels like 'we' ought to be implicit. He sees the toss of hair and crooked smile, feels the way Dmitri wants to be near him just to be near, and that warmth has nothing to do with vindication.)
[ You'll have your chance to explore to your heart's content. ] There's some amusement in his tone, and equal measures of happiness for Dmitri.
[ We'd better find the thieves sooner rather than later; Nerys is going to have more luck finding our would-have-been-assassin than those two. ]
And, bemusedly: [ How DO you know Sen? ]
And just as curiously: [ And how long has he been married to Rin? I keep trying to sort out how he found a tiefling who just happens to be as - mm. Criminally fanciful? As he is. All the luck in the world, there. ]
And, quickly, [ And what's his arrangement with you? ]
Perhaps he's asking too many questions - but it's better to turn his prodigious (and heretofore curtailed) curiosity on Sen and Rin than on more likely subjects. (Dmitri Voronin, for one.)
<.>
Faolan's remark about exploring the Market draws a soft laugh from Dima (unintended) (unusual; he hasn't laughed that way - in warmth, in pleased surprise - in quite some time), and a half-smile. He'd like that chance. He will have that chance—
And he'd like to explore the Market - he'd like to see so much - in Faolan's company. Unusual as well, that, when Dima has always preferred to travel alone when possible. Even when circumstances - typically diplomatic ventures - required accompaniment of a retinue, he'd keep largely to his own company outside of his duties, his plans and the regulation of displeased parties (the regulation, typically, of fellow nobles throwing minor shitfits).
Faolan is an exception. (Faolan, Dmitri thinks, is a rule, a realm all of his own.)
...Oddly. Sen, too, is a kind of exception. And a relentless pain in the ass. (And a not earnestly unwanted presence, trying though he can be.)
Dima clicks his tongue, thinking, before he responds. [ Sen's 'arrangement' is cropping up every time I travel in order to rob me and talk my ear off. How the shithead KNOWS when and where I'll be away from Morovsk is a mystery to me. And why I tolerate him— ]
A shrug, a performative sigh. [ You've met him.
One might say I appreciate the routine; the performance of his theft. 'Criminally fanciful' describes him to a T. And it does break the monotony of travel.
He takes my gold. We have a drink, we talk; we part ways. ] It strikes Dima - it has struck Dima - that this is the longest he's spent in Sen's company. A question is why the elf hasn't - why both thieves haven't - slipped away. A question is why Dima is content to see them stay.
And, regarding the question of Rin: [ I don't believe he'd ever met the tiefling in his life; not before that night. ] He doesn't know this, true, but Dima's fairly certain if Sen had known Rin, he'd have mentioned them - would have chattered long into the night, whenever possible - long before that attack in the forest.
[ I suspect Sen may simply BE a lucky bastard.
...Though. Perhaps it isn't only Sen. Perhaps there was more luck in that grove than any of us knew. ]
And, perhaps a little too hastily - as if Dima's aware he's ushered them toward ground Faolan might not wish to tread - he adds: [ In any case, for all his absurdity, the elf is better company than I usually handle. ]
<.>
Faolan doesn't respond immediately. Perhaps it was the comment about luck that did it, or perhaps he's simply preoccupied with his own thoughts, or the undead bustle around them.
He thinks, maybe. Maybe there was luck in that grove. Good for Sen.
Bad for himself and Dmitri.
[ He seems heartfelt. About you. About Rin. Whatever else he may be, that's a quality one doesn't find often. ]
It's surprising to learn Sen only met Rin the other day; they seem like two halves of the same coin. Instantly a keen friendship, or lovers - or whatever they may be. Faolan hasn't quite worked it out, if they aren't married.
(Maybe they haven't, either.)
[ Maybe he knows you're traveling because he watches you. He jumped into that fight pretty quickly; maybe he's some kind of self-appointed guardian.
Looking out for his investment. Or his friend. Or both. ]
<.>
In the silence, Dmitri wonders whether he did speak too far (it's so much harder to curb his words, his impulses of speech around this man; much as Dima tries, and wants to try). There's no telling what Faolan thinks of his fortunes since that day— Not so very long ago, true, but a lot has happened. And Dima may know his feelings toward Faolan, but he also knows the man is wary; knows the man has cause to be. And can't tell whether the signs of... of perhaps-interest he sees in Faolan are true, or are of Dima's own imagining.
He needs to be careful, he reminds himself.
This man needs and ought to have care, he knows. (A warning, a could-be-hesitation: When has Dima learned to care for someone, truly?) (A rejoinder: He'll learn. He learns with every word, and every pained expression. And even if— Mm. If Faolan doesn't share Dima's longings, still there is care to be offered; still Dima wants him well.)
Dmitri nods, head canted in consideration. [ ’Heartfelt'; there, yes, is another apt descriptor. I've never met a man more honest in his knavery— Or in much of anything. ]
A pause, and, [ I'm more comfortable with 'looking out for his investment.' Though I— ]
Dima huffs, and shakes his head. [ Never let him know I suggested this, but. I suppose 'friend' might not be an inapt descriptor.
It isn't one that I'm precisely accustomed to. ] He lifts one shoulder in a subtle shrug, then pauses, cants his head, and—
[ Faolan. Speaking of that fight, that night—
What were you doing with Wythall? Rather. Did you know what HE was doing? ] And, voice assuring, [ I won't push, and you needn't answer if you'd rather not. ]
<.>
Faolan looks puzzled now, huffing a little laugh at the thought that he might have been doing anything at all with Wythall.
[ He asked to share my campfire. You came along only moments after.
I didn't know what he was about at the time, but I have my suspicions NOW. Those plants were Awakened. He- ]
As he steps around a shambling creature with eyes that don't fix on anything in particular, his hand brushes Dmitri's; a burst of longing makes his breath catch. (This. This is what he was trying to avoid.) (But what harm is it, really, if - accidentally - his hand brushes Dmitri's now and then?)
(A world of harm.)
He was saying - what was he saying?
Wythall.
[ He wasn't any sort of Druid - and I don't think he was much of anything else. An opportunist, mostly.
The gemstone Rin pocketed. It probably has some ability left to Awaken more plants.
In Rin's hands, that might be a bad thing? ]
<.>
There's a stammer in his step as he feels the brush of Faolan's hand (an accident, perhaps? probably) (did Faolan's breath falter for a moment, or was that Dima's invention only?), as he longs to reach out, to draw the brief touch into a twine of hands.
He doesn't. He thinks of Faolan drawing from his touch, disappearing into an empty tent. He thinks of that almost-offer earlier; Faolan's hand beginning to move, then shifting, settling on his scimitar. The man isn't— Ready, perhaps. Or it's his wariness, or he simply... Well. Doesn't wish to take Dima's hand, or - perhaps more likely - permit Dima to take his own.
It might happen yet. Dima tells himself (hopefully or hopelessly?) that their hands will link again. He needs to be patient, though. He can't force it on Faolan, if the man requires time to think, or observe, or simply wait, Dima will try to keep cautious. (When he can help it.) (When he can brush down his own impulse.)
As they continue walking, his eyes wander to Faolan's hand once, twice, several times throughout.
[ I'm curious what the man thought he was doing; what he planned to do with that tree. An immaterial question, perhaps. That he wasn't a Druid might tell enough.
Have you encountered stones like this before? ]
And, after a hummed sound, [ I'm not certain there's any harm Rin would do with it. It wouldn't hurt to keep an eye on them, but I suspect they're more likely to make up a parade of walking shrubs than orchestrate any forestation-based attack.
IF they learn the gemstone's use. And if they want the stone for anything beyond its sheen. ]
<.>
He won't think about it. He won't mention it. It can't happen again, no matter how much his impulsivity fixates on Dmitri. (Beautiful man. Why did he have to be Dmitri Voronin, why did it have to be now?)
Faolan draws up to a stall purveying a collection of items with no particular theme - a skull here, a bit of something labelled 'summer sand' there. He feigns interest in a tunic made of some silky, ethereal fabric.
[ It's not uncommon for those without magic to buy it from others and store it a while. I've done it, myself, a time or two. ]
He doesn't elaborate.
[ Maybe he was using his shrubs to attack travelers. Or maybe he just wanted the company. It's a little late to ask him. ]
He glances at Dmitri and again finds himself suspended. Again finds himself held safe in the blueness of his eyes - and for just a moment, he could believe maybe Dmitri doesn't mean him harm. Maybe all he really wants is something Faolan hasn't encountered before.
(But think. Think what will happen in Loch Bien, or in Morovsk, when Dmitri's surrounded by other nobles. Think of what he'll say, and how much more it will hurt.)
He shakes himself out of it and looks away.
[ If you were a pair of criminally fanciful thieves, where would you go? ]
<.>
What did Faolan mean by that.
Clearly it isn't a question for pursuing. (Not now; maybe not ever.) Without further context, it's nothing Dmitri can suss out for himself. He simply nods at the remarks; it makes sense enough, and whether Wythall wished to harness the magic he did or whether it was simply what he could obtain, it seems he was using it toward his own ends. Meaning - hopefully - that there's isn't an entire conclave of Wythalls bent on turning forests toward attack.
[ I'd heard talk of travelers in the area suffering mysterious attacks, unwilling to name the creatures that attacked them.
It occurs to me that few people would be eager to confess that their wounds were inflicted by a meager bush. ] And— [ I encountered one earlier on the day I met you. It was startling, I'll admit. ] He realizes he still has the vial of bush dust; he also realizes there's likely no value in employing it. Ah, well.
It doesn't hurt to have a memento. The vial of dust and the raven totem; reminders of a day that brought forth one dire meeting.
Glancing around the stall before them, Dima lifts the skull for inspection, sets it down. Nods to a half-melted candle, its wax a nauseating off-green, and asks the seller just what it might be.
Then, to Faolan: [ Gods only know. If there is a logic followed by criminally fanciful thieves - and I'll allow there may well be - it's beyond my comprehension.
I suppose they'd be attracted to either the strangest goods, or the shop with the largest array. Perhaps somewhere with a minor crowd to entertain Sen's ceaseless chatter. ]
<.>
Not the worst conjecturing, Faolan thinks. Sen's a bard, so he'll be in a crowd. He thinks he saw something like an open-air tavern near the center of the market.
The seller of the candle is explaining to Dmitri the alchemical properties and value of the candle, so he waits until the conversation finishes before suggesting, [ We should make toward the gibbets. It looked like there were tables and a barmaid. If he's looking for an audience, it'll be there. ]
And, just for good measure, [ I wouldn't buy that. It smells rancid; it can turn lead to gold but can't manage to be odorless? That's suspect. ]
<.>
There's the glint of a smirk from Dmitri, and his response to Faolan is toned with amusement: [ Let it never be said that alchemy doesn't bring its share of stench. But I agree with your suspicions; as a rule, claims of turning lead to gold are the hallmark of a useless item. ]
To the shopkeeper, he lifts his eyebrows just slightly, expression reserved, and explains that - how very interesting, and what a coincidence! - he has a torch at home that serves the same function, and so won't be requiring the candle.
Then turning, taking in the lay of the market at nodding at Faolan - catching, blood quickening, at the sight of him - he nods and begins to walk. [ It's a better bet than any. The gibbets, then. We'll see what manner of eager souls he's managed to gather. And whether the two of them have managed to refrain from stealing anything for such a terribly long time. ]
<.>