"In terms of volume, anyway. Awkward, awkward atmosphere." They shake their head, taking a bite of the roll. "...! These're from the table, right? Good, good, that's good."
They'll chew as they think, as they talk a little more, lifting up onto their toes, then back onto their heels. "You really should be commended for sitting through that. I couldn't have. You're a patient elf, Sen; a very patient elf."
And. "He didn't sound like he was lying, at least. About anything. Dunno if I was missing something, but— The guy seems sure about what he's saying, divination and all."
A blink, a cant of their head. "Is there any chance the Nightmare Market could be a real thing. I mean, okay if it's not, life's life, just. You know. Could be interesting?"
This time speaking half to themself, musing, "I don't think I've ever seen someone eat flamingo tongue."
<.>
Sen would tell Rin it's likely that Calabra doesn't talk to his LESSERS, and that, if the market is real, then they'll come into some coin, and if not, they'll rob the fuck.
Sen also will impart that he intends to extort Calabra for double whatever he's offering.
As they walk, Sen tells Rin the few details he knows of the Nightmare Market; to be fair, it isn't the most popular of subjects amongst "decent" folk, and amongst indecent folk, it smacks of fairy tales and hallucination.
When and where the Nightmare Market appears, whether drawn by chance or alignment of stars, is largely unknown - to the living.
He pauses, thoughtful, murmuring to himself, "The dead all know. The dead all go-"
And then, tsking annoyance, he admits there was a sort of song he heard once, when he was very young, but of course, he can't remember a gods-damned word but the chorus.
He goes on with a dismissive wave, recalling what he can: the dead things of the world congregate to barter for their needs. Flesh for the ghouls' appetites. A memory for the wraiths, a bit of warmth, a vial of blood. In return, it's said there are wonders to be found amidst the bizarre wares.
"There are rules, of course, and penalties for breaking them. That's the part everyone remembers, because it's in all the cautionary tales: if you break the rules, you stand forever bound to the wheels of the market's spectral caravans or some shit to that effect.
"First: 'Unlife, like life, is sacrosanct.
"Second: Do not steal.
Third: The living cannot be touched."
"They say necromancers and looky-loos find their way into the market, but I've never spoken with any legitimate, sober source to that end. Dima's attitude is typical."
He hums, then shrugs. "The rest is conjecture, colorful additions, and pure fiction. I suppose if the place exists at all, we'll see for ourselves tonight. Either way, we'll be sure to embellish the tales just a little more. No one likes a spoilsport."
One further comment from Sen, "I wonder how much it cost him to have flamingo tongues imported - and what he eats when he dines with company."
<.>
Rin hangs on every word. It's rare for them; they lose interest easily, even when they'd like to hear a story. So many storytellers end up disappointing. So many times, there's not really anything worth hearing, and Rin finds it more pleasing to fill in the blanks on their own.
The thing is, Sen tells a really good story. He doesn't hide his doubt, but the way he talks about this Nightmare Market makes it seem possible. And! He's got a good point: Even if there isn't any market at all, they can still make a good story of it.
Rin likes this attitude. Rin likes listening to Sen talk. And when Sen finishes speaking, they find they've caught every word; even if they forget some of the details, they'll remember the gist.
It's been a pretty good night, all around.
It's been a pretty good couple of days! (Well. Minus the getting bitten and the smelly heap.)
And they laugh a little, a spring in their step, their tail swishing, swishing, occasionally brushing Sen's legs. "Probably his foot. That man is a top of the line spoilsport.
"Us, though. We're going to see about this market!
"Or at least get to listen to some foxes." And maybe, maybe find a nice-looking rock or two.
<.>
The party gathers in the tavern below the inn; Faolan is the last to arrive, thirty minutes later than the others. (Sen is just considering asking if Faolan might not have decided to depart, or sleep in the woods, or not go along, but he doesn't know quite how to handle Dima.) (Yet.)
Faolan looks weary, makes no apology for his tardiness, and keeps a little apart from the group as they make for the outskirts of town.
They have managed to gather from other tavern patrons that the ruins are "a ways" northwest, along a small river tributary, until they reach the "old port". ( "Hardly more'n a dock or two." ) The ruins will be "due west" from this "port".
It's in that direction that they begin their search.
Sen, of course, offers to take the lead - though he really should not, considering his sense of direction.
<.>
Not long after Dima settled into his room - wishing foolishly, he knows it's foolish, that they'd been obliged to share rooms; knowing it's best Faolan has space, worn as he's looked - he was rejoined by Liviana, a tap at the window, a raven fluttering in and shifting to her serpentine shape. She stayed within the room while he bathed; they conversed in words and images while he worked his way toward rest.
He thought of Faolan often; of course he did. Once during the night, he knocked on the man's door; softly, barely a sound. It might not have sounded like a knock, and anyway, Dima thought better of it before anything could happen; he darted from the hall and back to his room, thinking he should let Faolan have his space. Reminding himself not to push too far.
(He did ask the innkeeper whether a man of Faolan's description had departed from the inn. He was relieved, and finally able to sleep some, upon hearing no such man had left.)
Liviana - returned to her raven form - now alternates between flying above and landing, just occasionally, on Dima's shoulder. Dima himself sticks as near to Faolan as he can, and yes he's watching perhaps a little too much, yes he's relieved to find the man's with them still, and yes, he's worried at how weary Fae seems. He wonders, too, what's drawn Faolan to come with them—
And in fact, wonder what his own reason for coming might be. (Presumably, he's half out of his mind.) (It's probably the elf's influence, gods damn him.) Whatever it is, he knows he wants to get this over with. The sooner they can find this absolute nothing, the sooner they can return to the inn, and discuss plans for heading toward Loch Bien.
What draws Dima to a sudden halt is Sen's offer, and his response is immediate—
"Absolutely not.
"I'd just as soon not spend a week in searching for these ruins."
Rin, wandering near Sen, takes some offense to this, and glances over at Sen. "I think we can work this out." Taking a few steps nearer to Sen, grinning, they add, "Thieves' pact: We'll find the Market together!"
<.>
Faolan didn't sleep. After a washing up - perfunctory and cold - he tossed and turned on his mattress, thinking of Calabra. Of Alfrig. Of Alfrig's Champion. Of the way his wildfire spirit looked at him when he offered to sacrifice it, and how that look was acceptance.
Thinking of how the wolf is part of him, a reflection of his soul.
(What would happen to the wolf if he -) (Not something to think about.)
He heard a soft knock at the door at some point, knew who it must be, and feigned sleep. The knock wasn't repeated and no voice called for him.
He entered the trance he needed to recover himself, but sleep is a long way off still.
There's this journey into the wilderness to find a fairy tale. He's curious, of course, but more to the heart of the matter, he chose to go because these three seem incapable of surviving without healing. Or protection. (And - maybe. Maybe he needs them, too.) (For now. He'll leave before (Dima) any of them can.)
He watches Sen and Rin and thinks of the earthworms. And Rin's preoccupation with the frog on a stick. And Sen's perpetual distractedness towards storytelling.
And shaking his head, he picks up the pace a bit to take the lead. If anyone's going to find their way in the woods, it'll be him. (And maybe. If he's scouting ahead, maybe Dmitri will focus on something else.)
"If I can't find it, I'll ask something. The animals know."
Sen frowns at him, or through him, perhaps.
Sen is thinking, The dead all know. The dead all go.
Sen is wondering now if maybe there was something to that song.
Dima's relieved to see Faolan taking the lead. He hadn't wanted to volunteer the man, but for fuck's sake, there's no chance of Sen leading them anywhere, and Dima can't believe Rin's much more liable to maintain focus.
Much as he wants to keep near Faolan, he also thinks it might, might just be best if he keeps to the back and makes sure the thieves don't go wandering off. He and Liviana share a glance, a simultaneously thought that she'll circle above, keeping an additional watch. He gives her a chunk of meat and watches her take to the sky.
Then turns his eyes ahead to Faolan, noticing but not really looking at the thieves, and Messages, [ Thank you.
I fear we would have ended up in Wiverpor with their lead. ]
Rin's humming to themself, not sure why Faolan stepped into the front, but they're not going to question it; he led pretty well through the house full of steps, so he'll be fine here, probably. Also he seems like he's got some experience out here and maybe, maybe he'll get them to the Nightmare Market faster!
There humming turns to sing-song, playing off what Sen said earlier: "We don't know, but we all go.
"No stealing, though." A huff, a dramatic sigh. "I guess there's a catch to everything."
<.>
Sen winks at Rin and is about to start a rhyming game with them, but the two lines of the song just circle back again and again.
He can't recall the rest of the words. But he's sure, he's *sure* there was something to it. So, instead, he replies, "Do you know, Pretty Rin, I have those words racing circles in my head. And it's odd, really. The song was - more of a ballad. Cautionary, but I'm certain there was more to it than just the warning at the end."
He turns back to Dima to ask, "Do you recall a song - assuming they sing songs where you come from. Beg pardon if not. But this one. A ballad about a brother and sister and the Nightmare Market.
"It had a refrain of 'The dead all know, the dead all go.' Anything?"
Meanwhile, up ahead, Faolan hears Dmitri's message, but takes a moment to reply, [ The night's not over for hours yet. They have time. ]
He might be joking. He might be serious.
<.>
[q: is this a song dima might have some memory of? HIST, d: 18
dm: Dima would recall it as a ballad he once read in a book in Novorometz or heard in childhood. The gist of the story is two children hear of the Nightmare Market and sneak out one moonless night to find it. The ballad follows their journey and ends with their deaths - after which they remain perpetually with the Market, warning away the young whose lives are new and too much a temptation for the dead.]
Dima's silent for a time, giving no indication that he heard Sen, only seeing the words of the song come back to him (and, further back, he thinks, he thinks he must have heard the song; there's a melody in his head, in a voice he might remember); only remembering the word, and thinking cold-struck shivers of resonance. Thinking of young lives given over for the dead; rubbing the rings at his fingers.
He isn't certain that he wants to respond.
He'll put off deciding for the moment - or perhaps this is an attempt to push the elf toward his inevitable tangents - and remark with idle archness: "I'm afraid all guise of song has been banned where I come from." And immediately after, archness faded: "Where did you hear this song."
And, to Faolan: [ …I direly wish I could doubt that. ]
Then: [ …Do you know the song. ]
Rin is now improvising on the song, softly and in words that might involve earthworms, though they remain focused on the conversation, eager for whatever they can find.
<.>
[Fae check: 20]
Sen's reply comes first in the form of a rude comment about Dima's grandmother and an act of coitus.
If Dima's going to be contrary, Sen will just rely on his own (checkered) memory to piece together why the song matters at all.
Faolan doesn't look back over his shoulder and doesn't answer Dmitri. Instead, he begins to hum - first only a few bars, then the entire melody, haunting and inviting, enthralling as all ballads are wont to be.
He knows it. He knows many songs. What he was, what he did, didn't see him invited to many balls or feasts, but it saw him in seedy taverns nobility liked to frequent to hide...well.
What they did with people like Faolan.
Sen falls silent, watching the boy ahead and wondering what sort of wood he lived in that had songs like that.
It's enough, though, to jar Sen's memory. The children called up a corpse to lead them, that was it. The dead know how to get there.
And Sen thinks of the rings on Dmitri's hand - then immediately rejects the idea.
He can't see his way toward risking those children on something frivolous. They deserve. to stay close to Dmitri. (Who knows why they'd want to, but nevertheless.)
He doesn't think Dmitri can call up corpses yet.
But.
"Say. Pretty Rin, have you still got that hand on a string?"
<.>
Dima reminds himself to move, keep walking, as Faolan's hum drifts on the wind, seems to twine through the trees, a fog that settles uneasy (sorrowful) in Dima's chest and draws the lyrics back upon his mind again, again.
He half-prays Sen doesn't recall the words; he's relieved when the elf turns to Rin.
And Dima lets himself breathe in the impression of Faolan's hummed song, and slowly, gently turns the rings around his fingers.
Rin would like to know what the song does say, and is getting the distinct impression that everyone else knows, or at least knows a lot more than Rin, which might be irksome if they weren't so struck my the fancy of this night and its venture. Which can't be irksome at all when Sen requests the hand, readily produced from the Bag of Holding and held aloft like the well-won treasure it is.
“This hand on a string?" Though their voice is a bit soberer than before - they can't help but feel the mood brought on by the ballad, by their guide's humming - they do swing the hand just a little bit, back and forth in the air. "Does the hand know where to go?"
They're joking, of course.
...Probably?
<.>
Sen watches the hand dangle and twist, then swing back and forth under Rin's propulsion, his head canted thoughtfully.
"Never hurts to ask. Hello, dismembered hand. I don't suppose you dabble in giving directions, hm?"
Faolan has slowed, likewise recalling the lines of the song about a corpse leading the wandering children to the Market.
He halts, backtracks to the party, and eyes the grisly relic.
"...It belongs to Rin. They ought to ask. I don't believe dead flesh just animates on its own, but I also don't believe any of this is real. And the docks are ahead. I don't see anything other."
Sen is staring at him as though he burst a child's balloon, so Faolan shrugs and folds his arms across his chest.
Gently, Sen encourages, "He's right. Rin, you ask it."
<.>
Dima almost, almost points out that if anyone's going to be speaking with a remnant, it out to be him. But, first, he doesn't particularly want to volunteer. And there's something to be said for keeping the could-be-tool, could-be-nothing into the hands of the one who's shown readiness, even a desire to believe in this absurd myth.
Dima also considers noting that one ought to be cautious when attempting communication with the dead— But, really, education's best gleaned from experience. Sometimes. And he can step in (he presumes) if need be.
Faolan's remark doesn't manage to dampen Rin's mood; in fact, they give him a doubtful looking. Thinking, well of course it makes sense that a place like this couldn't just be found by wandering in. There's got to be a secret way in, like with thieves' hideaways, like with sanctuaries. Maybe that way's physical, and maybe it's not; they're more than willing to try asking the hand.
So Rin touches their fingertips to the hands; clicks their nails against the once-goblin's. And they hold the hand aloft, the better to watch it as they speak: "Got a question for you.
"I know we only just met and everything, but— First, I need to compliment your nails. They look very viciously and nicely kept. Not everyone can say the same in life, let alone after!
"Also, though. So we're looking for this place. The Nightmare Market, right? We just— I want to find it. I mean we're looking for it for Reasons, but also I just really want to see it. If it is a thing, which I'm inclined to think it ought to be!
"So okay, so could you show us the way? Give us a direction or a, maybe a hint how to find the entrance?"
"You can come with us, of course! Or if you want something else, maybe you can have that too."
[PERS, r: 9]
<.>
The grisly totem seems to twitch, perhaps at the complement to its nails, but it doesn't seem to have any inclination to lead the party to the Nightmare Market.
After a moment of waiting with his breath held, Sen tuts. "You're being awfully contrary for a hand on a rope, friend."
Faolan shushes him gently and leans down a little to peer at the hand. He's certain it moved at the compliment. If the market is a place for trade -
If it exists.
"Suppose there was something in the market a hand might like to have. Rin, how much do you suppose that information's worth? And how much would we be willing to part with for our friend to do a little shopping? A - spending limit, let's say."
He straightens, flicks a glance at Dmitri, and shrugs.
<.>
Rin isn't noT a little disappointed, but they're sure the hand moved a little, so maybe there's just another step to this - it occurs to them that they aren't usually the most persuasive tiefling, and maybe it's the same with hands as creatures who have those hands attached? - and also maybe the hand is being a little contrary. Which, now that Rin thinks about it, is pretty fair; they'd be irritable if they were locked in a weird tomb with a bunch of relics and ceaseless chants.
Faolan's suggestion strikes Rin as sound, and they cant their head, eyes on the hand and its very nice nails as they consider. "It depends on what this hand likes. Maybe it wants somewhere to stay? So it's not in a bag or tomb. Maybe— Hm. It might want a body. Or rings. Or a way to get around all on its own."
[q: while Rin muses aloud: since rin's spent a good amount of time among illicit markets, woulD they have some likely figure of 'ah u can spend this!'
INS, r: 18
dm: Rin would know it's about 5 gp per person to get into places of ill-repute where one needs to bribe their way in.]
Rin speaks to the hand and their party alike: "Okay, so probably we're giving 25 gold minimum to all get in. And we've got— Well, you all know numbers better than I do." Maybe. They happen to keep pretty good track of their money, but they also know better than to give away all the secrets to anyone, hand or hand-plus-extras.
They think; they tap one of their own nails against their cheek, then nod. "Okay. How about we cover your entrance fee, and I'll give you 40 gold on top of that?"
It's more than they usually carry, themself. Today's an exception, which may partly account for what they think is a pretty generous offer.
Dima saw the twitch; what he can't say for certain is whether it came from the hand, or whether the tiefling gave the rope a deft pull, or whether the elf pulled some manner of magic to string this game along.
...It isn't impossible that the hand could have reacted. (Dima wishes, abstractly, that he'd given the thing another look. He'll have to give the rest of the relics a closer inspection when there's time.) All manner of remains take on enchantments before or after dying. Still. Still, he can't believe the Market's liable to show itself as truth.
He meets Faolan's glance and offers a shrug of his own. [ I suppose there's no harm in the delay. ] To entertain Rin's endeavors, he means. And, [ Yours was a sound suggestion, at any rate. ] A sound suggestion for an absurd premise, but. Well.
Faolan cants his head in acceptance; it wasn't a bad suggestion. But also, it was a shot in the dark. He doesn't know if the hand moved, or if Rin and Sen are having a laugh at their expense, or if they've missed the Market (if it exists.)
[ Rin seems to have hopes hung on this. I've dashed enough of those already. ]
For a long moment, there's nothing. Just as Sen (and possibly Rin, and most definitely Fae) is about to sigh disappointment, the hand begins to shift, the leather skin stretching and crinkling as long-unused musculature begins to work. Three fingers curl and one extends, but in its suspended state, it can only point to the ground.
Sen reaches and places his own hand, palm flat, beneath it, giving it somewhere to stand.
Seeing as it was the way they'd been told to go, he aims for toward the docks; nothing happens, so he turns the pointed finger away from the water.
He tries not to shudder as its muscles contract - as though emphatic now.
A hundred feet ahead, something in the air shimmers.
Faolan hums, intrigued, but rather than striding forward, he steps aside for Rin to take the fore. "Your hand. Your adventure."
Sen, meanwhile, mutters quietly, "That better have been a purely platonic clench.”
<.>
They would have tried another bribe and another, maybe for as long as an hour, but it doesn't take as long as that. It doesn't take so long at all, all things considered, and Rin breaks into a grin at the sight of shimmered air. Oh, yes. Yes! (They know such, hypothetically, that such entrances ought to be approached with care. They're also far to excited for much wariness.) There's a laugh, short but gleeful, and they grin to Sen and Faolan and the hand all in turn.
Sen looks maybe not thrilled to be holding the— Is the hand holding him now? Well, whatever's going on, Rin's grateful, and glad, and beams at Sen once more, Messaging, [ Good catch! ] They're also going to draw the hand back from Sen's, so that it keeps suspended on the rope.
And to Faolan, with a nod of their head in thanks - he did have a very good idea! - "I'm not sure it *is* my hand anymore. But I guess we'll figure it out."
They look at the hand, cant their head. "You'll have to let us know."
And, shaking out their hair, Rin moves toward, means to move into the shimmering air.
<.>
As the elf and tiefling move toward the shimmering barrier with the relic, Faolan hangs back with Dmitri a moment.
Whatever Dmitri is thinking just now. Whatever he's hoping for or against, brooding about, or simply musing, Faolan doesn't interrupt. He gives Dmitri a sidelong, almost lingering look, then raises his gaze skyward.
Overhead, there's no moon, but the sky is littered with stars casting their gentle glow. He looks, then closes his eyes as though feeling warmth even from such dim light.
For that moment, Faolan pretends something. Just in his head, of course, and never to be spoken. But it's a nice, brief fantasy.
Then, he breaks his own silence with, "Nice night."
With that, he inclines his head toward the others. "Shall we? I'll bet it's worth the looks on their faces when you tell the tale in Morovsk."
<.>
He intends to follow the thieves. Whatever’s beyond that shimmering air— Dima isn’t ready to credit it as being one thing or another (not yet) (why hope for truth in myths?) (has he been wrong all this time?) (and what magic brought that hand to animation? what tie might it share with the shimmer?), but whatever’s over there, he’s not about to stand here all night, or let Sen and Rin wander alone into fuck knows what.
It’s grown quieter, and at some point, he becomes aware of eyes on him.
At some point he looks out from himself, looks over, and realizes that in his frustration regarding this midnight search, he hasn’t had a chance to properly glimpse Faolan in starlight.
Or. He hadn’t had the chance.
He sees now, subtle silver luminance on an upturned, gentle - and not only gentle; and acquainted enough with life’s wounds to appreciate its respites - face. Sees stars’ glimmers reflected on blond. Feels warmth in his chest, at his temples.
(Perhaps they should spend more time in forests, he thinks.)
(Fire’s light or star’s light; which does he like better on this man?
Oh, both; Faolan shines true in both.)
He almost startles as Faolan speaks. Finds the words soothing, evocative of something (a want) (a dream’s image) a few steps removed from this world. A shimmer, an almost-opening of its own.
He’s watching Faolan still, fixed near-frozen, his expression now less clouded, now traced with a heart’s relief, when the man looks at him. Though Dima blinks, turns his head slightly to the side, he doesn’t quite stop looking.
And he nods, slightly, his smile slight but appreciative. “So it will be— Should I choose to share with them, at all.
“I find many don’t know the worth of what they learn, or what they have, at all.”
He extends his hand slightly, low, palm open in a query, and, “In any case, I’d like to see it.”
Now. With Faolan close by.
<.>
Faolan realizes now, looking at Dmitri's outstretched hand, that someday - soon - he's going to have to tell him 'no'. Dmitri (Dima) will hold out his hand and Faolan will refuse, and that's when he'll walk away.
(Long, long before Dmitri can do so, himself, one more man come and gone with pieces of Faolan.)
The ache in his chest doesn't pass. It hangs there, hooked on his lungs, because another thought's occurred to him: someday, maybe soon, Dmitri might stop asking for his hand.
Shouldn't he...indulge it now, just a little? Does it have to be tonight, under all these stars, going somewhere that doesn't exist, that he says no?
He grasps Dmitri's hand with a complicated smile.
Holding on to the other man, Faolan is the last to pass through the barrier.
One by one the party passes through the chill barrier; on the other side, they find themselves surrounded by (un)lively activity. The temperature has plunged and their breaths cloud before their faces. The murmur of a crowd of voices churns and rushes together like a tide.
Canopies and tents have been erected with everything from patchwork internment clothing to funeral shrouds; from the poles supporting them hang caged will-o-wisps that illuminate the market with a steady blue light. At the center of the market, the stalls and canopies give way to a central dais, above which gibbets are magically suspended. Within these, dead and live bodies moan and decay.
The dead have dominion. Animated corpses shuffle between the stalls, eyes lit by a dull balefire. Ghosts and specters glide among and through the other customers, filling the air with their quiet aching. The merchants are as dead as their clientele, from the translucent bookseller to the pair of ghouls standing protectively over their butcher's stall and its overtly humanoid wares. Along the perimeter of the market, skeletal beasts of burden are lashed to spectral carts.
As the party moves forward, a skeleton dressed in armor of some long-forgotten city intercepts them. The skeleton may be grinning, or it may be the result of its fleshless state; whatever the case, it hands each person a slip of paper. Printed upon it in large, gothic letters, are the words, "Condition upon entry: Living."
<.>
Hard to say what ran behind Faolan's expression; what Dima knows is the bright trill he felt when Faolan accepted his hand, and as they walked together toward the shimmered air. What he knows is that Faolan's hand remained in his as Dima passed through the barrier - Liviana swooping back to settle on his shoulder - and that he holds Fae's hand still as he beholds impossibility, another kind of beauty.
(He might have missed this.
How long has this place existed, just barely outside of reach?)
He doesn't know which measures of the myth are true, what actuality might have filtered into fictions, but this place is very present, the dead are all around, and it's wondrous. It's wondrous.
His eyes widen, his breath suspends.
He's tightened his grasp on Faolan's hand without realizing it, and he relaxes his hand, finds he's grinning just slightly. To Faolan, he Messages, [ I've never been so pleased to find myself proven wrong. ]
“Sen.” It's what Rin manages to speak before words get away from them - though they do, as well, give the hand on the rope a nails-to-nails tap of thanks - and they gaze at— Oh, at everything! Looking one place and another, half-dizzied, and twirling once, settling back on their feet just in time to take the slip of paper, giving the skeleton a graceful little nod.
"Sen, we did it!" Their voice is only just above a whisper. There's so much to see here, so much to discover! (But not steal. They're going to have to keep their itchy fingers still; they can do that. In a place like this, anyway.) And, lifting the hand up, nodding at it and then at Sen - are Faolan and Dima coming? oh, yes yes they're here okay - "Thank you very much, hand!"
<.>
The hand slowly curls itself into a fist with its thumb sticking out - either hitchhiking or giving a thumbs-up to Rin.
Sen is too busy to speak; he has to remember all of this. For the right audience, stories and songs of places like this are worth a small fortune. (He needs, as well, to find a souvenir. Something to lend credence to his tale.)
Faolan is watching all three of them with a sad little smile; Rin's hope was fulfilled, Sen's desire for stories satisfied.
And Dmitri looks awed. (How long has it been since he's felt awe?)
They three see wonders.
Faolan looks around past the shine and sees the tragedies: not far to their right, the ghost of a woman sells cups brimming with love for the man who betrayed her. He can hear her telling an interested woman that a broken heart's love has more intensity of feeling than any other.
He almost scoffs. (But it's not untrue. It's just that despair makes love ache, and pain means life.)
Not far from her, a ghoul offers bottled memories of the companionship among the bandits he once led.
(And betrayal from a loyal friend is, Faolan reflects, almost as painful as a lover.)
It's not all misery and memory; some creatures buy and sell body parts - one ghoul is advertising 'Finger Food' down the way.
Grotesque, most of it.
...But Dmitri looks so happy. (Maybe he needs to wander on his own a while, and not think about how happy Dmitri Voronin is or isn't, and how he'd like to see that happiness on his face more often.)
Before he can say anything, Sen is loping off at a jog, pleased as a pig in shit about something he's seen and calling back for Rin to hurry after.
Leaving Faolan alone with Dmitri and Liviana.
"Why don't you wander? I'll...follow along." He looks around mildly, then with a chagrined, lopsided sort of smile, he adds, "I doubt there's anything here for me."
Of course Rin follows! They can hardly tell where to begin here; each time something catches their eye, each time they start to take a step, they see something else that intrigues them. If Sen's seen something worth a look, they're there, period. So Rin scurries after Sen, calling "What, what did you find, Sennnn?"
Rin also will, of course, be checking in on the hand here and there, to see if it's found something it wants, or - if it does want to hitch a ride somewhere - if it's found a driver.
Dima has been caught upon the images around - observing the locomotion of the dead and how readily ghouls, skeletons, ghosts mingle and share wares; beginning to take sight of the offerings and thinking he really ought to have brought along more gold - though he remains aware of Faolan, grounded somewhat by the man's presence, and Dima's fingers occasionally, lightly brush against the back of Faolan's hand. He wants to see everything. He wants to document what he can, and it'd be wise, wouldn't it, to speak with the traders who'll share a word? There's much that might be learned here. Much that he could seek for years elsewhere and never glean a whisper.
Faolan's voice brings him back into the moment, and Dima fixes his eyes on the man. (Liviana, meanwhile, darts her watch steadily around them, apparently alert to any motions around, very much intrigued by a blue-glinting object several stalls away.) Furrows his brow and presses the hand in his own, "I'd rather not leave you."
And: [ Are you discomforted?
...No, is isn't quite that, is it? Or it isn't so simple. ]
Dima can't help glancing at a loud clamoring of sounds, though he returns to Fae's eyes after. [ Will you be all right in this place? ]
<.>
Sen has found a table of musical instruments, and of course he could stand here all eternity and examine them, but the next stall has books long thought lost to civilization, and the next (and several others) is offering wares advertised as 'Estate Sales' and 'Recently Deceased.’
He recalls they have a mission, of course, so with a sigh, he turns from these curiosities to frown down at Rin, then around the market. "Business first. Our friend here, and our 'friend' in town. Loathsome, the business of business. I wonder if there's someone with information. A map would be helpful. Suppose we start asking around if anyone's arrived lately who might've tried to assassinate Calabra, and then when a crowd shows up, ask if any of them were hired, or just met the bastard and were sorely tempted."
Faolan considers Dmitri's question as he takes another sweeping glance at the market around him.
When his eyes eventually (inevitably) return to Dmitri, he replies, [ Yes. ]
He ought to leave it at that, but he feels the sweep of Dmitri's fingers against his hand (and the nervous twist in his stomach-) and thinks maybe, if he pretends a little longer, then he'll feel less sorrowful about it all.
( I'd rather not leave you isn't the same as I never will leave you and he needs to remember that.)
(But it's such a lovely thought to hold.)
He presses Dmitri's hand lightly.
[ All right. I'll keep beside you.
Show me what you see. What's pleasing to you here? ]
And— As Sen and Rin circle closer to the center of the market, they'll see more and more wraiths dressed in what might be a uniform of sorts.
They will also see several living mortals and a variety of undead who are here to buy, rather than sell.
Dmitri, Liv, and Faolan stand in the middle of a circle of booths and one tent lit on either side by torches. All of these places seem to deal more or less in memory, emotion, and knowledge.
Beyond this small circle, booths sell a variety of trinkets, weaponry, body parts - whatever one could imagine is there for the taking, for the right price.
As they pass along to the southwest, they'll see a sign reading 'Marked by Death: Arcane Tattooing and Piercing' and, beneath on a hastily scrawled makeshift sign of torn wood: 'Fuck yes, it hurts.'
<.>
Rin may or may not have forgotten about that whole bit of business. So much has happened since they left Calabra to eat his flamingo tongues, but right, right, there's money if they can make this work, and sometimes the best way to learn a new place is to start in on business.
"The map sounds good." Never mind that Rin, historically, is not great with using maps. Probably Sen is, though; out of two thieves, one usually knows how to get along with maps. "Dunno about asking directly— Or maybe we throw in a bribe? Or! Talk about how much of a - yeah, I bet a lot of people considered gutting that ass-for-brains, so maybe if we talk about what a shit he is and how we've got our own little plot to, maybe not kill him, but maybe kill him, but maybe just pull down his pants at the fancy noble gathering or something.
"We're looking for... A spirit or a ghost? Or do we know what they'd be?
"The map first, though, you're right about that! Maybe we can ask if uh. Newer souls congregate anywhere?"
Dima's smile is soft, and remarkably warm in this cold market. He nods; he looks around, biting slightly at his lip. Thinking he'd like to see all of this. Knowing their time is limited— If the brevity of the market's existence is true.
As Dima looks around the nearest booths, he's hoping to find a seller who seems given to chatter. He wants to begin here; he's very, very curious about this sale of emotion and memory in particular. If no seller stands out, he'll choose the booth that looks most cluttered.
<.>
The most cluttered booth's proprietor is a silent wraith who stairs emptily at Dmitri, standing motionless until the trio reach its stall. It gestures with one arm, puppet-like, towards its collection of bottle memories, each carefully labelled with a title and previous owner: "A Knight's Shame, Sir Dario Pellirian", "The Day I Died, Merineous Gorski", and "Buried Treasure, Captain Murk" at the fore as the shop's prized items.
A second collection on the table is composed of emotions - a mother's love, a father's pride, the grief of parting - while a third seems to be experiences: "the taste of sugared pears", "scent of a campfire in winter", "intoxication".
If there are more risqué representatives of any of these, the wraith has not put them on the table.
The wraith then wordlessly draws attention to a sign attached to the side of its stall: "These treasures are carefully curated; one may be purchased for the price of two."
Faolan cants his head thoughtfully at the bottled scent of campfires in winter, clearly recalling the experience for himself with a distant smile. After this, the wraith watches him intently as his attention moves from bottle to bottle.
Meanwhile, Sen considers a moment and moves toward one of the larger shops - a tent manned (as it were) by numerous ghosts. "Maybe there? If I were new, I imagine I'd be atrocious at being a ghost. I'd find the first employment I could so I could get a handle on things."
<.>
Occupied with studying the bottles, Dima doesn't notice the wraith's fixed focus at first. (There's a thought. There's an itch. He could ask after recent memories related to Morovsk. He could attempt again to track the bastard down.) (He isn't going to fall into that. Not now.) It's when he looks up, intending to ask a question, that he sees how close the wraith's watching Faolan. Dima sees, and he presses Faolan's hand as he speaks, "Are you prepared to respond to inquiries? I'm quite— Curious. About your wares."
He notes the sign again; he keeps his lip from ticking to a frown.
And, "Do you harvest them yourself?"
And Rin, nodding, follows Sen. They're going to take a look at what's in the shop - or glean as much as they can by stepping into it - though they'll stick close to Sen for a moment... And actually! A ghost drifts near, so Rin takes the moment to ask how they like working here.
<.>
The wraith's attention slides back to Dima and remains, curious - but without the same intensity it held for Faolan.
After a moment of consideration, the wraith looks toward something over Dima's shoulder and opens its mouth, seeming to suck in all the air around it and exhaling with a death rattle. Almost immediately, a young woof elf comes trotting over. He looks from the wraith to Dima and Faolan and back again. Another death rattle seems to punctuate an inaudible conversation and the wraith gestures for Dima to speak to the boy.
"Ah, a necromancer, is it? I'm Nerys Embervale; I'll be your adjudicator," he says cheerfully. He seems to be quite happy with his occupation. "I arbitrate deals between the living and dead so there aren't any - mishaps. So. What is it you're looking to purchase?"
While Nerys speaks, the wraith's gaze slowly moves to Faolan's and holds. There's no sound; in fact, the sounds of the market seem to fade as a voice slithers into Faolan's head.
[Wraith: Nat 20]
You feel with such intensity. Bright-burning joys, depthless misery. You carry secrets of the living, knowledge to wring fortunes from kings. What would it take to part even one from you? What turns your head?
<.>
Seeing the wraith's attention shift from Faolan, Dima relaxes slightly, and his attention turns quickly to the wood elf. "Nerys; a pleasure to meet you.
"As it happens, I've only just begun my search. These bottles - the emotions, particularly - take my interest. How long has this shop been collecting; how fresh are these emotions? And do you harvest *all* of the goods yourselves, or do you take rogue gatherers into your employ?
"I would be interested - and gratified - to know the use to which your buyers most often put these goods." A pause, and Dima adds, "I intend to weave them with magical strands, of course. But I seek always to learn new ways of employing my materials."
Idly, half-unknowing, partly to assure Faolan he's here still, Dima brushes his fingertips again along the man's hand.
<.>
Nerys looks somewhat flustered by the sudden deluge of questions and blinks rapidly, then attempts to recall them in order.
"The trade of memories and emotions has been a staple of the Nightmare Market since its - 'conception' is an artless word here, hm. Humble endings?
"I can't attest to how many of these memories purchased second-hand may have been gathered, but Phaedron here is most ethical in his own practices. It isn't a pain-free experience, nor should it be! No, if it was as simple as discarding an unwanted item, what deterrent would there be for those who fail to understand that the loss of a memory means the loss of some influencing factor - Ah. Look at me, in the weeds again."
He chuckles at himself and, reaching around the stall to some unseen shelf, produces a roll of parchment and sort of portable scribal table. "Let me see here. Some of these bottles are as recent as the last Market. Others, well, I should guess the oldest is nearly two hundred years - no, forgive me, that sold last year. But you do get the idea."
Here, he offers Dima a look at the roll of parchment to see the list of acquisitions for the shop.
"Now, just what were you hoping to find?”
Faolan hears distantly a conversation between Dmitri and Nerys, but the padding of sound remains as the wraith holds his eyes.
(But he feels. He feels the comforting (electrifying) brush of fingertips, and in the absence of distraction, in this empty space created by the wraith, he feels that touch in every nerve of his body.
He feels the acute desire, the alarming notes of could be and might be.
He feels terror and oncoming loss striking painfully through him.
He half-shivers and exhales softly.
And he thinks -
Dima -)
The wraith's whispering voice returns as the sensations fade.
What would you give for a way to keep him? This moment, this touch?
(Wisdom save: 11)
Faolan's mind jars, but fails to break the wraith's hold and he thinks - No.
(Not one touch. Not one moment. Not for anything.)
There's a sound like a wheezing chuckle only he can hear. No, nothing of him. But another, perhaps. One of the ones who named you what you became, who used and turned you aside.*
The first sight of the sea at a lover's side. The first kiss. The first -
Night in someone's arms under an open sky.
Think. Think before you answer. A simple, should-have-been beautiful memory turned bitter in your head could blossom in another's - and you. You could have a 'first' again.
Faolan - is listening. The wraith's voice is a cunning knife, a temptation: With Dima.
<.>
[q: would dima have encountered or heard anything about memory/emotions/etc. extraction before? ARC: 19
dm: He would have heard stories about people bequeathing memories (or entire brains) for the sake of keeping information available. He may have heard of one or two people attempting to rid themselves of painful memories.
And he has heard that the Nightmare Market is where you can buy bottled emotion.
He probably doesn't know how to do it or know anyone else who knows how, but at a glance, it's a standard, routine practice in the Market.]
<.>
Dima's going to begin perusing the entries on the parchment, keeping an eye out - though he tells himself he is not, or that it's purely a precaution - for any memories or information relating to Morovsk. He glances at Nerys, and, "Perhaps you could help me determine that very thing.
"I suppose the sensation of plummeting into a chasm or abyss would please me. Or the scent of a seaside rose at midnight.
"Something unsettling. Something suited to conjuring unease."
He's looking still, brushing his finger along Faolan's hand, when Dima thinks, the man's been quiet for a little bit too long. And there's been no interruption by the wraith - Phaedron - since Nerys first arrived.
Going a little bit too tense, attempting to appear untroubled, Dima's going to press Faolan's hand and look at the man. And, clearing his throat, "What do you think, hm?"
And: [ Faolan? ]
[PERC, d: nat 20
dm: Dima would have noticed Faolan has been quiet and perhaps a little too still. And maybe, Nerys has been talking overmuch, spending a little too long and wandering into "the weeds”.]
In that case, yes, Dima is going to proceed as above, not wanting to move too quickly, in case he's wrong about what he's seeing from Nerys. He will, though, wrap his hand more fully around Faolan's, and to his Message add: [ Faolan. Answer me; please. ]
Faolan hears Dmitri as clearly as the wraith. He feels the urgency, the worry in the press of hand upon hand and thinks, No one has ever-
And the wraith answers, Shouldn't he, then, cast light where shadows have taken hold?
Think it over. Until an hour before dawn. When you walk away from this place, you could feel as though you've never been touched at all.
And, helpfully (?), it adds:
He asked your thoughts on memories of falling and roses. For unease.
Dmitri speaks again as the wraith relinquishes its hold on his mind. Faolan blinks and exhales a breath he didn't realize he was holding.
When he looks at Dmitri at last, he hasn't schooled his expression; he hasn't remembered to turn aside the longing, the desire, and briefly, their intensity shows through. (Then all of it vanishes again behind a wary mask.)
"Do roses make you uneasy?" He tries to joke, but finds his thoughts venturing to how a seaside would be, scenting of roses and salt spray, and Dima (Dmitri!) in his arms.
[ I'm all right. I was - lost in thought. ]
<.>
(That isn't the whole answer.
Faolan was too still for too long, and Dima hadn't been watching him - Dima should have been watching him - or where Phaedron's focus may have settled. Dima doesn't know what the wraith may have attempted, or whether it was anything at all.
Dima also can't pursue his questions far because—)
For a long-drawn stretch of moments, Dmitri finds himself stunned by the sight of this man. (Is that so surprising? He's certain he could stay beside Faolan for years (forever) and still be shattered by the sight, the sound, the essence of him.) He can't quite trust what he sees; can't quite believe it isn't his own wishfulness, his own belief in both the warmth and vibrance, the ferocity of this man—
How well Dmitri would like to be beheld (held) by Faolan with precisely that focus and that wanting. (Or, better still, he'd like to see that wanting paired beside fulfillment. He'd like to be so much for Faolan.) He'd like to think that glimpse was truth, but now he sees wariness again, and—
And at least Faolan responds.
At least he's lost his stillness.
(For now.) (They need to get away from this booth. From this area; there's plenty more to see, and Dima curses himself internally for choosing this of all booths to begin with.)
He manages a huff, a slight lift of one shoulder. "In the right light, and in the wrong hand."
[ We're moving along. I'm not—
We need to move on, I think. ]
Dima glances at the wraith, then passes the scroll back to Nerys, looking the elf over, memorizing his image. "We may be back. There are a few items that tickle my interest, but as I said, I've only just begun my search.
"Gentlemen. It's been a pleasure."
If Faolan doesn't protest, Dima is going to begin moving away from this circle of booths and the tents, in the direction of a few tables laden with trinkets. Looking for a place to pause, away from the booth. Making certain Faolan keeps with him.
<.>
Faolan doesn't protest being drawn away; he doesn't cast more than a single glance backward over his shoulder, but that's enough for him to know that the wraith and Nerys are now deep in silent conversation.
And also.
He's already made up his mind.
(He saw, he saw how Dmitri looked back at him, and maybe it's worth it - even when this all turns to shambles - to replace one soured memory with something beautiful -)
It doesn't matter what might replace it. He knows he doesn't want to think of anyone else under starlight.
He can't tell Dmitri; he's too suspicious (possessive?), too wary, and Faolan can't put voice to why he wants to do what he's thinking of doing. (And what will the wraith pay, anyhow? What does he want from this place?)
At the nearest table, glittering with amulets of all shapes and colors and purposes, he reaches down to turn one over so it best catches in the blue light.
"Strange place."
His fingertips echo the brush he felt only moments ago. He doesn't see the amulet at all; only feels warm skin and the ache that comes with touching what's not his own.
"Did something happen?"
Looking up, meeting the man's eyes, he amends, "Not just now. With you, and roses, and the wrong hands?"
And then a shrug. "You don't have to say. I'm only curious."
<.>
Dima feels a little too frenetic; as if a worried, wary energy travels through his veins now that they're a distance from the booth; as if he wants to do something (fix something?) (what?), but has no outlet for the sensation, the itch. He tries puzzling over what happened at the booth; what might have happened with Faolan. He attempts to peruse the offerings on the table, silently asking Liviana if one of these was the object that first caught her eye, his fingers tapping the table's edge, and it takes work to keep his expression schooled.
What helps is the brush of fingertips.
What helps allows him also to exhale more evenly, to straighten his back and pick up an amulet for Liviana's inspection. And Dima thinks, maybe he can approach this, solve the problem if there was one (if the wraith attempted anything), rest easy if there wasn't. Faolan's first question draws Dima's eyes—
And the rest.
For the rest, he simply can't look away. (Won't leave those eyes.) Though there's a slight flicker of a frown; the trace of a flinch. Though he makes himself shrug, and lets his head tilt just slightly. (He'd like to retreat from these queries.) (He doesn't want to back off (doesn't want to leave, abandon) this man.)
And after a moment, an aborted attempt at speech, he manages in a ghost that takes the barest guise of ease: "Many things happen.
"Or some things did happen. I knew my share of disappointments before—" He attempts a short laugh and very nearly (almost) manages. "Before I completed my schooling, I'd had enough of disappointment."
Another attempt at a casual shrug, and Dima sets the amulet down in order to show Liv another. His eyes track from Faolan's for a moment; they also quickly, quickly find their way back.
"That was years ago." His inclination since has been to avoid even the thought of companionship—
Until now.
Until very recently.
Until he watched Faolan across the campfire; until he watched Faolan produce flame upon his palm, and felt Faolan's hand within his own.
Swallowing - his hand still in Faolan's; his fingers daring to twine just a little closer - Dima glances to Liv, at the amulet she's now nudging with her beak, then asks the nearest seller what the item is, precisely, and what its cost might be.
<.>
Faolan listens as the undead shopkeeper explains - without any embellishment - that the stone is an Ioun stone meant for reserving spells for such a time when they may be needed and one's personal reserves are spent.
"Rare, but not so much as others I've seen," she says. "I'll let you have it for two breaths of life from each of you."
A beat, and, "And one feather from your fey bird."
Faolan is watching Dmitri, thinking for the first time that maybe, he's not the only one to suffer loss and heartbreak. Dmitri must have been his age when he 'had enough of disappointment'.
Lacking anything to say, he lets his own grip tighten so that he wonders how much it would take to force them apart. (How tightly could he hold on to keep Dmitri with him for (always) a longer while?)
(He's beautiful. He was beautiful when he formed from the shadows and into firelight. He was beautiful razing that mound. He'd beautiful right now, under strange blue light, with a raven perched on his shoulder.)
What he does say is, [ If Liviana thinks you might need that stone, I'll pay my share for it. For you. ]
<.>
[ No. ] His answer is immediate, and he shifts just a little nearer to Faolan. [ Thank you, Faolan, but no. ] He'd sooner give two breaths, three of his own. Not knowing the cost - and there is one; a thought carried with a shiver - still he knows he can't let this be taken from the man.
And anyway. And anyway: Who better to forfeit some breath of life than one who works his days among the dead?
(Faolan said—) (Faolan said.) (’For you.’ He'd give that, he'd offer, for Dima.
If Dima lingers in that thought, he'll forget to breathe; forget the world around them.)
He looks to Liviana, asks her if the stone suits her, asks her if she needs it, wants it. He'll give what he must for it; he tells her this, as well. And voices concern over the feather. [ Who knows what he might use it - use you - for. ]
Liviana's response flashes in images, impressioned with emotion: Desire for a flash of light; longing for something shining and shiny, something magical to call her own, a trace of loss and broken skies, and then a fall of feathers with worry, a void opening into divide; it isn't, she decides, worth the question of the cost. Not this one. Not this.
Dima watches her, asks if she's certain, and returns the amulet to the table. "Not at this time."
To Liviana: [ We'll find something. The right one for you. ]
And, to Faolan, with a slight, a worried smile: [ It isn't lost on me, the weight of what you offered. And Liviana extends her thanks, as well.
We need to be cautious, Faolan. I suspect there's more trouble in this price than we can see; a life's breath can hold many shapes, and many consequences. ]
He doesn't want to see this man wounded; Dmitri's certain Faolan needs no more loss in his life, or no more than can be helped.
And in his heart, curling again, again, Dima hears echoing: ’For you.’
<.>
It occurs to Faolan that the stone wasn't meant to be for Dmitri; the familiar wanted something shiny and blue for herself.
Rather like a raven.
(But. And. Isn't that still 'for Dmitri'? It's shared, their existence. Their souls are united.)
He'll have to keep an eye out. Maybe he can find her a stone she'll like, instead.
He focuses on this as a way of staving off a sense of hurt - and also, a feeling of having confirmation. Validation for all his suspicions.
He'd tried to offer something. (Stupid, stupid.) He hadn't expected chiding. (Or to be thanked by Liviana, like a ward placed between him and Dmitri.)
He answers, [ I can't imagine anything here can be bought for coin. ]
And.
[ I don't gamble with something I'm not prepared to lose. There's no need for worry. But if it reassures you, I won't offer again. ]
By chance, his eye is caught by a nearby tent, and he slips his hand from Dmitri's. "I'll be back. Or I'll find you, if you'd rather not wait."
<.>
(Oh. Oh no.)
Dmitri doesn't know where he went wrong, but something's fallen out of place. Faolan's turned inward, a bank of fog's slipped in between them, and suddenly his hand's gone (Faolan's drawn his hand away), and Faolan's— Leaving him?
(For a moment.) (He'll return.)
(With or without this fog?)
He needs an answer. He needs to answer, to explain himself, that Liviana chose to seek elsewhere, that Dima doesn't want to see this man lose anything more, that what's willfully given doesn't always compass the full measure of cost. (As well, perhaps, there's something about worthiness, what Dima knows he is and isn't worth the risk off; no matter what he feels for this man, no matter his intentions, Faolan doesn't know him any more than Dima knows the whole of Faolan.) (Wouldn't it be heartening, though, if Faolan felt as certain of Dima as Dima does of him?)
He manages to Message, feeling several steps outside himself: [ It isn't only you. Each one of us needs to step wary. ]
There's more he wants to add. About how much there is yet to see; how much they might yet barter. About how much it means that Faolan offered; how certain Dima is that the offer was made in earnest intention, earnest feeling. About how much Faolan's life is worth; how Dima would like him to value it more.
What he says, hand hanging limply, hand flexing against the air as if to seek an absent hand: "I'll be here."
As much as he wants to follow Faolan, he can't quite move; thinks it might be an error to follow the man just now, when he's torn himself away. Dima will wait. Dima will listen to the space around, Dima will keep an eye on the tent, and Dima will wait.
<.>
The tent, as it turns out, is exactly as he suspected from the glimpse he caught a moment ago: empty. It's a chance to slip out beyond Dmitri's line of sight.
He wonders if Dmitri really does mean to wait for him, or if he'll find the man and bird gone when he returns.
Faolan knows which outcome is the safe, smart bet. Better to be pleasantly surprised than disappointed. (Heartbroken.)
Casting Pass Without a Trace on himself (Stealth: 17), he doubles back to the path they just left - where he runs into Nerys.
The wood elf looks at him neutrally, so Faolan asks, "What's he offering?"
"Ah," Nerys says with a smile, as though he was only waiting for that question.
Dima waits with Liviana, trying to observe the scene around him, trying not to think too much about what Faolan might be doing or why he wished to leave, trying not to think about how little he likes to be left waiting (how foolish it can feel), how there's much to be witnessed in this market and he *ought* to be gleaning everything he can, how he knows too much worry to entertain he own curiosity. He tries to focus on what's nearest; the table next to the amulets, the sellers around. He keeps an eye on the tent, as well; watching for Faolan, and making certain there are no signs of trouble within.
Does Dima see anything of note while he's waiting? (Noting that he is distracted by Thoughts rn ofc.)
[PERC, d: 7; He wouldn't notice a dancing gorilla if it walked four feet in front of him.
PERC, liv: 12; Liviana seems too preoccupied with shiny things to notice anything of value at the moment.]
Dima will continue waiting for ten minutes. Liviana will continue admiring all of the shiny things. If Faolan hasn't returned by then, he's just going to. Stick his head into the tent.
<.>
A lot can happen in ten minutes' time.
When Dima approaches the tent, he'll find it's completely empty.
<.>
…He can’t, he thinks, blame Faolan.
He’d upset the man. (Disappointed him? But how?)
Dima will check around the tent, just to be sure he isn’t missing something. Maybe an invisible, a hidden portion that has to be stepped into to be seen?
[note: He finds nothing, ofc.]
Dima, reminding himself that panic will help nothing (and there’s no need to panic; Faolan… slipped off of his own accord, and of course the man can take care of himself; might wish to tend to business of his own; might need a little space) (might want to be away from Dima, and gods, gods, Dima can only hope he hasn’t left the market for good), steps out of the tent, his fingers flexing in the air, eyes darting as he seeks any sign of Faolan.
He asks Liviana if she saw the man; isn’t surprised that she too saw nothing. (He considers asking her to take a look for Faolan while Dima remains here, but he can’t stomach the idea of losing her from sight just now, as well.)
So. Next step. Dima’s going to ask the sellers around if anyone has seen a blond-haired, young human man in the last ten or fifteen minutes.
[INV: 11]
<.>
None of the merchants seem interested in anyone who isn't buying or selling. However, a halfling ghoul stares at Dmitri over the top of its stall table and calls out in a rusty, disused voice, "I saw your boy. The one holding your hand, yes? Then not holding your hand, after. What's it worth to you?"
<.>
Dima's attention is drawn immediately; at the remark about an absent hand, he feels his insides drop again, tightens his jaw and moves toward the ghoul. "That depends on the quality of your information.
"What you've said is enough to surmise that he's gone somewhere. Without particularities, the most I can offer is a moment's attention."
He wants the information, yes; he also doesn't trust what this ghoul might ask.
<.>
The ghoul looks him up and down and nods approvingly. "A moment's attention, then, for the whereabouts of the blond-haired human."
The dead can't touch the living; it seems offering and agreeing are the equivalent of a handshake deal.
[dm: Make a Wisdom saving throw.
WIS: 16; doesn’t succeed.]
Dima's mind expands to its natural, painless limit, and all the sounds, colors, sensations of the market pass through his awareness. He is aware of everything within range of his senses, unfiltered, magical and nonmagical. He is aware of everything autonomic that he learned to ignore.
The ruffling of feathers at his ear.
Each treading footfall.
The scent of earth and dirt and somewhere, faintly, honey and fire.
It lasts for sixty seconds, and when Dmitri is in full control of his attention again, he can see the ghoul putting a stopper on a bottle filled with a swirling, bright substance.
The ghoul holds it up to the blue light and smiles grotesquely, but with satisfaction.
"A necromancer's attention to detail. Fixation on a boy and a feybird. It won't go for as much as some, but in the right circles, you'd be surprised."
With that, the ghoul glances down the path and, stepping on a stool to lean over its table, points toward Phaedron's shop. "Fifteen minutes ago, he made for the wraith. But they've since left."
The ghoul cocks its head at Dmitri and smirks. "You scented him, didn't you? Heard his footfalls? Which way was that?
"If you can hold on tight to that awareness, you'll learn to track him. Call it a free gift with purchase."
[note: the gift is + d4 to one Wisdom check per day in regards to Faolan (Perception, Insight, Medicine, Animal Handling, Survival). Potential for die number increase and number of uses.]
<.>
The little. Fucking. Shit.
He'd be angry - he is angry, somewhere - but the mingled scent of fire and honey shocked, seeped its way through him, and he feels its lingering now, a brightness, a longing— And perhaps, yes, some sense of direction.
He doesn't care at all for the half-dismissiveness in the ghoul's evaluation. He doesn't care to think anyone might take something of himself.
But.
But, he realizes, this could have gone far more sour. He can't say the sudden fullness of awareness was unpleasant, and though he doesn't like that this awareness of Faolan and Liviana could be picked up by some stranger, it's not so very much to give for the information offered, and for the lingering awareness of Faolan.
It's not so very much to give for information pointing to what could be dangerous, what could be dire. (He went back. Back to the wraith, and Dima should have asked what happened there, had gotten sidetracked, allowed himself to be sidetracked. Shit. Shit.) His heartbeat's picking up, his mouth's set with a trace of ire, replaced with neutrality as he bows his head to the ghoul.
"Fair enough. Your generosity is appreciated.
"And take care with that attention, won't you?" It's more an idle remark than a request, and Dima's already turning, moving back toward Phaedron's booth, seeking, seeking after Faolan. After a consult with Liviana, he watches her take to flight, to better observe the area.
So. Dima is going to seek that Fae >:o!
<.>
[PERC d: 21; with aid from puppy check die liv: 22]
Dmitri, aided by Liviana's connection and by the scent he's been attuned to seek, focuses for a moment and is able to pick out Faolan's trail amongst the throng of undead and dead alike.
If he follows it, he'll track Faolan to the shopfront advertising tattoos; Faolan is standing outside with Nerys, his expression mild as they converse. Nerys seems to be gesturing to to shop, then looking over the heads of the crowd to some other spot across the market, to which he points. Faolan nods understanding, then asks a question of the elf.
Nerys looks momentarily perplexed, but with a little shrug, seems to agree to whatever he's been asked.
<.>
Faolan's here.
He's safe; he's all right.
(Where is the wraith. And what is the wood elf doing here?)
(Why is Faolan here, and why didn't he return?)
Dima feels relief, an untensing in his chest, and feels a similar slight easing from Liviana. He asks her whether she sees Phaedron anywhere.
[q: does she see the wraith at all? a: She can see the wraith returning to its stall.]
Liviana relays the information to Dima, who feels his unease creeping in once more, but shakes it off, hurrying toward Faolan as Liviana swoops to perch once more on Dima's shoulder.
As he moves, as he nears, Dima calls out, "Faolan!"
Realizing only after that he could - perhaps should - have simply Messaged the man.
(Knowing he'd needed, somehow, to say his name. Thinking of and scenting honey and flame.)
<.>
Faolan and Nerys both turn to look, each of them wearing an expression of faint surprise. Faolan's resolves into his usual guardedness. Nerys's seems to edge with good humor.
As Dmitri approaches, the wood elf tells Faolan, "I'll wait inside."
Faolan is left to try not to examine how he feels about this. (Accident. Dmitri left after all, and ran into him again here.) (He didn't wait, just as Faolan knew he wouldn't.)
He tries to offer a smile, to sound pleasant when he asks, "Have you found anything interesting?"
<.>
"I found you.”
Words spoken without need for thought; words spoken because they feel like the only apt answer, and because Dmitri doesn't know what to make of the looks from, the exchange between Faolan and Nerys (as if Dima's walked into something; intruded) (...is Faolan upset that Dima did in fact leave the tent?) (after the man slipped away from Dima) (still, Dima did leave).
Dmitri's moved closer, is standing very near to Faolan, searching his eyes for... For anything. Some sign of where he's been. Why he's here and what happened in the time between his disappearance and now.
[ There was nothing in the tent. I was—
I worried. I heard where you went. So I followed you. ]
And, words this time almost blurted, certainly ahead of thought: "Faolan, are you all right?"
<.>
Dmitri followed him?
His surprise is clear again, just for a heartbeat, and his brow furrows. He doesn't know what to say - he needs a moment.
(Did Dmitri wait for him? He was worried, he went looking for Faolan - or is any of that true?) (Dmitri's eyes say it is.)
It's only then that he feels a little exposed. If Dmitri knows where he went, he knows what Faolan must have gone there for: to buy or sell something terribly personal.
Thankfully, the necessity of answering is interrupted by Nerys poking a head out of the clapboard shop. "Faolan, she's ready for you."
With a nod, he starts to turn away, then at last answers, "This won't take long. Come along, wait, or go on without me. Whatever you like."
(And what would he like?
To believe waiting once means something about the future. )
"After this and one other stop, Nerys will help with what we came here to do. Out of the goodness of his heart, I'm sure."
<.>
That isn't an answer.
Faolan avoided or evaded answering, and Dima doesn't know why, can only guess there's something the man doesn't wish to share. (Can, perhaps, suppose that some manner of business was handled between Faolan and the wraith, as well as or alongside (?) Faolan and the wood elf.) (What Dima wants to ask, what Dima is certain he should keep to himself, at least for now: Faolan, what did you give up?) Maybe it's nothing, or nothing much. Maybe Faolan only wished to ask questions, or... explore options. And it isn't precisely Dima's business or right to know what Faolan does.
(But wouldn't Dima like to know.) (But wouldn't Dima like to be counted near enough to be told, or to have witnessed.)
There isn't time to inquiry; there's no privacy just now, and Faolan's already moving (leaving Dima to wait once more?) (no, no, not necessarily that, thank gods), going to undertake something unknown. Dima's already moving after; he won't lose sight of Faolan again (he tells himself) (he hopes).
Dima doesn't speak just now. He nods to Faolan, continues following into the tent and Messaging: [ What is it that's happening here? ]
And. To Nerys: [ What did you DO. ]
[CHA, d: 8]
<.>
Nerys stares at Dima in the wake of his message, then clears his throat and answers out loud, "I did nothing at all to him. As I told you, I arbitrate. Nothing more or less."
Faolan was beginning to form a response to the question sent his way, but now finds himself looking from Dmitri to Nerys, who inclines his head and remarks neutrally, "He wishes to know what I did to you."
Behind Faolan, a wizened half-elf waits with a look of growing impatience. When she hears this, she snaps, "Your time may not be valuable, boys, but -"
"I'm coming," Faolan interrupts softly, and so he does turn to follow her to a little alcove. Seating himself in a chair beside her, he begins to bare his arm, which she smacks away.
"Lean forward and bare your back; it's no small thing."
Obediently, he shrugs out of the little armor he wears, then the rough shirt beneath. Hunching to give her access, he regards Dmitri.
[ They had something I wanted. I had something I didn't want. What's happening here is a marking. A tattoo to hold magic in reserve.]
Then, [ I told you. You aren't the first to look at me the way you have been. Have you ever considered how those looks might linger in memory? How they might be a reason to feel shame? Because I keep falling for it. Maybe this time, I think. I have so many 'maybe this times' and firsts and lasts, Dmitri, and I would rather have a mark and a good sword.
Asshole, Dima thinks to himself. Hears Liviana's thoughts as an irked ruffling of feathers, along with images suggesting that maybe, maybe Dima's approach wasn't the soundest method.
She's not wrong. Obviously. And Dmitri would shoot Nerys a glare if he wasn't so focused on Faolan and on—
Oh, that's.
Not an UNwelcome sight. And Dmitri might be staring again, but also and to be fair, Dima is often staring, often—
Looking, yes.
Looking at Faolan in a way the man's seen before, and of course he must have seen this, beautiful as he is, and given what... Well, what Dima's gathered was his employ, not to mention what pursuits he might have followed in his own time.
Dmitri watches, arms crossed, feeling uneasy (feeling exposed) (feeling as if he's wronged the man, and feeling, hearing that Faolan's been wrong so wretchedly before) (Dima knows this; though he'd never thought much of the story of the noble and the shame cast on a named, nearly unknown boy, he knows some version of the story, and knows it can't have been pleasant) (and doesn't he know how memories can ache (would he give up his own?)).
And, to Faolan: [ Forgive me.
You have been wronged, repeatedly. I— ]
He wants to ask if Faolan's fulfilled his end of a bargain already. (Bargaining what? Memories, by the sound of it. How many, and are they gone already, and what follows in the wake of absent memories, of holes in the place of experience?) (Dima doesn't like the thought of it. Even the undead keep their memories, experience that lingers after life— But Faolan has the right to choose erasure. Faolan has the right to free himself of whatever pain he wishes.)
[ You have nothing to be ashamed of. Certainly not from lesser men, whatever claim of status they might hang their names upon.
...I understand it is your choice. And I'm going to stay right here. I'm going to be watching. ]
Watching for any foul play from the tattooist. Watching Nerys.
Watching Faolan, to make sure he isn't lost.
<.>
Faolan huffs a little laugh to hide whatever he might feel about that statement. It jerks his shoulders and the tattooist hisses and swats at his head. "Every time you move, I have to start the attunement over, you squirming bastard."
Taken aback, Faolan looks at her scowl and, chastened, nods meekly and settles back with his elbows on his knees. Not without a wry, "You could've made a good living humbling men like that, you know."
Almost breezily, the crone answers, "Still do."
He takes it in stride. "Fair enough."
And to Dmitri, he continues to Message. [ I have plenty to be ashamed of. Enough to tell you I've been fooled too many times to let it happen again. In haunted houses and at campfires and maybe even in Awich, you're Dima and I'm Fae, and you look soft at me to your heart's content.
But in Morovsk, you're Dmitri Voronin and I'm 'that Rhys whore' who was caught out with his hand wrapped around Fedir Petrenko's cock. At one of your brother's parties, in fact. ]
He didn't precisely mean to say all of that. Or maybe he did. Maybe it's been burning inside him since he learned Dmitri's name almost three days ago. (Maybe he wants someone to hurt like he hurts.) (Or just - know. Understand. See what he is and accept it, embrace it, and maybe -
Maybe he'll come away cleansed, somehow.)
He closes his eyes for a moment, feeling the sting of magic at his back.
[ I gave Phaedron three things. The memory of my first time with a lover. The taste of honey on a man's tongue. The emotions of the night Fedir lay beside me under starlight and promised me the world.
I believed him. That's shame enough. ]
<.>
Dima hadn't known.
He could have guessed. (Ought to have inquired?) Given Daniil's recurrent references to Petrenko, the man's passage through their home, Daniil's insistence on Petrenko's claim for justice.
Dmitri and Derzhena had, in the end, given over to permitting their family's support. It seemed wisest, for the sake of keeping balance among families, bridges unburned over an incident that hadn't seemed of their concern.
Dima flinches inwardly at the thought. Feels a query from Liviana, then understanding, and the sensation (but not the physical actuality) of feathers brushed against his cheek. He'd like to sink into himself at this moment. He half thinks he ought to look away from Faolan, knowing himself unworthy of the man's eyes— But also. But also, he can't cease watching, and thinks maybe, maybe looking away would be another manner of abandonment.
He's been quiet, noting the tattooist without really looking at her, trying to keep some eye on her work but unable to track much. Finally, he responds—
[ You wouldn't have to be.
They'll listen to what I say; they'll have to. I'd take the tongue of any wretch who dares to speak against you, or defile your name.
...Thank you. For telling me. I worry that— ]
A soft click of his tongue, and he cuts himself off briefly. Yes, he worries what repercussions the loss of these memories might carry. But that's Faolan's choice to make, and there's no good in questioning or casting doubt on what's already been done. That isn't what this moment, that isn't what Faolan needs.
(Can Dima give Faolan what he needs?) (He'd like to. He'd truly like to.)
[ No. I'm only sorry you've known such shame, and I regret that my brother's godsforsaken parties played any role in it. Petrenko was something far worse than a fool and rat-ridden bastard to treat you in this way.
Faolan. You can't fault yourself for believing him. Or. I'd urge you not to. ]
And: [ The memory, the sensations are gone, then? ]
<.>
It's a good thing Dmitri changed the subject because the look Faolan was beginning to wear was prelude to anger.
A warning of a warning.
He almost snaps, What would I have to do for you in return for such a brave defense?
He almost snaps, Your family defiled my name.
He doesn't say any of it, because he knows it's not (entirely) deserved. And also - and also. There's an admission in there of something he doesn't want to know. (A hope. A desire. A dream of some future where even in Morovsk, they're Dima and Fae, and their hands remain joined.)
It's to his relief that the focus changes to his trade. [ The emotions of that night with Fedir are gone. I can remember what happened, but not how I felt. ]
No, he needs to hang on to the memory itself. Fedir said a lot of things.
[ The other two memories - yes. They're gone. Good riddance to them. If I never replace them, at least they won't trouble me any longer. Maybe they'll please someone else. ]
<.>
He saw that shifting, that could-be-oncoming-storm in Faolan's mien. Fair enough, and perhaps, perhaps Dmitri almost expected it. Didn't wish to draw it from Faolan, but the subject he spoke is charged, must be painful, and Dima can't see himself as being free from blame; can't expect Faolan to think Dima was entirely removed from his family's decisions.
Dima doesn't venture further with the subject. (Maybe another time.) (If Faolan allows.) (If it feels right, feels helpful— Feels like something in its speaking could be healing for the man?). Dima does wonder— Dima does note.
Faolan must have loved Petrenko. Which is not a thought for dwelling on just now. Which is something to remember, because it marks a site of sharpest pain for Faolan. (Because... Because maybe, just maybe, there's a question of what Faolan adored in Fedir.) (Because Dima has it in his power to make the man pay dearly. When he's returned to Morovsk. When he's had time to think about... All of this. Including the role Daniil played.) (How many fucking chances will Dima need to give his brother?)
He brushes one finger under Liviana's jaw, considering Faolan's words, considering potentials of response. Then: [ Do you feel all right? Do you feel— Mm. Any different?
I don't ask in judgment; I don't mean to castigate you. I am wary by nature, but— But I AM glad for any pain that may be lifted from you.
You've had far too much of wounding. ]
A thought: 'If.' Faolan said 'if,' and it might mean, could mean— Maybe there isn't only pain, maybe there aren't only scars left on Faolan's heart. Maybe, maybe he could be willing, could be able to try again.
(Oh, if only.)
<.>
[PERC, f: 23 DEC, d: 21]
It was the "if". He shouldn't have said it, shouldn't have phrased it as though there's even the slightest possibility.
(It wasn't just the "if"; it's everything he's said and done, meeting everything Dima has said and done from the moment they met.) (Which was not that long ago.)
He can see Dmitri's - oh, it's well past longing, it's yearning, it's aching, strangling hope.
It's terrifying, because yearning and hope sink deeper, go far beyond physical want. (He knows. He's felt it.)
(He knows, also, that Dmitri seems to genuinely care.)
Oh, it's not sustainable. The world always gets in the way; it will get in the way even if Dmitri swears his soul to Faolan. Whatever he says, Morovsk will turn him.
Dmitri's on a path towards a broken heart. There's nothing Faolan can do to stop it; he can only handle the man with care and give him nothing else to feed his hope. No confusing touches. No smiles, no soft words. Just kindness.
And an answer to that question.
He looks down at his hands and thinks a moment.
[ I feel unburdened. And I feel it's a dangerous unburdening; it would be tempting to sell every last shred of my life to him just to forget. ]
His mouth curves in a small, rueful smile.
[ But then I wouldn't be myself any longer. Yes, there's pain, but it's MY pain. ]
A moment passes as Faolan listens to the crone humming some discordant tune.
[ You don't know me, Dmitri. ]
He speaks gently, and when he looks up, it's only lifted eyes.
[ You spoke a moment ago as though it was given that I would join you -
I'll never go back to Morovsk. Not until I can look at that beautiful, summertime sea and feel something other than desolate. ]
(The water was, he thinks now, the same color as the wisp-light.) (The water was the color of Dmitri's eyes.)
<.>
There's that, at least: That Faolan's gained some unburdening with the severance of these memories, and that he's not liable to cut away many, if any, more.
The rest—
Dima hadn't, really, realized how he'd framed his talk of Morovsk He hadn't guarded his speech, and it's true he'd spoken from his hope, his wishing, anticipating the future as he thought it could be.
(Dima's usually so much more careful in his disclosures.) (It's difficult to hide anything or skirt the center of truth with this man.) (And Dima— Doesn't want to be untruthful. But. But it isn't fair to drop all of this on Faolan.)
[ That isn't 'never.' Or it might not be. ]
Not an advisable place to begin, probably. (But Dima latched onto that 'not until.' But it shines in his mind, a place of possibility.)
He shakes his head, huffs a sigh and earns a sharp look from the tattooist, a reminder that he can take his impatience outside. Dima inclines his head, says nothing aloud and returns to Messaging—
[ I speak too far ahead of myself. There are things, visions of existence I would like - for myself; for you - but I don't intend to force your hand.
You keep reminding me that I don't know you.
True, in part. There's much of you - I suspect there are whole worlds in you - I've yet to witness.
But I know people, Faolan. I've spent much of my life studying their habits, learning their complexities, and in my duties, in my studies, I've met many, many men.
None exist for me the way that you do.
None struck me with such radiance; none hold the heart you do.
I overreach, perhaps, in saying any of this; in believing it. But I don't speak idly, Faolan. I don't hold affection without reason. ]
<.>
Well. There it is, open and spoken, and there's no unspeaking it.
(There's no unhearing it, and he won't trade it away.) (He'll hear Dmitri's voice for the rest of his life, saying there are whole worlds in you and none exist for me the way you do.)
He's heard men speak this way before. He knows better now than to believe it. Oh, he'd like to believe it, but he doesn't have any faith left in him. (Dmitri is a Voronin, and he wonders if his name ever cross Dmitri's tongue in slander.)
He's spared having to respond immediately by a slap against his back where the skin has burned as magic flowed in from the crone's needle.
"You're done and paid. Move along, send in the next one before you go."
As he's getting up and pulling his shirt back on, hiding the tattoo from Dmitri's eyes, he considers what he ought to say.
He settles for [ I can't give you what you want. ]
Whatever it is. However much he wants it.
[INT, d: 20
dm: Nice C: That'll do it, then.]
<.>
The thing is, Faolan doesn't know what Dima wants.
(Does Dima know in fullness what he wants? This man in happiness; freed from his burdens without losing anything. This man beside him (at midnight) (a rose in his hand) on the sands of Morovsk, arms twined around each other, looking out across the sea. This man's laughter; this man's voice on into the night. Years upon years and yes, yes it's true he wants nearness with this man, wants passion. He wants— So much.
Too much?
...Perhaps he'll never know. But this perhaps won't keep him from trying.)
As much as Dima wants to make his case, as much as he wants to outpour words of what he would do, will do and be if Faolan permits, he senses it might be best not to keep flooding the man with speaking. There's something here that speech alone can't touch. And there will be time (please; please) for extensive words again.
He exhales (quietly, this time). He tries to glimpse the tattoo; he sees nothing, and his curiosity ticks: What is it Faolan's asked for. What is it that he's taken on himself? He glances at the room around; tries finally to discern what this place is, what these tattoos might accomplish.
And his eyes return to Faolan: [ What I want is— Is extraneous, I suppose.
What I ask for is your company. In travel, for as long as you can stomach me, hm? ]
He was, he thinks, attempting a jest. He ends up looking aside, lip ticking, and—
[ I should like to know you better, for however long I may. ]
<.>
There's a look from Faolan that's entirely sorrowful; how much he wishes he was someone else, or Dmitri had come along years ago.
Or that, maybe, Dmitri wasn't Dmitri Voronin, and instead some peasant boy like himself.
He could bear this man's company all his life, if he thought it was possible. (Bear. Cherish. Welcome.)
He doesn't respond. Instead, he moves toward the door where Nerys has been waiting, ready to accompany him to the next merchant.
Before Dima can follow, the old crone speaks - or Messages? - "Some of my marks might interest a man who suffers unrequited love, Necromancer."
She hasn't moved from her stool where she sits wiping down the overlarge needle until it gleams unnaturally in the light.
"Tattoos to make you forget. Or to bind your lover to you. More, for the right price."
She pauses, then clucks her tongue. "No, you don't want to force him. A spell for a spell, though, hm? You know how to disguise yourself, to hide yourself from prying eyes. I know how to give a man a little luck - in love and war alike. An instinct that could turn the tide of battle or inspire you in a moment when the right word, the right deed could draw a lover's eye.
"Small. A compass rose on your forearm. Attune a needle with your spell and I'll do the same with mine."
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. ]
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."
Dima Messages Nerys, [ Good of you to lend him your voice. ]
And, looking at Moloch, he speaks: "Unfair, ungracious for him to leave you in this way.
"Speaking generously, he may only have gotten cold feet; some men seek power, only to find themselves swiftly overwhelmed, able to think of nothing save escape." Dmitri doesn't, really, believe that's what's happened here. Still, there's something... paining, almost, in Moloch's account, or in the manner of his telling. (Something of agreements broken painfully; of accord severed without regard for the other party.) (Something of abandonment.)
"Less generously— Some men take without thought, and without care for what they'd mangle.
"Whatever's happened, if Seddum draws breath, he will be found. What you've shared will go a long way toward locating him— And it helps to know something of what we can expect to find." ('We,' he said. Not precisely intentional, but it's so easy to believe Faolan might come along— And, yes, even the thieves.
...Gods. If Seddum is uncommonly eloquent, Sen might prove a necessity.)
Turning to Nerys: "What is the bounty you offer?"
And, Messaging Faolan: [ Forgive my 'we,' please; of course I won't bind you to the task. I would— If you find yourself willing, your aid would be invaluable. But it's no minor request, I know. ]
<.>
Faolan doesn't react to the 'we' immediately. He only stares down at Moloch, feeling pity, feeling kinship. He'd - like to see the creature reunited with the warlock who summoned it, if only to give closure. (Or maybe - to give reunion?)
(Stupid. Putting his cast-off wishes on some bystanding demon.) (Does he wish it? To reunite with Fedir?)
He glances at Dmitri and answers without thinking. [ Of course I'll help. ]
(...Does he wish to see Fedir at all, when there's someone closer at hand who -) (Stop it.)
For its own part, Moloch gives no sign that it heard Dmitri at all.
Nerys, only a little worse for the wear, considers Moloch before answering, "This has dragged on for some time now. Moloch is pining, I think. In its own way. And a pining demon is bad for business."
[ As is the odor. ]
"Well; bring Seddum back here in one piece and we'll offer, oh...five hundred gold and perpetual access to the Market. Perhaps if something here catches your eye, we can see our way clear toward reserving it for you, to be included with the bounty."
The golem buzzes and Nerys hums, "If you're sure-
"A boon from Moloch, as well. I can't imagine what that means, but it's likely valuable in its way."
<.>
He isn't surprised by the swiftness of Faolan's agreement (though he can't say whether his unsurprise is because of some intrinsic quality in Faolan - sensed by Dima - or because of Dima's wishfulness). He does feel a spark of pleasure at Faolan's apparent certainty, and, yes, at the thought of further travels with this man. (They could achieve so much together, find an existence that has, perhaps, been denied to them both.)
(It's a hazardous believe to entertain; perhaps unfair to Faolan.
Still. Dima can't help brushing against the thought, and thinking on the life it could bring.)
Dmitri knows the answer he means to give to Nerys. Still, before speaking, he Messages Faolan: [ I find the terms and payment agreeable. I'd like to solidify the guarantee of an item from the Market; otherwise, I'm inclined to take the offer as it stands.
Do you find anything amiss in it? ]
<.>
Faolan gives Dmitri a puzzled look.
[ Do you really think I'm the person to ask about ulterior motives or potential hazards in a promise, Dmitri? ]
He smiles ruefully and shakes his head. [ No. I don't see anything amiss - except that this warlock might not want to be found. ]
<.>
A glance downward, a shaking of his head that turns to a nod. [ Whether he wishes to be found is no matter; I am, when I put my efforts toward a cause, an unfailingly tenacious man. ]
He thinks to say that missing one man's piss-sheened motives, one man's hazards - or even the motives and hazards of multiple men - says nothing about Faolan's judgement overall.
He's also fairly certain that'd be an ill-advised approach.
So Dmitri nods to Nerys. "I'd like a guarantee on one item from the Market; I won't name a threshold for its value.
"Given that guarantee, I find your proposition entirely agreeable, and am prepared to contract myself to seeking Seddum Madin."
<.>
Nerys is watching Moloch still, nodding along with Dmitri's words. When he does look back up, he nods again. "I'll have a contract for you in an hour, give or take. if you've found something to your tastes, we'll add it. Choose three items or services, if you can. We'll select the most suitable in value for the return of Seddum."
Lowering his voice, he adds, "I think it's best if we leave Moloch to compose itself. Please don't think I'm hurrying you out of the shop to be rude - but I am hurrying you out."
Faolan is watching Dmitri all the while, wondering if he's meant to understand something about the man's tenacity in relationship to himself.
(It gives him a fluttering sort of excitement, doesn't it? A thrill, to think maybe he's being pursued, maybe he's wanted by this man enough to test the limits of tenaciousness?) (It likewise troubles him - for many, many reasons.)
Noting that Nerys seems to want to attend to the business of his contract with Dmitri, he quickly asks, "The other thing. The possible newcomer?"
Nerys points an emphatic, approving finger at Faolan. "Ah, yes. I'll ask about that, as well. Someone will know where to find your ghost, if they aren't here in the Market."
<.>
At the last bit of exchange, there's a look for Faolan: eyebrows raised, querying, curious, appreciative (approving). Dima doesn't speak to it yet; only notes the exchange, the apparent agreement, and thinks again of Faolan's sensibility, his scope of view for what might be gleaned from a trade, and what's worth asking after.
To Nerys: "An hour, then, or near enough to. We'll find you, and finalize our agreement.
"Thank you, Nerys, for your time. Please extend my thanks to Moloch as well, when the time is right."
Dmitri doesn't linger longer; only bows his head, looks to Faolan, and - if Faolan gives no signs of lingering behind - turns to walk away, and carry on with examination of the nearby booths and offerings. Messaging Faolan as he walks: [ It seems you found precisely the right man for gleaning information. Bound with the Market though he may be, there's much use - and perhaps tentative alliance - to be had with this Nerys.
You and I are in agreement, by the by: While this contract intrigues me, it's the chance of further passage with this Market - with its knowledge - that draws me fastest to the wood elf's proposition.
There is far too much here to be witnessed in an hour, a day, a week. And I'd rather not be rushed in its exploration. ]
Dima feels an itch, a desire to ask Faolan about the tattoo he acquired; about what drew him to the sword. For the moment, he manages to hush his queries. (For the moment.) (He can't say how long his quiet will stand.)
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kingdomsofrain2026-01-17 02:26 pm
no subject
Joining Sen and accepting the roll with a nod.
"Shit, Sen, it turned into a tomb in there.
"In terms of volume, anyway. Awkward, awkward atmosphere." They shake their head, taking a bite of the roll. "...! These're from the table, right? Good, good, that's good."
They'll chew as they think, as they talk a little more, lifting up onto their toes, then back onto their heels. "You really should be commended for sitting through that. I couldn't have. You're a patient elf, Sen; a very patient elf."
And. "He didn't sound like he was lying, at least. About anything. Dunno if I was missing something, but— The guy seems sure about what he's saying, divination and all."
A blink, a cant of their head. "Is there any chance the Nightmare Market could be a real thing. I mean, okay if it's not, life's life, just. You know. Could be interesting?"
This time speaking half to themself, musing, "I don't think I've ever seen someone eat flamingo tongue."
<.>
Sen would tell Rin it's likely that Calabra doesn't talk to his LESSERS, and that, if the market is real, then they'll come into some coin, and if not, they'll rob the fuck.
Sen also will impart that he intends to extort Calabra for double whatever he's offering.
As they walk, Sen tells Rin the few details he knows of the Nightmare Market; to be fair, it isn't the most popular of subjects amongst "decent" folk, and amongst indecent folk, it smacks of fairy tales and hallucination.
When and where the Nightmare Market appears, whether drawn by chance or alignment of stars, is largely unknown - to the living.
He pauses, thoughtful, murmuring to himself, "The dead all know. The dead all go-"
And then, tsking annoyance, he admits there was a sort of song he heard once, when he was very young, but of course, he can't remember a gods-damned word but the chorus.
He goes on with a dismissive wave, recalling what he can: the dead things of the world congregate to barter for their needs. Flesh for the ghouls' appetites. A memory for the wraiths, a bit of warmth, a vial of blood. In return, it's said there are wonders to be found amidst the bizarre wares.
"There are rules, of course, and penalties for breaking them. That's the part everyone remembers, because it's in all the cautionary tales: if you break the rules, you stand forever bound to the wheels of the market's spectral caravans or some shit to that effect.
"First: 'Unlife, like life, is sacrosanct.
"Second: Do not steal.
Third: The living cannot be touched."
"They say necromancers and looky-loos find their way into the market, but I've never spoken with any legitimate, sober source to that end. Dima's attitude is typical."
He hums, then shrugs. "The rest is conjecture, colorful additions, and pure fiction. I suppose if the place exists at all, we'll see for ourselves tonight. Either way, we'll be sure to embellish the tales just a little more. No one likes a spoilsport."
One further comment from Sen, "I wonder how much it cost him to have flamingo tongues imported - and what he eats when he dines with company."
<.>
Rin hangs on every word. It's rare for them; they lose interest easily, even when they'd like to hear a story. So many storytellers end up disappointing. So many times, there's not really anything worth hearing, and Rin finds it more pleasing to fill in the blanks on their own.
The thing is, Sen tells a really good story. He doesn't hide his doubt, but the way he talks about this Nightmare Market makes it seem possible. And! He's got a good point: Even if there isn't any market at all, they can still make a good story of it.
Rin likes this attitude. Rin likes listening to Sen talk. And when Sen finishes speaking, they find they've caught every word; even if they forget some of the details, they'll remember the gist.
It's been a pretty good night, all around.
It's been a pretty good couple of days! (Well. Minus the getting bitten and the smelly heap.)
And they laugh a little, a spring in their step, their tail swishing, swishing, occasionally brushing Sen's legs. "Probably his foot. That man is a top of the line spoilsport.
"Us, though. We're going to see about this market!
"Or at least get to listen to some foxes." And maybe, maybe find a nice-looking rock or two.
<.>
The party gathers in the tavern below the inn; Faolan is the last to arrive, thirty minutes later than the others. (Sen is just considering asking if Faolan might not have decided to depart, or sleep in the woods, or not go along, but he doesn't know quite how to handle Dima.) (Yet.)
Faolan looks weary, makes no apology for his tardiness, and keeps a little apart from the group as they make for the outskirts of town.
They have managed to gather from other tavern patrons that the ruins are "a ways" northwest, along a small river tributary, until they reach the "old port". ( "Hardly more'n a dock or two." ) The ruins will be "due west" from this "port".
It's in that direction that they begin their search.
Sen, of course, offers to take the lead - though he really should not, considering his sense of direction.
<.>
Not long after Dima settled into his room - wishing foolishly, he knows it's foolish, that they'd been obliged to share rooms; knowing it's best Faolan has space, worn as he's looked - he was rejoined by Liviana, a tap at the window, a raven fluttering in and shifting to her serpentine shape. She stayed within the room while he bathed; they conversed in words and images while he worked his way toward rest.
He thought of Faolan often; of course he did. Once during the night, he knocked on the man's door; softly, barely a sound. It might not have sounded like a knock, and anyway, Dima thought better of it before anything could happen; he darted from the hall and back to his room, thinking he should let Faolan have his space. Reminding himself not to push too far.
(He did ask the innkeeper whether a man of Faolan's description had departed from the inn. He was relieved, and finally able to sleep some, upon hearing no such man had left.)
Liviana - returned to her raven form - now alternates between flying above and landing, just occasionally, on Dima's shoulder. Dima himself sticks as near to Faolan as he can, and yes he's watching perhaps a little too much, yes he's relieved to find the man's with them still, and yes, he's worried at how weary Fae seems. He wonders, too, what's drawn Faolan to come with them—
And in fact, wonder what his own reason for coming might be. (Presumably, he's half out of his mind.) (It's probably the elf's influence, gods damn him.) Whatever it is, he knows he wants to get this over with. The sooner they can find this absolute nothing, the sooner they can return to the inn, and discuss plans for heading toward Loch Bien.
What draws Dima to a sudden halt is Sen's offer, and his response is immediate—
"Absolutely not.
"I'd just as soon not spend a week in searching for these ruins."
Rin, wandering near Sen, takes some offense to this, and glances over at Sen. "I think we can work this out." Taking a few steps nearer to Sen, grinning, they add, "Thieves' pact: We'll find the Market together!"
<.>
Faolan didn't sleep. After a washing up - perfunctory and cold - he tossed and turned on his mattress, thinking of Calabra. Of Alfrig. Of Alfrig's Champion. Of the way his wildfire spirit looked at him when he offered to sacrifice it, and how that look was acceptance.
Thinking of how the wolf is part of him, a reflection of his soul.
(What would happen to the wolf if he -) (Not something to think about.)
He heard a soft knock at the door at some point, knew who it must be, and feigned sleep. The knock wasn't repeated and no voice called for him.
He entered the trance he needed to recover himself, but sleep is a long way off still.
There's this journey into the wilderness to find a fairy tale. He's curious, of course, but more to the heart of the matter, he chose to go because these three seem incapable of surviving without healing. Or protection. (And - maybe. Maybe he needs them, too.) (For now. He'll leave before (Dima) any of them can.)
He watches Sen and Rin and thinks of the earthworms. And Rin's preoccupation with the frog on a stick. And Sen's perpetual distractedness towards storytelling.
And shaking his head, he picks up the pace a bit to take the lead. If anyone's going to find their way in the woods, it'll be him. (And maybe. If he's scouting ahead, maybe Dmitri will focus on something else.)
"If I can't find it, I'll ask something. The animals know."
Sen frowns at him, or through him, perhaps.
Sen is thinking, The dead all know. The dead all go.
Sen is wondering now if maybe there was something to that song.
<.>
no subject
Much as he wants to keep near Faolan, he also thinks it might, might just be best if he keeps to the back and makes sure the thieves don't go wandering off. He and Liviana share a glance, a simultaneously thought that she'll circle above, keeping an additional watch. He gives her a chunk of meat and watches her take to the sky.
Then turns his eyes ahead to Faolan, noticing but not really looking at the thieves, and Messages, [ Thank you.
I fear we would have ended up in Wiverpor with their lead. ]
Rin's humming to themself, not sure why Faolan stepped into the front, but they're not going to question it; he led pretty well through the house full of steps, so he'll be fine here, probably. Also he seems like he's got some experience out here and maybe, maybe he'll get them to the Nightmare Market faster!
There humming turns to sing-song, playing off what Sen said earlier: "We don't know, but we all go.
"No stealing, though." A huff, a dramatic sigh. "I guess there's a catch to everything."
<.>
Sen winks at Rin and is about to start a rhyming game with them, but the two lines of the song just circle back again and again.
He can't recall the rest of the words. But he's sure, he's *sure* there was something to it. So, instead, he replies, "Do you know, Pretty Rin, I have those words racing circles in my head. And it's odd, really. The song was - more of a ballad. Cautionary, but I'm certain there was more to it than just the warning at the end."
He turns back to Dima to ask, "Do you recall a song - assuming they sing songs where you come from. Beg pardon if not. But this one. A ballad about a brother and sister and the Nightmare Market.
"It had a refrain of 'The dead all know, the dead all go.' Anything?"
Meanwhile, up ahead, Faolan hears Dmitri's message, but takes a moment to reply, [ The night's not over for hours yet. They have time. ]
He might be joking. He might be serious.
<.>
[q: is this a song dima might have some memory of?
HIST, d: 18
dm: Dima would recall it as a ballad he once read in a book in Novorometz or heard in childhood. The gist of the story is two children hear of the Nightmare Market and sneak out one moonless night to find it. The ballad follows their journey and ends with their deaths - after which they remain perpetually with the Market, warning away the young whose lives are new and too much a temptation for the dead.]
Dima's silent for a time, giving no indication that he heard Sen, only seeing the words of the song come back to him (and, further back, he thinks, he thinks he must have heard the song; there's a melody in his head, in a voice he might remember); only remembering the word, and thinking cold-struck shivers of resonance. Thinking of young lives given over for the dead; rubbing the rings at his fingers.
He isn't certain that he wants to respond.
He'll put off deciding for the moment - or perhaps this is an attempt to push the elf toward his inevitable tangents - and remark with idle archness: "I'm afraid all guise of song has been banned where I come from." And immediately after, archness faded: "Where did you hear this song."
And, to Faolan: [ …I direly wish I could doubt that. ]
Then: [ …Do you know the song. ]
Rin is now improvising on the song, softly and in words that might involve earthworms, though they remain focused on the conversation, eager for whatever they can find.
<.>
[Fae check: 20]
Sen's reply comes first in the form of a rude comment about Dima's grandmother and an act of coitus.
If Dima's going to be contrary, Sen will just rely on his own (checkered) memory to piece together why the song matters at all.
Faolan doesn't look back over his shoulder and doesn't answer Dmitri. Instead, he begins to hum - first only a few bars, then the entire melody, haunting and inviting, enthralling as all ballads are wont to be.
He knows it. He knows many songs. What he was, what he did, didn't see him invited to many balls or feasts, but it saw him in seedy taverns nobility liked to frequent to hide...well.
What they did with people like Faolan.
Sen falls silent, watching the boy ahead and wondering what sort of wood he lived in that had songs like that.
It's enough, though, to jar Sen's memory. The children called up a corpse to lead them, that was it. The dead know how to get there.
And Sen thinks of the rings on Dmitri's hand - then immediately rejects the idea.
He can't see his way toward risking those children on something frivolous. They deserve. to stay close to Dmitri. (Who knows why they'd want to, but nevertheless.)
He doesn't think Dmitri can call up corpses yet.
But.
"Say. Pretty Rin, have you still got that hand on a string?"
<.>
Dima reminds himself to move, keep walking, as Faolan's hum drifts on the wind, seems to twine through the trees, a fog that settles uneasy (sorrowful) in Dima's chest and draws the lyrics back upon his mind again, again.
He half-prays Sen doesn't recall the words; he's relieved when the elf turns to Rin.
And Dima lets himself breathe in the impression of Faolan's hummed song, and slowly, gently turns the rings around his fingers.
Rin would like to know what the song does say, and is getting the distinct impression that everyone else knows, or at least knows a lot more than Rin, which might be irksome if they weren't so struck my the fancy of this night and its venture. Which can't be irksome at all when Sen requests the hand, readily produced from the Bag of Holding and held aloft like the well-won treasure it is.
“This hand on a string?" Though their voice is a bit soberer than before - they can't help but feel the mood brought on by the ballad, by their guide's humming - they do swing the hand just a little bit, back and forth in the air. "Does the hand know where to go?"
They're joking, of course.
...Probably?
<.>
Sen watches the hand dangle and twist, then swing back and forth under Rin's propulsion, his head canted thoughtfully.
"Never hurts to ask. Hello, dismembered hand. I don't suppose you dabble in giving directions, hm?"
Faolan has slowed, likewise recalling the lines of the song about a corpse leading the wandering children to the Market.
He halts, backtracks to the party, and eyes the grisly relic.
"...It belongs to Rin. They ought to ask. I don't believe dead flesh just animates on its own, but I also don't believe any of this is real. And the docks are ahead. I don't see anything other."
Sen is staring at him as though he burst a child's balloon, so Faolan shrugs and folds his arms across his chest.
Gently, Sen encourages, "He's right. Rin, you ask it."
<.>
Dima almost, almost points out that if anyone's going to be speaking with a remnant, it out to be him. But, first, he doesn't particularly want to volunteer. And there's something to be said for keeping the could-be-tool, could-be-nothing into the hands of the one who's shown readiness, even a desire to believe in this absurd myth.
Dima also considers noting that one ought to be cautious when attempting communication with the dead— But, really, education's best gleaned from experience. Sometimes. And he can step in (he presumes) if need be.
Faolan's remark doesn't manage to dampen Rin's mood; in fact, they give him a doubtful looking. Thinking, well of course it makes sense that a place like this couldn't just be found by wandering in. There's got to be a secret way in, like with thieves' hideaways, like with sanctuaries. Maybe that way's physical, and maybe it's not; they're more than willing to try asking the hand.
So Rin touches their fingertips to the hands; clicks their nails against the once-goblin's. And they hold the hand aloft, the better to watch it as they speak: "Got a question for you.
"I know we only just met and everything, but— First, I need to compliment your nails. They look very viciously and nicely kept. Not everyone can say the same in life, let alone after!
"Also, though. So we're looking for this place. The Nightmare Market, right? We just— I want to find it. I mean we're looking for it for Reasons, but also I just really want to see it. If it is a thing, which I'm inclined to think it ought to be!
"So okay, so could you show us the way? Give us a direction or a, maybe a hint how to find the entrance?"
"You can come with us, of course! Or if you want something else, maybe you can have that too."
[PERS, r: 9]
<.>
The grisly totem seems to twitch, perhaps at the complement to its nails, but it doesn't seem to have any inclination to lead the party to the Nightmare Market.
After a moment of waiting with his breath held, Sen tuts. "You're being awfully contrary for a hand on a rope, friend."
Faolan shushes him gently and leans down a little to peer at the hand. He's certain it moved at the compliment. If the market is a place for trade -
If it exists.
"Suppose there was something in the market a hand might like to have. Rin, how much do you suppose that information's worth? And how much would we be willing to part with for our friend to do a little shopping? A - spending limit, let's say."
He straightens, flicks a glance at Dmitri, and shrugs.
<.>
Rin isn't noT a little disappointed, but they're sure the hand moved a little, so maybe there's just another step to this - it occurs to them that they aren't usually the most persuasive tiefling, and maybe it's the same with hands as creatures who have those hands attached? - and also maybe the hand is being a little contrary. Which, now that Rin thinks about it, is pretty fair; they'd be irritable if they were locked in a weird tomb with a bunch of relics and ceaseless chants.
Faolan's suggestion strikes Rin as sound, and they cant their head, eyes on the hand and its very nice nails as they consider. "It depends on what this hand likes. Maybe it wants somewhere to stay? So it's not in a bag or tomb. Maybe— Hm. It might want a body. Or rings. Or a way to get around all on its own."
[q: while Rin muses aloud: since rin's spent a good amount of time among illicit markets, woulD they have some likely figure of 'ah u can spend this!'
INS, r: 18
dm: Rin would know it's about 5 gp per person to get into places of ill-repute where one needs to bribe their way in.]
Rin speaks to the hand and their party alike: "Okay, so probably we're giving 25 gold minimum to all get in. And we've got— Well, you all know numbers better than I do." Maybe. They happen to keep pretty good track of their money, but they also know better than to give away all the secrets to anyone, hand or hand-plus-extras.
They think; they tap one of their own nails against their cheek, then nod. "Okay. How about we cover your entrance fee, and I'll give you 40 gold on top of that?"
It's more than they usually carry, themself. Today's an exception, which may partly account for what they think is a pretty generous offer.
Dima saw the twitch; what he can't say for certain is whether it came from the hand, or whether the tiefling gave the rope a deft pull, or whether the elf pulled some manner of magic to string this game along.
...It isn't impossible that the hand could have reacted. (Dima wishes, abstractly, that he'd given the thing another look. He'll have to give the rest of the relics a closer inspection when there's time.) All manner of remains take on enchantments before or after dying. Still. Still, he can't believe the Market's liable to show itself as truth.
He meets Faolan's glance and offers a shrug of his own. [ I suppose there's no harm in the delay. ] To entertain Rin's endeavors, he means. And, [ Yours was a sound suggestion, at any rate. ] A sound suggestion for an absurd premise, but. Well.
<.>
no subject
[ Rin seems to have hopes hung on this. I've dashed enough of those already. ]
For a long moment, there's nothing. Just as Sen (and possibly Rin, and most definitely Fae) is about to sigh disappointment, the hand begins to shift, the leather skin stretching and crinkling as long-unused musculature begins to work. Three fingers curl and one extends, but in its suspended state, it can only point to the ground.
Sen reaches and places his own hand, palm flat, beneath it, giving it somewhere to stand.
Seeing as it was the way they'd been told to go, he aims for toward the docks; nothing happens, so he turns the pointed finger away from the water.
He tries not to shudder as its muscles contract - as though emphatic now.
A hundred feet ahead, something in the air shimmers.
Faolan hums, intrigued, but rather than striding forward, he steps aside for Rin to take the fore. "Your hand. Your adventure."
Sen, meanwhile, mutters quietly, "That better have been a purely platonic clench.”
<.>
They would have tried another bribe and another, maybe for as long as an hour, but it doesn't take as long as that. It doesn't take so long at all, all things considered, and Rin breaks into a grin at the sight of shimmered air. Oh, yes. Yes! (They know such, hypothetically, that such entrances ought to be approached with care. They're also far to excited for much wariness.) There's a laugh, short but gleeful, and they grin to Sen and Faolan and the hand all in turn.
Sen looks maybe not thrilled to be holding the— Is the hand holding him now? Well, whatever's going on, Rin's grateful, and glad, and beams at Sen once more, Messaging, [ Good catch! ] They're also going to draw the hand back from Sen's, so that it keeps suspended on the rope.
And to Faolan, with a nod of their head in thanks - he did have a very good idea! - "I'm not sure it *is* my hand anymore. But I guess we'll figure it out."
They look at the hand, cant their head. "You'll have to let us know."
And, shaking out their hair, Rin moves toward, means to move into the shimmering air.
<.>
As the elf and tiefling move toward the shimmering barrier with the relic, Faolan hangs back with Dmitri a moment.
Whatever Dmitri is thinking just now. Whatever he's hoping for or against, brooding about, or simply musing, Faolan doesn't interrupt. He gives Dmitri a sidelong, almost lingering look, then raises his gaze skyward.
Overhead, there's no moon, but the sky is littered with stars casting their gentle glow. He looks, then closes his eyes as though feeling warmth even from such dim light.
For that moment, Faolan pretends something. Just in his head, of course, and never to be spoken. But it's a nice, brief fantasy.
Then, he breaks his own silence with, "Nice night."
With that, he inclines his head toward the others. "Shall we? I'll bet it's worth the looks on their faces when you tell the tale in Morovsk."
<.>
He intends to follow the thieves. Whatever’s beyond that shimmering air— Dima isn’t ready to credit it as being one thing or another (not yet) (why hope for truth in myths?) (has he been wrong all this time?) (and what magic brought that hand to animation? what tie might it share with the shimmer?), but whatever’s over there, he’s not about to stand here all night, or let Sen and Rin wander alone into fuck knows what.
It’s grown quieter, and at some point, he becomes aware of eyes on him.
At some point he looks out from himself, looks over, and realizes that in his frustration regarding this midnight search, he hasn’t had a chance to properly glimpse Faolan in starlight.
Or. He hadn’t had the chance.
He sees now, subtle silver luminance on an upturned, gentle - and not only gentle; and acquainted enough with life’s wounds to appreciate its respites - face. Sees stars’ glimmers reflected on blond. Feels warmth in his chest, at his temples.
(Perhaps they should spend more time in forests, he thinks.)
(Fire’s light or star’s light; which does he like better on this man?
Oh, both; Faolan shines true in both.)
He almost startles as Faolan speaks. Finds the words soothing, evocative of something (a want) (a dream’s image) a few steps removed from this world. A shimmer, an almost-opening of its own.
He’s watching Faolan still, fixed near-frozen, his expression now less clouded, now traced with a heart’s relief, when the man looks at him. Though Dima blinks, turns his head slightly to the side, he doesn’t quite stop looking.
And he nods, slightly, his smile slight but appreciative. “So it will be— Should I choose to share with them, at all.
“I find many don’t know the worth of what they learn, or what they have, at all.”
He extends his hand slightly, low, palm open in a query, and, “In any case, I’d like to see it.”
Now. With Faolan close by.
<.>
Faolan realizes now, looking at Dmitri's outstretched hand, that someday - soon - he's going to have to tell him 'no'. Dmitri (Dima) will hold out his hand and Faolan will refuse, and that's when he'll walk away.
(Long, long before Dmitri can do so, himself, one more man come and gone with pieces of Faolan.)
The ache in his chest doesn't pass. It hangs there, hooked on his lungs, because another thought's occurred to him: someday, maybe soon, Dmitri might stop asking for his hand.
Shouldn't he...indulge it now, just a little? Does it have to be tonight, under all these stars, going somewhere that doesn't exist, that he says no?
He grasps Dmitri's hand with a complicated smile.
Holding on to the other man, Faolan is the last to pass through the barrier.
One by one the party passes through the chill barrier; on the other side, they find themselves surrounded by (un)lively activity. The temperature has plunged and their breaths cloud before their faces. The murmur of a crowd of voices churns and rushes together like a tide.
Canopies and tents have been erected with everything from patchwork internment clothing to funeral shrouds; from the poles supporting them hang caged will-o-wisps that illuminate the market with a steady blue light. At the center of the market, the stalls and canopies give way to a central dais, above which gibbets are magically suspended. Within these, dead and live bodies moan and decay.
The dead have dominion. Animated corpses shuffle between the stalls, eyes lit by a dull balefire. Ghosts and specters glide among and through the other customers, filling the air with their quiet aching. The merchants are as dead as their clientele, from the translucent bookseller to the pair of ghouls standing protectively over their butcher's stall and its overtly humanoid wares. Along the perimeter of the market, skeletal beasts of burden are lashed to spectral carts.
As the party moves forward, a skeleton dressed in armor of some long-forgotten city intercepts them. The skeleton may be grinning, or it may be the result of its fleshless state; whatever the case, it hands each person a slip of paper. Printed upon it in large, gothic letters, are the words, "Condition upon entry: Living."
<.>
Hard to say what ran behind Faolan's expression; what Dima knows is the bright trill he felt when Faolan accepted his hand, and as they walked together toward the shimmered air. What he knows is that Faolan's hand remained in his as Dima passed through the barrier - Liviana swooping back to settle on his shoulder - and that he holds Fae's hand still as he beholds impossibility, another kind of beauty.
(He might have missed this.
How long has this place existed, just barely outside of reach?)
He doesn't know which measures of the myth are true, what actuality might have filtered into fictions, but this place is very present, the dead are all around, and it's wondrous. It's wondrous.
His eyes widen, his breath suspends.
He's tightened his grasp on Faolan's hand without realizing it, and he relaxes his hand, finds he's grinning just slightly. To Faolan, he Messages, [ I've never been so pleased to find myself proven wrong. ]
“Sen.” It's what Rin manages to speak before words get away from them - though they do, as well, give the hand on the rope a nails-to-nails tap of thanks - and they gaze at— Oh, at everything! Looking one place and another, half-dizzied, and twirling once, settling back on their feet just in time to take the slip of paper, giving the skeleton a graceful little nod.
"Sen, we did it!" Their voice is only just above a whisper. There's so much to see here, so much to discover! (But not steal. They're going to have to keep their itchy fingers still; they can do that. In a place like this, anyway.) And, lifting the hand up, nodding at it and then at Sen - are Faolan and Dima coming? oh, yes yes they're here okay - "Thank you very much, hand!"
<.>
The hand slowly curls itself into a fist with its thumb sticking out - either hitchhiking or giving a thumbs-up to Rin.
Sen is too busy to speak; he has to remember all of this. For the right audience, stories and songs of places like this are worth a small fortune. (He needs, as well, to find a souvenir. Something to lend credence to his tale.)
Faolan is watching all three of them with a sad little smile; Rin's hope was fulfilled, Sen's desire for stories satisfied.
And Dmitri looks awed. (How long has it been since he's felt awe?)
They three see wonders.
Faolan looks around past the shine and sees the tragedies: not far to their right, the ghost of a woman sells cups brimming with love for the man who betrayed her. He can hear her telling an interested woman that a broken heart's love has more intensity of feeling than any other.
He almost scoffs. (But it's not untrue. It's just that despair makes love ache, and pain means life.)
Not far from her, a ghoul offers bottled memories of the companionship among the bandits he once led.
(And betrayal from a loyal friend is, Faolan reflects, almost as painful as a lover.)
It's not all misery and memory; some creatures buy and sell body parts - one ghoul is advertising 'Finger Food' down the way.
Grotesque, most of it.
...But Dmitri looks so happy. (Maybe he needs to wander on his own a while, and not think about how happy Dmitri Voronin is or isn't, and how he'd like to see that happiness on his face more often.)
Before he can say anything, Sen is loping off at a jog, pleased as a pig in shit about something he's seen and calling back for Rin to hurry after.
Leaving Faolan alone with Dmitri and Liviana.
"Why don't you wander? I'll...follow along." He looks around mildly, then with a chagrined, lopsided sort of smile, he adds, "I doubt there's anything here for me."
<.>
no subject
Rin also will, of course, be checking in on the hand here and there, to see if it's found something it wants, or - if it does want to hitch a ride somewhere - if it's found a driver.
Dima has been caught upon the images around - observing the locomotion of the dead and how readily ghouls, skeletons, ghosts mingle and share wares; beginning to take sight of the offerings and thinking he really ought to have brought along more gold - though he remains aware of Faolan, grounded somewhat by the man's presence, and Dima's fingers occasionally, lightly brush against the back of Faolan's hand. He wants to see everything. He wants to document what he can, and it'd be wise, wouldn't it, to speak with the traders who'll share a word? There's much that might be learned here. Much that he could seek for years elsewhere and never glean a whisper.
Faolan's voice brings him back into the moment, and Dima fixes his eyes on the man. (Liviana, meanwhile, darts her watch steadily around them, apparently alert to any motions around, very much intrigued by a blue-glinting object several stalls away.) Furrows his brow and presses the hand in his own, "I'd rather not leave you."
And: [ Are you discomforted?
...No, is isn't quite that, is it? Or it isn't so simple. ]
Dima can't help glancing at a loud clamoring of sounds, though he returns to Fae's eyes after. [ Will you be all right in this place? ]
<.>
Sen has found a table of musical instruments, and of course he could stand here all eternity and examine them, but the next stall has books long thought lost to civilization, and the next (and several others) is offering wares advertised as 'Estate Sales' and 'Recently Deceased.’
He recalls they have a mission, of course, so with a sigh, he turns from these curiosities to frown down at Rin, then around the market. "Business first. Our friend here, and our 'friend' in town. Loathsome, the business of business. I wonder if there's someone with information. A map would be helpful. Suppose we start asking around if anyone's arrived lately who might've tried to assassinate Calabra, and then when a crowd shows up, ask if any of them were hired, or just met the bastard and were sorely tempted."
Faolan considers Dmitri's question as he takes another sweeping glance at the market around him.
When his eyes eventually (inevitably) return to Dmitri, he replies, [ Yes. ]
He ought to leave it at that, but he feels the sweep of Dmitri's fingers against his hand (and the nervous twist in his stomach-) and thinks maybe, if he pretends a little longer, then he'll feel less sorrowful about it all.
( I'd rather not leave you isn't the same as I never will leave you and he needs to remember that.)
(But it's such a lovely thought to hold.)
He presses Dmitri's hand lightly.
[ All right. I'll keep beside you.
Show me what you see. What's pleasing to you here? ]
And— As Sen and Rin circle closer to the center of the market, they'll see more and more wraiths dressed in what might be a uniform of sorts.
They will also see several living mortals and a variety of undead who are here to buy, rather than sell.
Dmitri, Liv, and Faolan stand in the middle of a circle of booths and one tent lit on either side by torches. All of these places seem to deal more or less in memory, emotion, and knowledge.
Beyond this small circle, booths sell a variety of trinkets, weaponry, body parts - whatever one could imagine is there for the taking, for the right price.
As they pass along to the southwest, they'll see a sign reading 'Marked by Death: Arcane Tattooing and Piercing' and, beneath on a hastily scrawled makeshift sign of torn wood: 'Fuck yes, it hurts.'
<.>
Rin may or may not have forgotten about that whole bit of business. So much has happened since they left Calabra to eat his flamingo tongues, but right, right, there's money if they can make this work, and sometimes the best way to learn a new place is to start in on business.
"The map sounds good." Never mind that Rin, historically, is not great with using maps. Probably Sen is, though; out of two thieves, one usually knows how to get along with maps. "Dunno about asking directly— Or maybe we throw in a bribe? Or! Talk about how much of a - yeah, I bet a lot of people considered gutting that ass-for-brains, so maybe if we talk about what a shit he is and how we've got our own little plot to, maybe not kill him, but maybe kill him, but maybe just pull down his pants at the fancy noble gathering or something.
"We're looking for... A spirit or a ghost? Or do we know what they'd be?
"The map first, though, you're right about that! Maybe we can ask if uh. Newer souls congregate anywhere?"
Dima's smile is soft, and remarkably warm in this cold market. He nods; he looks around, biting slightly at his lip. Thinking he'd like to see all of this. Knowing their time is limited— If the brevity of the market's existence is true.
As Dima looks around the nearest booths, he's hoping to find a seller who seems given to chatter. He wants to begin here; he's very, very curious about this sale of emotion and memory in particular. If no seller stands out, he'll choose the booth that looks most cluttered.
<.>
The most cluttered booth's proprietor is a silent wraith who stairs emptily at Dmitri, standing motionless until the trio reach its stall. It gestures with one arm, puppet-like, towards its collection of bottle memories, each carefully labelled with a title and previous owner: "A Knight's Shame, Sir Dario Pellirian", "The Day I Died, Merineous Gorski", and "Buried Treasure, Captain Murk" at the fore as the shop's prized items.
A second collection on the table is composed of emotions - a mother's love, a father's pride, the grief of parting - while a third seems to be experiences: "the taste of sugared pears", "scent of a campfire in winter", "intoxication".
If there are more risqué representatives of any of these, the wraith has not put them on the table.
The wraith then wordlessly draws attention to a sign attached to the side of its stall: "These treasures are carefully curated; one may be purchased for the price of two."
Faolan cants his head thoughtfully at the bottled scent of campfires in winter, clearly recalling the experience for himself with a distant smile. After this, the wraith watches him intently as his attention moves from bottle to bottle.
Meanwhile, Sen considers a moment and moves toward one of the larger shops - a tent manned (as it were) by numerous ghosts. "Maybe there? If I were new, I imagine I'd be atrocious at being a ghost. I'd find the first employment I could so I could get a handle on things."
<.>
Occupied with studying the bottles, Dima doesn't notice the wraith's fixed focus at first. (There's a thought. There's an itch. He could ask after recent memories related to Morovsk. He could attempt again to track the bastard down.) (He isn't going to fall into that. Not now.) It's when he looks up, intending to ask a question, that he sees how close the wraith's watching Faolan. Dima sees, and he presses Faolan's hand as he speaks, "Are you prepared to respond to inquiries? I'm quite— Curious. About your wares."
He notes the sign again; he keeps his lip from ticking to a frown.
And, "Do you harvest them yourself?"
And Rin, nodding, follows Sen. They're going to take a look at what's in the shop - or glean as much as they can by stepping into it - though they'll stick close to Sen for a moment... And actually! A ghost drifts near, so Rin takes the moment to ask how they like working here.
<.>
The wraith's attention slides back to Dima and remains, curious - but without the same intensity it held for Faolan.
After a moment of consideration, the wraith looks toward something over Dima's shoulder and opens its mouth, seeming to suck in all the air around it and exhaling with a death rattle. Almost immediately, a young woof elf comes trotting over. He looks from the wraith to Dima and Faolan and back again. Another death rattle seems to punctuate an inaudible conversation and the wraith gestures for Dima to speak to the boy.
"Ah, a necromancer, is it? I'm Nerys Embervale; I'll be your adjudicator," he says cheerfully. He seems to be quite happy with his occupation. "I arbitrate deals between the living and dead so there aren't any - mishaps. So. What is it you're looking to purchase?"
While Nerys speaks, the wraith's gaze slowly moves to Faolan's and holds. There's no sound; in fact, the sounds of the market seem to fade as a voice slithers into Faolan's head.
[Wraith: Nat 20]
You feel with such intensity. Bright-burning joys, depthless misery. You carry secrets of the living, knowledge to wring fortunes from kings. What would it take to part even one from you? What turns your head?
<.>
Seeing the wraith's attention shift from Faolan, Dima relaxes slightly, and his attention turns quickly to the wood elf. "Nerys; a pleasure to meet you.
"As it happens, I've only just begun my search. These bottles - the emotions, particularly - take my interest. How long has this shop been collecting; how fresh are these emotions? And do you harvest *all* of the goods yourselves, or do you take rogue gatherers into your employ?
"I would be interested - and gratified - to know the use to which your buyers most often put these goods." A pause, and Dima adds, "I intend to weave them with magical strands, of course. But I seek always to learn new ways of employing my materials."
Idly, half-unknowing, partly to assure Faolan he's here still, Dima brushes his fingertips again along the man's hand.
<.>
Nerys looks somewhat flustered by the sudden deluge of questions and blinks rapidly, then attempts to recall them in order.
"The trade of memories and emotions has been a staple of the Nightmare Market since its - 'conception' is an artless word here, hm. Humble endings?
"I can't attest to how many of these memories purchased second-hand may have been gathered, but Phaedron here is most ethical in his own practices. It isn't a pain-free experience, nor should it be! No, if it was as simple as discarding an unwanted item, what deterrent would there be for those who fail to understand that the loss of a memory means the loss of some influencing factor - Ah. Look at me, in the weeds again."
He chuckles at himself and, reaching around the stall to some unseen shelf, produces a roll of parchment and sort of portable scribal table. "Let me see here. Some of these bottles are as recent as the last Market. Others, well, I should guess the oldest is nearly two hundred years - no, forgive me, that sold last year. But you do get the idea."
Here, he offers Dima a look at the roll of parchment to see the list of acquisitions for the shop.
"Now, just what were you hoping to find?”
Faolan hears distantly a conversation between Dmitri and Nerys, but the padding of sound remains as the wraith holds his eyes.
(But he feels. He feels the comforting (electrifying) brush of fingertips, and in the absence of distraction, in this empty space created by the wraith, he feels that touch in every nerve of his body.
He feels the acute desire, the alarming notes of could be and might be.
He feels terror and oncoming loss striking painfully through him.
He half-shivers and exhales softly.
And he thinks -
Dima -)
The wraith's whispering voice returns as the sensations fade.
What would you give for a way to keep him? This moment, this touch?
(Wisdom save: 11)
Faolan's mind jars, but fails to break the wraith's hold and he thinks - No.
(Not one touch. Not one moment. Not for anything.)
There's a sound like a wheezing chuckle only he can hear. No, nothing of him. But another, perhaps. One of the ones who named you what you became, who used and turned you aside.*
The first sight of the sea at a lover's side. The first kiss. The first -
Night in someone's arms under an open sky.
Think. Think before you answer. A simple, should-have-been beautiful memory turned bitter in your head could blossom in another's - and you. You could have a 'first' again.
Faolan - is listening. The wraith's voice is a cunning knife, a temptation: With Dima.
<.>
[q: would dima have encountered or heard anything about memory/emotions/etc. extraction before?
ARC: 19
dm: He would have heard stories about people bequeathing memories (or entire brains) for the sake of keeping information available. He may have heard of one or two people attempting to rid themselves of painful memories.
And he has heard that the Nightmare Market is where you can buy bottled emotion.
He probably doesn't know how to do it or know anyone else who knows how, but at a glance, it's a standard, routine practice in the Market.]
<.>
Dima's going to begin perusing the entries on the parchment, keeping an eye out - though he tells himself he is not, or that it's purely a precaution - for any memories or information relating to Morovsk. He glances at Nerys, and, "Perhaps you could help me determine that very thing.
"I suppose the sensation of plummeting into a chasm or abyss would please me. Or the scent of a seaside rose at midnight.
"Something unsettling. Something suited to conjuring unease."
He's looking still, brushing his finger along Faolan's hand, when Dima thinks, the man's been quiet for a little bit too long. And there's been no interruption by the wraith - Phaedron - since Nerys first arrived.
Going a little bit too tense, attempting to appear untroubled, Dima's going to press Faolan's hand and look at the man. And, clearing his throat, "What do you think, hm?"
And: [ Faolan? ]
[PERC, d: nat 20
dm: Dima would have noticed Faolan has been quiet and perhaps a little too still. And maybe, Nerys has been talking overmuch, spending a little too long and wandering into "the weeds”.]
In that case, yes, Dima is going to proceed as above, not wanting to move too quickly, in case he's wrong about what he's seeing from Nerys. He will, though, wrap his hand more fully around Faolan's, and to his Message add: [ Faolan. Answer me; please. ]
<.>
no subject
And the wraith answers, Shouldn't he, then, cast light where shadows have taken hold?
Think it over. Until an hour before dawn. When you walk away from this place, you could feel as though you've never been touched at all.
And, helpfully (?), it adds:
He asked your thoughts on memories of falling and roses. For unease.
Dmitri speaks again as the wraith relinquishes its hold on his mind. Faolan blinks and exhales a breath he didn't realize he was holding.
When he looks at Dmitri at last, he hasn't schooled his expression; he hasn't remembered to turn aside the longing, the desire, and briefly, their intensity shows through. (Then all of it vanishes again behind a wary mask.)
"Do roses make you uneasy?" He tries to joke, but finds his thoughts venturing to how a seaside would be, scenting of roses and salt spray, and Dima (Dmitri!) in his arms.
[ I'm all right. I was - lost in thought. ]
<.>
(That isn't the whole answer.
Faolan was too still for too long, and Dima hadn't been watching him - Dima should have been watching him - or where Phaedron's focus may have settled. Dima doesn't know what the wraith may have attempted, or whether it was anything at all.
Dima also can't pursue his questions far because—)
For a long-drawn stretch of moments, Dmitri finds himself stunned by the sight of this man. (Is that so surprising? He's certain he could stay beside Faolan for years (forever) and still be shattered by the sight, the sound, the essence of him.) He can't quite trust what he sees; can't quite believe it isn't his own wishfulness, his own belief in both the warmth and vibrance, the ferocity of this man—
How well Dmitri would like to be beheld (held) by Faolan with precisely that focus and that wanting. (Or, better still, he'd like to see that wanting paired beside fulfillment. He'd like to be so much for Faolan.) He'd like to think that glimpse was truth, but now he sees wariness again, and—
And at least Faolan responds.
At least he's lost his stillness.
(For now.) (They need to get away from this booth. From this area; there's plenty more to see, and Dima curses himself internally for choosing this of all booths to begin with.)
He manages a huff, a slight lift of one shoulder. "In the right light, and in the wrong hand."
[ We're moving along. I'm not—
We need to move on, I think. ]
Dima glances at the wraith, then passes the scroll back to Nerys, looking the elf over, memorizing his image. "We may be back. There are a few items that tickle my interest, but as I said, I've only just begun my search.
"Gentlemen. It's been a pleasure."
If Faolan doesn't protest, Dima is going to begin moving away from this circle of booths and the tents, in the direction of a few tables laden with trinkets. Looking for a place to pause, away from the booth. Making certain Faolan keeps with him.
<.>
Faolan doesn't protest being drawn away; he doesn't cast more than a single glance backward over his shoulder, but that's enough for him to know that the wraith and Nerys are now deep in silent conversation.
And also.
He's already made up his mind.
(He saw, he saw how Dmitri looked back at him, and maybe it's worth it - even when this all turns to shambles - to replace one soured memory with something beautiful -)
It doesn't matter what might replace it. He knows he doesn't want to think of anyone else under starlight.
He can't tell Dmitri; he's too suspicious (possessive?), too wary, and Faolan can't put voice to why he wants to do what he's thinking of doing. (And what will the wraith pay, anyhow? What does he want from this place?)
At the nearest table, glittering with amulets of all shapes and colors and purposes, he reaches down to turn one over so it best catches in the blue light.
"Strange place."
His fingertips echo the brush he felt only moments ago. He doesn't see the amulet at all; only feels warm skin and the ache that comes with touching what's not his own.
"Did something happen?"
Looking up, meeting the man's eyes, he amends, "Not just now. With you, and roses, and the wrong hands?"
And then a shrug. "You don't have to say. I'm only curious."
<.>
Dima feels a little too frenetic; as if a worried, wary energy travels through his veins now that they're a distance from the booth; as if he wants to do something (fix something?) (what?), but has no outlet for the sensation, the itch. He tries puzzling over what happened at the booth; what might have happened with Faolan. He attempts to peruse the offerings on the table, silently asking Liviana if one of these was the object that first caught her eye, his fingers tapping the table's edge, and it takes work to keep his expression schooled.
What helps is the brush of fingertips.
What helps allows him also to exhale more evenly, to straighten his back and pick up an amulet for Liviana's inspection. And Dima thinks, maybe he can approach this, solve the problem if there was one (if the wraith attempted anything), rest easy if there wasn't. Faolan's first question draws Dima's eyes—
And the rest.
For the rest, he simply can't look away. (Won't leave those eyes.) Though there's a slight flicker of a frown; the trace of a flinch. Though he makes himself shrug, and lets his head tilt just slightly. (He'd like to retreat from these queries.) (He doesn't want to back off (doesn't want to leave, abandon) this man.)
And after a moment, an aborted attempt at speech, he manages in a ghost that takes the barest guise of ease: "Many things happen.
"Or some things did happen. I knew my share of disappointments before—" He attempts a short laugh and very nearly (almost) manages. "Before I completed my schooling, I'd had enough of disappointment."
Another attempt at a casual shrug, and Dima sets the amulet down in order to show Liv another. His eyes track from Faolan's for a moment; they also quickly, quickly find their way back.
"That was years ago." His inclination since has been to avoid even the thought of companionship—
Until now.
Until very recently.
Until he watched Faolan across the campfire; until he watched Faolan produce flame upon his palm, and felt Faolan's hand within his own.
Swallowing - his hand still in Faolan's; his fingers daring to twine just a little closer - Dima glances to Liv, at the amulet she's now nudging with her beak, then asks the nearest seller what the item is, precisely, and what its cost might be.
<.>
Faolan listens as the undead shopkeeper explains - without any embellishment - that the stone is an Ioun stone meant for reserving spells for such a time when they may be needed and one's personal reserves are spent.
"Rare, but not so much as others I've seen," she says. "I'll let you have it for two breaths of life from each of you."
A beat, and, "And one feather from your fey bird."
Faolan is watching Dmitri, thinking for the first time that maybe, he's not the only one to suffer loss and heartbreak. Dmitri must have been his age when he 'had enough of disappointment'.
Lacking anything to say, he lets his own grip tighten so that he wonders how much it would take to force them apart. (How tightly could he hold on to keep Dmitri with him for (always) a longer while?)
(He's beautiful. He was beautiful when he formed from the shadows and into firelight. He was beautiful razing that mound. He'd beautiful right now, under strange blue light, with a raven perched on his shoulder.)
What he does say is, [ If Liviana thinks you might need that stone, I'll pay my share for it. For you. ]
<.>
[ No. ] His answer is immediate, and he shifts just a little nearer to Faolan. [ Thank you, Faolan, but no. ] He'd sooner give two breaths, three of his own. Not knowing the cost - and there is one; a thought carried with a shiver - still he knows he can't let this be taken from the man.
And anyway. And anyway: Who better to forfeit some breath of life than one who works his days among the dead?
(Faolan said—) (Faolan said.) (’For you.’ He'd give that, he'd offer, for Dima.
If Dima lingers in that thought, he'll forget to breathe; forget the world around them.)
He looks to Liviana, asks her if the stone suits her, asks her if she needs it, wants it. He'll give what he must for it; he tells her this, as well. And voices concern over the feather. [ Who knows what he might use it - use you - for. ]
Liviana's response flashes in images, impressioned with emotion: Desire for a flash of light; longing for something shining and shiny, something magical to call her own, a trace of loss and broken skies, and then a fall of feathers with worry, a void opening into divide; it isn't, she decides, worth the question of the cost. Not this one. Not this.
Dima watches her, asks if she's certain, and returns the amulet to the table. "Not at this time."
To Liviana: [ We'll find something. The right one for you. ]
And, to Faolan, with a slight, a worried smile: [ It isn't lost on me, the weight of what you offered. And Liviana extends her thanks, as well.
We need to be cautious, Faolan. I suspect there's more trouble in this price than we can see; a life's breath can hold many shapes, and many consequences. ]
He doesn't want to see this man wounded; Dmitri's certain Faolan needs no more loss in his life, or no more than can be helped.
And in his heart, curling again, again, Dima hears echoing: ’For you.’
<.>
It occurs to Faolan that the stone wasn't meant to be for Dmitri; the familiar wanted something shiny and blue for herself.
Rather like a raven.
(But. And. Isn't that still 'for Dmitri'? It's shared, their existence. Their souls are united.)
He'll have to keep an eye out. Maybe he can find her a stone she'll like, instead.
He focuses on this as a way of staving off a sense of hurt - and also, a feeling of having confirmation. Validation for all his suspicions.
He'd tried to offer something. (Stupid, stupid.) He hadn't expected chiding. (Or to be thanked by Liviana, like a ward placed between him and Dmitri.)
He answers, [ I can't imagine anything here can be bought for coin. ]
And.
[ I don't gamble with something I'm not prepared to lose. There's no need for worry. But if it reassures you, I won't offer again. ]
By chance, his eye is caught by a nearby tent, and he slips his hand from Dmitri's. "I'll be back. Or I'll find you, if you'd rather not wait."
<.>
(Oh. Oh no.)
Dmitri doesn't know where he went wrong, but something's fallen out of place. Faolan's turned inward, a bank of fog's slipped in between them, and suddenly his hand's gone (Faolan's drawn his hand away), and Faolan's— Leaving him?
(For a moment.) (He'll return.)
(With or without this fog?)
He needs an answer. He needs to answer, to explain himself, that Liviana chose to seek elsewhere, that Dima doesn't want to see this man lose anything more, that what's willfully given doesn't always compass the full measure of cost. (As well, perhaps, there's something about worthiness, what Dima knows he is and isn't worth the risk off; no matter what he feels for this man, no matter his intentions, Faolan doesn't know him any more than Dima knows the whole of Faolan.) (Wouldn't it be heartening, though, if Faolan felt as certain of Dima as Dima does of him?)
He manages to Message, feeling several steps outside himself: [ It isn't only you. Each one of us needs to step wary. ]
There's more he wants to add. About how much there is yet to see; how much they might yet barter. About how much it means that Faolan offered; how certain Dima is that the offer was made in earnest intention, earnest feeling. About how much Faolan's life is worth; how Dima would like him to value it more.
What he says, hand hanging limply, hand flexing against the air as if to seek an absent hand: "I'll be here."
As much as he wants to follow Faolan, he can't quite move; thinks it might be an error to follow the man just now, when he's torn himself away. Dima will wait. Dima will listen to the space around, Dima will keep an eye on the tent, and Dima will wait.
<.>
The tent, as it turns out, is exactly as he suspected from the glimpse he caught a moment ago: empty. It's a chance to slip out beyond Dmitri's line of sight.
He wonders if Dmitri really does mean to wait for him, or if he'll find the man and bird gone when he returns.
Faolan knows which outcome is the safe, smart bet. Better to be pleasantly surprised than disappointed. (Heartbroken.)
Casting Pass Without a Trace on himself (Stealth: 17), he doubles back to the path they just left - where he runs into Nerys.
The wood elf looks at him neutrally, so Faolan asks, "What's he offering?"
"Ah," Nerys says with a smile, as though he was only waiting for that question.
<.>
no subject
Does Dima see anything of note while he's waiting? (Noting that he is distracted by Thoughts rn ofc.)
[PERC, d: 7; He wouldn't notice a dancing gorilla if it walked four feet in front of him.
PERC, liv: 12; Liviana seems too preoccupied with shiny things to notice anything of value at the moment.]
Dima will continue waiting for ten minutes. Liviana will continue admiring all of the shiny things. If Faolan hasn't returned by then, he's just going to. Stick his head into the tent.
<.>
A lot can happen in ten minutes' time.
When Dima approaches the tent, he'll find it's completely empty.
<.>
…He can’t, he thinks, blame Faolan.
He’d upset the man. (Disappointed him? But how?)
Dima will check around the tent, just to be sure he isn’t missing something. Maybe an invisible, a hidden portion that has to be stepped into to be seen?
[note: He finds nothing, ofc.]
Dima, reminding himself that panic will help nothing (and there’s no need to panic; Faolan… slipped off of his own accord, and of course the man can take care of himself; might wish to tend to business of his own; might need a little space) (might want to be away from Dima, and gods, gods, Dima can only hope he hasn’t left the market for good), steps out of the tent, his fingers flexing in the air, eyes darting as he seeks any sign of Faolan.
He asks Liviana if she saw the man; isn’t surprised that she too saw nothing. (He considers asking her to take a look for Faolan while Dima remains here, but he can’t stomach the idea of losing her from sight just now, as well.)
So. Next step. Dima’s going to ask the sellers around if anyone has seen a blond-haired, young human man in the last ten or fifteen minutes.
[INV: 11]
<.>
None of the merchants seem interested in anyone who isn't buying or selling. However, a halfling ghoul stares at Dmitri over the top of its stall table and calls out in a rusty, disused voice, "I saw your boy. The one holding your hand, yes? Then not holding your hand, after. What's it worth to you?"
<.>
Dima's attention is drawn immediately; at the remark about an absent hand, he feels his insides drop again, tightens his jaw and moves toward the ghoul. "That depends on the quality of your information.
"What you've said is enough to surmise that he's gone somewhere. Without particularities, the most I can offer is a moment's attention."
He wants the information, yes; he also doesn't trust what this ghoul might ask.
<.>
The ghoul looks him up and down and nods approvingly. "A moment's attention, then, for the whereabouts of the blond-haired human."
The dead can't touch the living; it seems offering and agreeing are the equivalent of a handshake deal.
[dm: Make a Wisdom saving throw.
WIS: 16; doesn’t succeed.]
Dima's mind expands to its natural, painless limit, and all the sounds, colors, sensations of the market pass through his awareness. He is aware of everything within range of his senses, unfiltered, magical and nonmagical. He is aware of everything autonomic that he learned to ignore.
The ruffling of feathers at his ear.
Each treading footfall.
The scent of earth and dirt and somewhere, faintly, honey and fire.
It lasts for sixty seconds, and when Dmitri is in full control of his attention again, he can see the ghoul putting a stopper on a bottle filled with a swirling, bright substance.
The ghoul holds it up to the blue light and smiles grotesquely, but with satisfaction.
"A necromancer's attention to detail. Fixation on a boy and a feybird. It won't go for as much as some, but in the right circles, you'd be surprised."
With that, the ghoul glances down the path and, stepping on a stool to lean over its table, points toward Phaedron's shop. "Fifteen minutes ago, he made for the wraith. But they've since left."
The ghoul cocks its head at Dmitri and smirks. "You scented him, didn't you? Heard his footfalls? Which way was that?
"If you can hold on tight to that awareness, you'll learn to track him. Call it a free gift with purchase."
[note: the gift is + d4 to one Wisdom check per day in regards to Faolan (Perception, Insight, Medicine, Animal Handling, Survival). Potential for die number increase and number of uses.]
<.>
The little. Fucking. Shit.
He'd be angry - he is angry, somewhere - but the mingled scent of fire and honey shocked, seeped its way through him, and he feels its lingering now, a brightness, a longing— And perhaps, yes, some sense of direction.
He doesn't care at all for the half-dismissiveness in the ghoul's evaluation. He doesn't care to think anyone might take something of himself.
But.
But, he realizes, this could have gone far more sour. He can't say the sudden fullness of awareness was unpleasant, and though he doesn't like that this awareness of Faolan and Liviana could be picked up by some stranger, it's not so very much to give for the information offered, and for the lingering awareness of Faolan.
It's not so very much to give for information pointing to what could be dangerous, what could be dire. (He went back. Back to the wraith, and Dima should have asked what happened there, had gotten sidetracked, allowed himself to be sidetracked. Shit. Shit.) His heartbeat's picking up, his mouth's set with a trace of ire, replaced with neutrality as he bows his head to the ghoul.
"Fair enough. Your generosity is appreciated.
"And take care with that attention, won't you?" It's more an idle remark than a request, and Dima's already turning, moving back toward Phaedron's booth, seeking, seeking after Faolan. After a consult with Liviana, he watches her take to flight, to better observe the area.
So. Dima is going to seek that Fae >:o!
<.>
[PERC
d: 21; with aid from puppy check die
liv: 22]
Dmitri, aided by Liviana's connection and by the scent he's been attuned to seek, focuses for a moment and is able to pick out Faolan's trail amongst the throng of undead and dead alike.
If he follows it, he'll track Faolan to the shopfront advertising tattoos; Faolan is standing outside with Nerys, his expression mild as they converse. Nerys seems to be gesturing to to shop, then looking over the heads of the crowd to some other spot across the market, to which he points. Faolan nods understanding, then asks a question of the elf.
Nerys looks momentarily perplexed, but with a little shrug, seems to agree to whatever he's been asked.
<.>
Faolan's here.
He's safe; he's all right.
(Where is the wraith. And what is the wood elf doing here?)
(Why is Faolan here, and why didn't he return?)
Dima feels relief, an untensing in his chest, and feels a similar slight easing from Liviana. He asks her whether she sees Phaedron anywhere.
[q: does she see the wraith at all?
a: She can see the wraith returning to its stall.]
Liviana relays the information to Dima, who feels his unease creeping in once more, but shakes it off, hurrying toward Faolan as Liviana swoops to perch once more on Dima's shoulder.
As he moves, as he nears, Dima calls out, "Faolan!"
Realizing only after that he could - perhaps should - have simply Messaged the man.
(Knowing he'd needed, somehow, to say his name. Thinking of and scenting honey and flame.)
<.>
Faolan and Nerys both turn to look, each of them wearing an expression of faint surprise. Faolan's resolves into his usual guardedness. Nerys's seems to edge with good humor.
As Dmitri approaches, the wood elf tells Faolan, "I'll wait inside."
Faolan is left to try not to examine how he feels about this. (Accident. Dmitri left after all, and ran into him again here.) (He didn't wait, just as Faolan knew he wouldn't.)
He tries to offer a smile, to sound pleasant when he asks, "Have you found anything interesting?"
<.>
"I found you.”
Words spoken without need for thought; words spoken because they feel like the only apt answer, and because Dmitri doesn't know what to make of the looks from, the exchange between Faolan and Nerys (as if Dima's walked into something; intruded) (...is Faolan upset that Dima did in fact leave the tent?) (after the man slipped away from Dima) (still, Dima did leave).
Dmitri's moved closer, is standing very near to Faolan, searching his eyes for... For anything. Some sign of where he's been. Why he's here and what happened in the time between his disappearance and now.
[ There was nothing in the tent. I was—
I worried. I heard where you went. So I followed you. ]
And, words this time almost blurted, certainly ahead of thought: "Faolan, are you all right?"
<.>
Dmitri followed him?
His surprise is clear again, just for a heartbeat, and his brow furrows. He doesn't know what to say - he needs a moment.
(Did Dmitri wait for him? He was worried, he went looking for Faolan - or is any of that true?) (Dmitri's eyes say it is.)
It's only then that he feels a little exposed. If Dmitri knows where he went, he knows what Faolan must have gone there for: to buy or sell something terribly personal.
Thankfully, the necessity of answering is interrupted by Nerys poking a head out of the clapboard shop. "Faolan, she's ready for you."
With a nod, he starts to turn away, then at last answers, "This won't take long. Come along, wait, or go on without me. Whatever you like."
(And what would he like?
To believe waiting once means something about the future. )
"After this and one other stop, Nerys will help with what we came here to do. Out of the goodness of his heart, I'm sure."
<.>
That isn't an answer.
Faolan avoided or evaded answering, and Dima doesn't know why, can only guess there's something the man doesn't wish to share. (Can, perhaps, suppose that some manner of business was handled between Faolan and the wraith, as well as or alongside (?) Faolan and the wood elf.) (What Dima wants to ask, what Dima is certain he should keep to himself, at least for now: Faolan, what did you give up?) Maybe it's nothing, or nothing much. Maybe Faolan only wished to ask questions, or... explore options. And it isn't precisely Dima's business or right to know what Faolan does.
(But wouldn't Dima like to know.) (But wouldn't Dima like to be counted near enough to be told, or to have witnessed.)
There isn't time to inquiry; there's no privacy just now, and Faolan's already moving (leaving Dima to wait once more?) (no, no, not necessarily that, thank gods), going to undertake something unknown. Dima's already moving after; he won't lose sight of Faolan again (he tells himself) (he hopes).
Dima doesn't speak just now. He nods to Faolan, continues following into the tent and Messaging: [ What is it that's happening here? ]
And. To Nerys: [ What did you DO. ]
[CHA, d: 8]
<.>
Nerys stares at Dima in the wake of his message, then clears his throat and answers out loud, "I did nothing at all to him. As I told you, I arbitrate. Nothing more or less."
Faolan was beginning to form a response to the question sent his way, but now finds himself looking from Dmitri to Nerys, who inclines his head and remarks neutrally, "He wishes to know what I did to you."
Behind Faolan, a wizened half-elf waits with a look of growing impatience. When she hears this, she snaps, "Your time may not be valuable, boys, but -"
"I'm coming," Faolan interrupts softly, and so he does turn to follow her to a little alcove. Seating himself in a chair beside her, he begins to bare his arm, which she smacks away.
"Lean forward and bare your back; it's no small thing."
Obediently, he shrugs out of the little armor he wears, then the rough shirt beneath. Hunching to give her access, he regards Dmitri.
[ They had something I wanted. I had something I didn't want. What's happening here is a marking. A tattoo to hold magic in reserve.]
Then, [ I told you. You aren't the first to look at me the way you have been. Have you ever considered how those looks might linger in memory? How they might be a reason to feel shame? Because I keep falling for it. Maybe this time, I think. I have so many 'maybe this times' and firsts and lasts, Dmitri, and I would rather have a mark and a good sword.
That's what's happening here. ]
<.>
no subject
She's not wrong. Obviously. And Dmitri would shoot Nerys a glare if he wasn't so focused on Faolan and on—
Oh, that's.
Not an UNwelcome sight. And Dmitri might be staring again, but also and to be fair, Dima is often staring, often—
Looking, yes.
Looking at Faolan in a way the man's seen before, and of course he must have seen this, beautiful as he is, and given what... Well, what Dima's gathered was his employ, not to mention what pursuits he might have followed in his own time.
Dmitri watches, arms crossed, feeling uneasy (feeling exposed) (feeling as if he's wronged the man, and feeling, hearing that Faolan's been wrong so wretchedly before) (Dima knows this; though he'd never thought much of the story of the noble and the shame cast on a named, nearly unknown boy, he knows some version of the story, and knows it can't have been pleasant) (and doesn't he know how memories can ache (would he give up his own?)).
And, to Faolan: [ Forgive me.
You have been wronged, repeatedly. I— ]
He wants to ask if Faolan's fulfilled his end of a bargain already. (Bargaining what? Memories, by the sound of it. How many, and are they gone already, and what follows in the wake of absent memories, of holes in the place of experience?) (Dima doesn't like the thought of it. Even the undead keep their memories, experience that lingers after life— But Faolan has the right to choose erasure. Faolan has the right to free himself of whatever pain he wishes.)
[ You have nothing to be ashamed of. Certainly not from lesser men, whatever claim of status they might hang their names upon.
...I understand it is your choice. And I'm going to stay right here. I'm going to be watching. ]
Watching for any foul play from the tattooist. Watching Nerys.
Watching Faolan, to make sure he isn't lost.
<.>
Faolan huffs a little laugh to hide whatever he might feel about that statement. It jerks his shoulders and the tattooist hisses and swats at his head. "Every time you move, I have to start the attunement over, you squirming bastard."
Taken aback, Faolan looks at her scowl and, chastened, nods meekly and settles back with his elbows on his knees. Not without a wry, "You could've made a good living humbling men like that, you know."
Almost breezily, the crone answers, "Still do."
He takes it in stride. "Fair enough."
And to Dmitri, he continues to Message. [ I have plenty to be ashamed of. Enough to tell you I've been fooled too many times to let it happen again. In haunted houses and at campfires and maybe even in Awich, you're Dima and I'm Fae, and you look soft at me to your heart's content.
But in Morovsk, you're Dmitri Voronin and I'm 'that Rhys whore' who was caught out with his hand wrapped around Fedir Petrenko's cock. At one of your brother's parties, in fact. ]
He didn't precisely mean to say all of that. Or maybe he did. Maybe it's been burning inside him since he learned Dmitri's name almost three days ago. (Maybe he wants someone to hurt like he hurts.) (Or just - know. Understand. See what he is and accept it, embrace it, and maybe -
Maybe he'll come away cleansed, somehow.)
He closes his eyes for a moment, feeling the sting of magic at his back.
[ I gave Phaedron three things. The memory of my first time with a lover. The taste of honey on a man's tongue. The emotions of the night Fedir lay beside me under starlight and promised me the world.
I believed him. That's shame enough. ]
<.>
Dima hadn't known.
He could have guessed. (Ought to have inquired?) Given Daniil's recurrent references to Petrenko, the man's passage through their home, Daniil's insistence on Petrenko's claim for justice.
Dmitri and Derzhena had, in the end, given over to permitting their family's support. It seemed wisest, for the sake of keeping balance among families, bridges unburned over an incident that hadn't seemed of their concern.
Dima flinches inwardly at the thought. Feels a query from Liviana, then understanding, and the sensation (but not the physical actuality) of feathers brushed against his cheek. He'd like to sink into himself at this moment. He half thinks he ought to look away from Faolan, knowing himself unworthy of the man's eyes— But also. But also, he can't cease watching, and thinks maybe, maybe looking away would be another manner of abandonment.
He's been quiet, noting the tattooist without really looking at her, trying to keep some eye on her work but unable to track much. Finally, he responds—
[ You wouldn't have to be.
They'll listen to what I say; they'll have to. I'd take the tongue of any wretch who dares to speak against you, or defile your name.
...Thank you. For telling me. I worry that— ]
A soft click of his tongue, and he cuts himself off briefly. Yes, he worries what repercussions the loss of these memories might carry. But that's Faolan's choice to make, and there's no good in questioning or casting doubt on what's already been done. That isn't what this moment, that isn't what Faolan needs.
(Can Dima give Faolan what he needs?) (He'd like to. He'd truly like to.)
[ No. I'm only sorry you've known such shame, and I regret that my brother's godsforsaken parties played any role in it. Petrenko was something far worse than a fool and rat-ridden bastard to treat you in this way.
Faolan. You can't fault yourself for believing him. Or. I'd urge you not to. ]
And: [ The memory, the sensations are gone, then? ]
<.>
It's a good thing Dmitri changed the subject because the look Faolan was beginning to wear was prelude to anger.
A warning of a warning.
He almost snaps, What would I have to do for you in return for such a brave defense?
He almost snaps, Your family defiled my name.
He doesn't say any of it, because he knows it's not (entirely) deserved. And also - and also. There's an admission in there of something he doesn't want to know. (A hope. A desire. A dream of some future where even in Morovsk, they're Dima and Fae, and their hands remain joined.)
It's to his relief that the focus changes to his trade. [ The emotions of that night with Fedir are gone. I can remember what happened, but not how I felt. ]
No, he needs to hang on to the memory itself. Fedir said a lot of things.
[ The other two memories - yes. They're gone. Good riddance to them. If I never replace them, at least they won't trouble me any longer. Maybe they'll please someone else. ]
<.>
He saw that shifting, that could-be-oncoming-storm in Faolan's mien. Fair enough, and perhaps, perhaps Dmitri almost expected it. Didn't wish to draw it from Faolan, but the subject he spoke is charged, must be painful, and Dima can't see himself as being free from blame; can't expect Faolan to think Dima was entirely removed from his family's decisions.
Dima doesn't venture further with the subject. (Maybe another time.) (If Faolan allows.) (If it feels right, feels helpful— Feels like something in its speaking could be healing for the man?). Dima does wonder— Dima does note.
Faolan must have loved Petrenko. Which is not a thought for dwelling on just now. Which is something to remember, because it marks a site of sharpest pain for Faolan. (Because... Because maybe, just maybe, there's a question of what Faolan adored in Fedir.) (Because Dima has it in his power to make the man pay dearly. When he's returned to Morovsk. When he's had time to think about... All of this. Including the role Daniil played.) (How many fucking chances will Dima need to give his brother?)
He brushes one finger under Liviana's jaw, considering Faolan's words, considering potentials of response. Then: [ Do you feel all right? Do you feel— Mm. Any different?
I don't ask in judgment; I don't mean to castigate you. I am wary by nature, but— But I AM glad for any pain that may be lifted from you.
You've had far too much of wounding. ]
A thought: 'If.' Faolan said 'if,' and it might mean, could mean— Maybe there isn't only pain, maybe there aren't only scars left on Faolan's heart. Maybe, maybe he could be willing, could be able to try again.
(Oh, if only.)
<.>
[PERC, f: 23
DEC, d: 21]
It was the "if". He shouldn't have said it, shouldn't have phrased it as though there's even the slightest possibility.
(It wasn't just the "if"; it's everything he's said and done, meeting everything Dima has said and done from the moment they met.) (Which was not that long ago.)
He can see Dmitri's - oh, it's well past longing, it's yearning, it's aching, strangling hope.
It's terrifying, because yearning and hope sink deeper, go far beyond physical want. (He knows. He's felt it.)
(He knows, also, that Dmitri seems to genuinely care.)
Oh, it's not sustainable. The world always gets in the way; it will get in the way even if Dmitri swears his soul to Faolan. Whatever he says, Morovsk will turn him.
Dmitri's on a path towards a broken heart. There's nothing Faolan can do to stop it; he can only handle the man with care and give him nothing else to feed his hope. No confusing touches. No smiles, no soft words. Just kindness.
And an answer to that question.
He looks down at his hands and thinks a moment.
[ I feel unburdened. And I feel it's a dangerous unburdening; it would be tempting to sell every last shred of my life to him just to forget. ]
His mouth curves in a small, rueful smile.
[ But then I wouldn't be myself any longer. Yes, there's pain, but it's MY pain. ]
A moment passes as Faolan listens to the crone humming some discordant tune.
[ You don't know me, Dmitri. ]
He speaks gently, and when he looks up, it's only lifted eyes.
[ You spoke a moment ago as though it was given that I would join you -
I'll never go back to Morovsk. Not until I can look at that beautiful, summertime sea and feel something other than desolate. ]
(The water was, he thinks now, the same color as the wisp-light.) (The water was the color of Dmitri's eyes.)
<.>
There's that, at least: That Faolan's gained some unburdening with the severance of these memories, and that he's not liable to cut away many, if any, more.
The rest—
Dima hadn't, really, realized how he'd framed his talk of Morovsk He hadn't guarded his speech, and it's true he'd spoken from his hope, his wishing, anticipating the future as he thought it could be.
(Dima's usually so much more careful in his disclosures.) (It's difficult to hide anything or skirt the center of truth with this man.) (And Dima— Doesn't want to be untruthful. But. But it isn't fair to drop all of this on Faolan.)
[ That isn't 'never.' Or it might not be. ]
Not an advisable place to begin, probably. (But Dima latched onto that 'not until.' But it shines in his mind, a place of possibility.)
He shakes his head, huffs a sigh and earns a sharp look from the tattooist, a reminder that he can take his impatience outside. Dima inclines his head, says nothing aloud and returns to Messaging—
[ I speak too far ahead of myself. There are things, visions of existence I would like - for myself; for you - but I don't intend to force your hand.
You keep reminding me that I don't know you.
True, in part. There's much of you - I suspect there are whole worlds in you - I've yet to witness.
But I know people, Faolan. I've spent much of my life studying their habits, learning their complexities, and in my duties, in my studies, I've met many, many men.
None exist for me the way that you do.
None struck me with such radiance; none hold the heart you do.
I overreach, perhaps, in saying any of this; in believing it. But I don't speak idly, Faolan. I don't hold affection without reason. ]
<.>
Well. There it is, open and spoken, and there's no unspeaking it.
(There's no unhearing it, and he won't trade it away.) (He'll hear Dmitri's voice for the rest of his life, saying there are whole worlds in you and none exist for me the way you do.)
He's heard men speak this way before. He knows better now than to believe it. Oh, he'd like to believe it, but he doesn't have any faith left in him. (Dmitri is a Voronin, and he wonders if his name ever cross Dmitri's tongue in slander.)
He's spared having to respond immediately by a slap against his back where the skin has burned as magic flowed in from the crone's needle.
"You're done and paid. Move along, send in the next one before you go."
As he's getting up and pulling his shirt back on, hiding the tattoo from Dmitri's eyes, he considers what he ought to say.
He settles for [ I can't give you what you want. ]
Whatever it is. However much he wants it.
[INT, d: 20
dm: Nice C: That'll do it, then.]
<.>
The thing is, Faolan doesn't know what Dima wants.
(Does Dima know in fullness what he wants? This man in happiness; freed from his burdens without losing anything. This man beside him (at midnight) (a rose in his hand) on the sands of Morovsk, arms twined around each other, looking out across the sea. This man's laughter; this man's voice on into the night. Years upon years and yes, yes it's true he wants nearness with this man, wants passion. He wants— So much.
Too much?
...Perhaps he'll never know. But this perhaps won't keep him from trying.)
As much as Dima wants to make his case, as much as he wants to outpour words of what he would do, will do and be if Faolan permits, he senses it might be best not to keep flooding the man with speaking. There's something here that speech alone can't touch. And there will be time (please; please) for extensive words again.
He exhales (quietly, this time). He tries to glimpse the tattoo; he sees nothing, and his curiosity ticks: What is it Faolan's asked for. What is it that he's taken on himself? He glances at the room around; tries finally to discern what this place is, what these tattoos might accomplish.
And his eyes return to Faolan: [ What I want is— Is extraneous, I suppose.
What I ask for is your company. In travel, for as long as you can stomach me, hm? ]
He was, he thinks, attempting a jest. He ends up looking aside, lip ticking, and—
[ I should like to know you better, for however long I may. ]
<.>
There's a look from Faolan that's entirely sorrowful; how much he wishes he was someone else, or Dmitri had come along years ago.
Or that, maybe, Dmitri wasn't Dmitri Voronin, and instead some peasant boy like himself.
He could bear this man's company all his life, if he thought it was possible. (Bear. Cherish. Welcome.)
He doesn't respond. Instead, he moves toward the door where Nerys has been waiting, ready to accompany him to the next merchant.
Before Dima can follow, the old crone speaks - or Messages? - "Some of my marks might interest a man who suffers unrequited love, Necromancer."
She hasn't moved from her stool where she sits wiping down the overlarge needle until it gleams unnaturally in the light.
"Tattoos to make you forget. Or to bind your lover to you. More, for the right price."
She pauses, then clucks her tongue. "No, you don't want to force him. A spell for a spell, though, hm? You know how to disguise yourself, to hide yourself from prying eyes. I know how to give a man a little luck - in love and war alike. An instinct that could turn the tide of battle or inspire you in a moment when the right word, the right deed could draw a lover's eye.
"Small. A compass rose on your forearm. Attune a needle with your spell and I'll do the same with mine."
<.>
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. ]
<.>
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?"
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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."
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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."
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no subject
And, looking at Moloch, he speaks: "Unfair, ungracious for him to leave you in this way.
"Speaking generously, he may only have gotten cold feet; some men seek power, only to find themselves swiftly overwhelmed, able to think of nothing save escape." Dmitri doesn't, really, believe that's what's happened here. Still, there's something... paining, almost, in Moloch's account, or in the manner of his telling. (Something of agreements broken painfully; of accord severed without regard for the other party.) (Something of abandonment.)
"Less generously— Some men take without thought, and without care for what they'd mangle.
"Whatever's happened, if Seddum draws breath, he will be found. What you've shared will go a long way toward locating him— And it helps to know something of what we can expect to find." ('We,' he said. Not precisely intentional, but it's so easy to believe Faolan might come along— And, yes, even the thieves.
...Gods. If Seddum is uncommonly eloquent, Sen might prove a necessity.)
Turning to Nerys: "What is the bounty you offer?"
And, Messaging Faolan: [ Forgive my 'we,' please; of course I won't bind you to the task. I would— If you find yourself willing, your aid would be invaluable. But it's no minor request, I know. ]
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Faolan doesn't react to the 'we' immediately. He only stares down at Moloch, feeling pity, feeling kinship. He'd - like to see the creature reunited with the warlock who summoned it, if only to give closure. (Or maybe - to give reunion?)
(Stupid. Putting his cast-off wishes on some bystanding demon.) (Does he wish it? To reunite with Fedir?)
He glances at Dmitri and answers without thinking. [ Of course I'll help. ]
(...Does he wish to see Fedir at all, when there's someone closer at hand who -) (Stop it.)
For its own part, Moloch gives no sign that it heard Dmitri at all.
Nerys, only a little worse for the wear, considers Moloch before answering, "This has dragged on for some time now. Moloch is pining, I think. In its own way. And a pining demon is bad for business."
[ As is the odor. ]
"Well; bring Seddum back here in one piece and we'll offer, oh...five hundred gold and perpetual access to the Market. Perhaps if something here catches your eye, we can see our way clear toward reserving it for you, to be included with the bounty."
The golem buzzes and Nerys hums, "If you're sure-
"A boon from Moloch, as well. I can't imagine what that means, but it's likely valuable in its way."
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He isn't surprised by the swiftness of Faolan's agreement (though he can't say whether his unsurprise is because of some intrinsic quality in Faolan - sensed by Dima - or because of Dima's wishfulness). He does feel a spark of pleasure at Faolan's apparent certainty, and, yes, at the thought of further travels with this man. (They could achieve so much together, find an existence that has, perhaps, been denied to them both.)
(It's a hazardous believe to entertain; perhaps unfair to Faolan.
Still. Dima can't help brushing against the thought, and thinking on the life it could bring.)
Dmitri knows the answer he means to give to Nerys. Still, before speaking, he Messages Faolan: [ I find the terms and payment agreeable. I'd like to solidify the guarantee of an item from the Market; otherwise, I'm inclined to take the offer as it stands.
Do you find anything amiss in it? ]
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Faolan gives Dmitri a puzzled look.
[ Do you really think I'm the person to ask about ulterior motives or potential hazards in a promise, Dmitri? ]
He smiles ruefully and shakes his head. [ No. I don't see anything amiss - except that this warlock might not want to be found. ]
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A glance downward, a shaking of his head that turns to a nod. [ Whether he wishes to be found is no matter; I am, when I put my efforts toward a cause, an unfailingly tenacious man. ]
He thinks to say that missing one man's piss-sheened motives, one man's hazards - or even the motives and hazards of multiple men - says nothing about Faolan's judgement overall.
He's also fairly certain that'd be an ill-advised approach.
So Dmitri nods to Nerys. "I'd like a guarantee on one item from the Market; I won't name a threshold for its value.
"Given that guarantee, I find your proposition entirely agreeable, and am prepared to contract myself to seeking Seddum Madin."
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Nerys is watching Moloch still, nodding along with Dmitri's words. When he does look back up, he nods again. "I'll have a contract for you in an hour, give or take. if you've found something to your tastes, we'll add it. Choose three items or services, if you can. We'll select the most suitable in value for the return of Seddum."
Lowering his voice, he adds, "I think it's best if we leave Moloch to compose itself. Please don't think I'm hurrying you out of the shop to be rude - but I am hurrying you out."
Faolan is watching Dmitri all the while, wondering if he's meant to understand something about the man's tenacity in relationship to himself.
(It gives him a fluttering sort of excitement, doesn't it? A thrill, to think maybe he's being pursued, maybe he's wanted by this man enough to test the limits of tenaciousness?) (It likewise troubles him - for many, many reasons.)
Noting that Nerys seems to want to attend to the business of his contract with Dmitri, he quickly asks, "The other thing. The possible newcomer?"
Nerys points an emphatic, approving finger at Faolan. "Ah, yes. I'll ask about that, as well. Someone will know where to find your ghost, if they aren't here in the Market."
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At the last bit of exchange, there's a look for Faolan: eyebrows raised, querying, curious, appreciative (approving). Dima doesn't speak to it yet; only notes the exchange, the apparent agreement, and thinks again of Faolan's sensibility, his scope of view for what might be gleaned from a trade, and what's worth asking after.
To Nerys: "An hour, then, or near enough to. We'll find you, and finalize our agreement.
"Thank you, Nerys, for your time. Please extend my thanks to Moloch as well, when the time is right."
Dmitri doesn't linger longer; only bows his head, looks to Faolan, and - if Faolan gives no signs of lingering behind - turns to walk away, and carry on with examination of the nearby booths and offerings. Messaging Faolan as he walks: [ It seems you found precisely the right man for gleaning information. Bound with the Market though he may be, there's much use - and perhaps tentative alliance - to be had with this Nerys.
You and I are in agreement, by the by: While this contract intrigues me, it's the chance of further passage with this Market - with its knowledge - that draws me fastest to the wood elf's proposition.
There is far too much here to be witnessed in an hour, a day, a week. And I'd rather not be rushed in its exploration. ]
Dima feels an itch, a desire to ask Faolan about the tattoo he acquired; about what drew him to the sword. For the moment, he manages to hush his queries. (For the moment.) (He can't say how long his quiet will stand.)
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