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.)
Faolan smiles, appreciative of Dmitri's passion for this place (and all things necromantic, apparently.) If allowing the man to tag along as he collected his payment resulted in Dmitri's continued access to the Market, he's glad for it.
...And he won't pretend he doesn't feel an ember of warmth in his chest every time Dmitri speaks of 'we', or 'us', or 'you and I'. Dangerous though it is, at least someone other than Faolan is chasing that union for once.
(It has nothing to do with what he's been through, though, does it? He looks over at Dmitri and feels like 'we' ought to be implicit. He sees the toss of hair and crooked smile, feels the way Dmitri wants to be near him just to be near, and that warmth has nothing to do with vindication.)
[ You'll have your chance to explore to your heart's content. ] There's some amusement in his tone, and equal measures of happiness for Dmitri.
[ We'd better find the thieves sooner rather than later; Nerys is going to have more luck finding our would-have-been-assassin than those two. ]
And, bemusedly: [ How DO you know Sen? ]
And just as curiously: [ And how long has he been married to Rin? I keep trying to sort out how he found a tiefling who just happens to be as - mm. Criminally fanciful? As he is. All the luck in the world, there. ]
And, quickly, [ And what's his arrangement with you? ]
Perhaps he's asking too many questions - but it's better to turn his prodigious (and heretofore curtailed) curiosity on Sen and Rin than on more likely subjects. (Dmitri Voronin, for one.)
<.>
Faolan's remark about exploring the Market draws a soft laugh from Dima (unintended) (unusual; he hasn't laughed that way - in warmth, in pleased surprise - in quite some time), and a half-smile. He'd like that chance. He will have that chance—
And he'd like to explore the Market - he'd like to see so much - in Faolan's company. Unusual as well, that, when Dima has always preferred to travel alone when possible. Even when circumstances - typically diplomatic ventures - required accompaniment of a retinue, he'd keep largely to his own company outside of his duties, his plans and the regulation of displeased parties (the regulation, typically, of fellow nobles throwing minor shitfits).
Faolan is an exception. (Faolan, Dmitri thinks, is a rule, a realm all of his own.)
...Oddly. Sen, too, is a kind of exception. And a relentless pain in the ass. (And a not earnestly unwanted presence, trying though he can be.)
Dima clicks his tongue, thinking, before he responds. [ Sen's 'arrangement' is cropping up every time I travel in order to rob me and talk my ear off. How the shithead KNOWS when and where I'll be away from Morovsk is a mystery to me. And why I tolerate him— ]
A shrug, a performative sigh. [ You've met him.
One might say I appreciate the routine; the performance of his theft. 'Criminally fanciful' describes him to a T. And it does break the monotony of travel.
He takes my gold. We have a drink, we talk; we part ways. ] It strikes Dima - it has struck Dima - that this is the longest he's spent in Sen's company. A question is why the elf hasn't - why both thieves haven't - slipped away. A question is why Dima is content to see them stay.
And, regarding the question of Rin: [ I don't believe he'd ever met the tiefling in his life; not before that night. ] He doesn't know this, true, but Dima's fairly certain if Sen had known Rin, he'd have mentioned them - would have chattered long into the night, whenever possible - long before that attack in the forest.
[ I suspect Sen may simply BE a lucky bastard.
...Though. Perhaps it isn't only Sen. Perhaps there was more luck in that grove than any of us knew. ]
And, perhaps a little too hastily - as if Dima's aware he's ushered them toward ground Faolan might not wish to tread - he adds: [ In any case, for all his absurdity, the elf is better company than I usually handle. ]
<.>
Faolan doesn't respond immediately. Perhaps it was the comment about luck that did it, or perhaps he's simply preoccupied with his own thoughts, or the undead bustle around them.
He thinks, maybe. Maybe there was luck in that grove. Good for Sen.
Bad for himself and Dmitri.
[ He seems heartfelt. About you. About Rin. Whatever else he may be, that's a quality one doesn't find often. ]
It's surprising to learn Sen only met Rin the other day; they seem like two halves of the same coin. Instantly a keen friendship, or lovers - or whatever they may be. Faolan hasn't quite worked it out, if they aren't married.
(Maybe they haven't, either.)
[ Maybe he knows you're traveling because he watches you. He jumped into that fight pretty quickly; maybe he's some kind of self-appointed guardian.
Looking out for his investment. Or his friend. Or both. ]
<.>
In the silence, Dmitri wonders whether he did speak too far (it's so much harder to curb his words, his impulses of speech around this man; much as Dima tries, and wants to try). There's no telling what Faolan thinks of his fortunes since that day— Not so very long ago, true, but a lot has happened. And Dima may know his feelings toward Faolan, but he also knows the man is wary; knows the man has cause to be. And can't tell whether the signs of... of perhaps-interest he sees in Faolan are true, or are of Dima's own imagining.
He needs to be careful, he reminds himself.
This man needs and ought to have care, he knows. (A warning, a could-be-hesitation: When has Dima learned to care for someone, truly?) (A rejoinder: He'll learn. He learns with every word, and every pained expression. And even if— Mm. If Faolan doesn't share Dima's longings, still there is care to be offered; still Dima wants him well.)
Dmitri nods, head canted in consideration. [ ’Heartfelt'; there, yes, is another apt descriptor. I've never met a man more honest in his knavery— Or in much of anything. ]
A pause, and, [ I'm more comfortable with 'looking out for his investment.' Though I— ]
Dima huffs, and shakes his head. [ Never let him know I suggested this, but. I suppose 'friend' might not be an inapt descriptor.
It isn't one that I'm precisely accustomed to. ] He lifts one shoulder in a subtle shrug, then pauses, cants his head, and—
[ Faolan. Speaking of that fight, that night—
What were you doing with Wythall? Rather. Did you know what HE was doing? ] And, voice assuring, [ I won't push, and you needn't answer if you'd rather not. ]
<.>
Faolan looks puzzled now, huffing a little laugh at the thought that he might have been doing anything at all with Wythall.
[ He asked to share my campfire. You came along only moments after.
I didn't know what he was about at the time, but I have my suspicions NOW. Those plants were Awakened. He- ]
As he steps around a shambling creature with eyes that don't fix on anything in particular, his hand brushes Dmitri's; a burst of longing makes his breath catch. (This. This is what he was trying to avoid.) (But what harm is it, really, if - accidentally - his hand brushes Dmitri's now and then?)
(A world of harm.)
He was saying - what was he saying?
Wythall.
[ He wasn't any sort of Druid - and I don't think he was much of anything else. An opportunist, mostly.
The gemstone Rin pocketed. It probably has some ability left to Awaken more plants.
In Rin's hands, that might be a bad thing? ]
<.>
There's a stammer in his step as he feels the brush of Faolan's hand (an accident, perhaps? probably) (did Faolan's breath falter for a moment, or was that Dima's invention only?), as he longs to reach out, to draw the brief touch into a twine of hands.
He doesn't. He thinks of Faolan drawing from his touch, disappearing into an empty tent. He thinks of that almost-offer earlier; Faolan's hand beginning to move, then shifting, settling on his scimitar. The man isn't— Ready, perhaps. Or it's his wariness, or he simply... Well. Doesn't wish to take Dima's hand, or - perhaps more likely - permit Dima to take his own.
It might happen yet. Dima tells himself (hopefully or hopelessly?) that their hands will link again. He needs to be patient, though. He can't force it on Faolan, if the man requires time to think, or observe, or simply wait, Dima will try to keep cautious. (When he can help it.) (When he can brush down his own impulse.)
As they continue walking, his eyes wander to Faolan's hand once, twice, several times throughout.
[ I'm curious what the man thought he was doing; what he planned to do with that tree. An immaterial question, perhaps. That he wasn't a Druid might tell enough.
Have you encountered stones like this before? ]
And, after a hummed sound, [ I'm not certain there's any harm Rin would do with it. It wouldn't hurt to keep an eye on them, but I suspect they're more likely to make up a parade of walking shrubs than orchestrate any forestation-based attack.
IF they learn the gemstone's use. And if they want the stone for anything beyond its sheen. ]
<.>
He won't think about it. He won't mention it. It can't happen again, no matter how much his impulsivity fixates on Dmitri. (Beautiful man. Why did he have to be Dmitri Voronin, why did it have to be now?)
Faolan draws up to a stall purveying a collection of items with no particular theme - a skull here, a bit of something labelled 'summer sand' there. He feigns interest in a tunic made of some silky, ethereal fabric.
[ It's not uncommon for those without magic to buy it from others and store it a while. I've done it, myself, a time or two. ]
He doesn't elaborate.
[ Maybe he was using his shrubs to attack travelers. Or maybe he just wanted the company. It's a little late to ask him. ]
He glances at Dmitri and again finds himself suspended. Again finds himself held safe in the blueness of his eyes - and for just a moment, he could believe maybe Dmitri doesn't mean him harm. Maybe all he really wants is something Faolan hasn't encountered before.
(But think. Think what will happen in Loch Bien, or in Morovsk, when Dmitri's surrounded by other nobles. Think of what he'll say, and how much more it will hurt.)
He shakes himself out of it and looks away.
[ If you were a pair of criminally fanciful thieves, where would you go? ]
<.>
What did Faolan mean by that.
Clearly it isn't a question for pursuing. (Not now; maybe not ever.) Without further context, it's nothing Dmitri can suss out for himself. He simply nods at the remarks; it makes sense enough, and whether Wythall wished to harness the magic he did or whether it was simply what he could obtain, it seems he was using it toward his own ends. Meaning - hopefully - that there's isn't an entire conclave of Wythalls bent on turning forests toward attack.
[ I'd heard talk of travelers in the area suffering mysterious attacks, unwilling to name the creatures that attacked them.
It occurs to me that few people would be eager to confess that their wounds were inflicted by a meager bush. ] And— [ I encountered one earlier on the day I met you. It was startling, I'll admit. ] He realizes he still has the vial of bush dust; he also realizes there's likely no value in employing it. Ah, well.
It doesn't hurt to have a memento. The vial of dust and the raven totem; reminders of a day that brought forth one dire meeting.
Glancing around the stall before them, Dima lifts the skull for inspection, sets it down. Nods to a half-melted candle, its wax a nauseating off-green, and asks the seller just what it might be.
Then, to Faolan: [ Gods only know. If there is a logic followed by criminally fanciful thieves - and I'll allow there may well be - it's beyond my comprehension.
I suppose they'd be attracted to either the strangest goods, or the shop with the largest array. Perhaps somewhere with a minor crowd to entertain Sen's ceaseless chatter. ]
<.>
Not the worst conjecturing, Faolan thinks. Sen's a bard, so he'll be in a crowd. He thinks he saw something like an open-air tavern near the center of the market.
The seller of the candle is explaining to Dmitri the alchemical properties and value of the candle, so he waits until the conversation finishes before suggesting, [ We should make toward the gibbets. It looked like there were tables and a barmaid. If he's looking for an audience, it'll be there. ]
And, just for good measure, [ I wouldn't buy that. It smells rancid; it can turn lead to gold but can't manage to be odorless? That's suspect. ]
<.>
There's the glint of a smirk from Dmitri, and his response to Faolan is toned with amusement: [ Let it never be said that alchemy doesn't bring its share of stench. But I agree with your suspicions; as a rule, claims of turning lead to gold are the hallmark of a useless item. ]
To the shopkeeper, he lifts his eyebrows just slightly, expression reserved, and explains that - how very interesting, and what a coincidence! - he has a torch at home that serves the same function, and so won't be requiring the candle.
Then turning, taking in the lay of the market at nodding at Faolan - catching, blood quickening, at the sight of him - he nods and begins to walk. [ It's a better bet than any. The gibbets, then. We'll see what manner of eager souls he's managed to gather. And whether the two of them have managed to refrain from stealing anything for such a terribly long time. ]
The pair make their way towards the gibbets, Faolan occasionally breaking into little stifled laughs about the torch comment.
As they wend their way closer to the Market's center, it's easy to see Sen standing atop a table in the 'tavern', gesturing theatrically as he recites some tale to a gathering circle of undead.
He's good; Faolan has to admit that: he takes on the voices of each character of some epic poem, lends the accent of older Common speech to the narration. His movements are full of vitality, of frenetic energy that even Faolan, for all his distaste for crowds, finds enthralling.
He doesn't see Rin immediately, but that could mean anything. (And likeliest, that Rin has a hand in someone's pocket.)
[ He's not half bad. ]
<.>
[ No; he's not. ]
Dima's not seen Sen in full performance mode. He's known the elf to be eloquent; has known Sen's penchant for the dramatic, and to have a knack for cadences of speech. This, though—
Well. He's not so bad, at all. (There's almost a question of how he hasn't secured a reliable circuit of work among those who have money.) (There are a dozen immediate answers, including the likelihood of Sen telling a lord to stick a finger up his own ass, including the elf's clear distaste for the inevitable and entitled haughtiness of the wealth, and of course including Sen's not entirely unknown status as a criminal.)
He doesn't quite want to interrupt Sen. He does catch sight of a tiefling darting among the crowd, and yes, that was Rin's hand in someone's pocket. Shit's sake.
Dima sighs, gives Faolan's shoulder a light touch (he's like to linger) (he lingers only briefly, briefly, and lets the touch warm through him) and Messages Rin's location, then Messages Rin, [ Have you two located our spirit already. ]
Rin responds, [ The what? ], then seems to put two and two together, and after slipping their hand into one more pocket, darts over to Faolan and Dima, blinking rapidly, bouncing up onto their toes, then down. They look over at Sen, seem to catch upon his story, then with effort look back to Fae and Dima. "Find anything?", they ask, pulling at their own hair.
<.>
That touch is something he could live off of for years. The memory of it: Sen telling his evocative story in blue wisplight, and Dmitri beside Faolan, bathed in that same blue - dreamlike. (His hair catching the color in its blackness, becoming Stygian, soft, inviting-)
And the hand at his shoulder like a promise of what every touch could be.
If the world was only a little different, he would press a hand to Dmitri's waist and let the natural movement of an embrace draw them together.
(It's not...fair.) (Very little is fair.)
He's glad Rin's arrival stems the flow of thought and suppresses a smile at the almost coquettish way they're playing with their hair.
(Sen must be smitten with them.)
(They certainly seem something with Sen.)
"One of the adjudicators is going to ask around. He'll come find us in - forty-five minutes or so." He raises his chin towards Sen. "Do you suppose he'll be done by then, or is this a two-act performance?"
<.>
Rin flicks a glance toward the stage— And catches there, one hand moving to their cheek as they follow Sen's hands in a series of gestures, hum at the sound of his voice. (They were doing something. Talking to someone? Talking with— Oh. yes!)
To Faolan, "He's been at it a bit now."
[q: did sen and rin’s search of the tent and ghosts turn up anything?
INV s: 13 r: 22
dm: Sen found very little; he kept finding himself distracted, though who can really say why!
Rin managed to find out there is in fact a newcomer in the Market who was slain while attempting to assassinate a lord from Mysos. They also managed to learn that his name is Payl Gower before both they and Sen were run out of the shop for time-wasting.]
As Rin tell it, their voice hushed: "So one, if you don't buy things they kick you out, which I think is pretty rude. Also, it's hard to find out how ghosts go about getting hired. It's obvious they do, but everyone was mum about the process. Third, Sen made a ghoul laugh so hard she snorted bile.
"Yeah, also, it seems a lot like the guy's - the ghost's - called Payl Gower, or Payl Gower tried to kill some lord from Mysos who may or may not have been Calabra, but probably was. Oh, oh, did Sen tell you? That [muncher of seared shit] acts like a guy who's asking to get killed."
Dima, against his better judgment, snorts. And adds, "You're not wrong."
Rin nods; of course they're not wrong. "Also no one wants to eat with him.
"Anyway. That's what we've got so far, and then Sen started telling a story and..." They gesture to the stage— And turn the gesture to a wave, because they've met Sen's eyes! While they're at it, they're going to blow him a kiss, then rock back onto their heels, smiling bright. "Of course everyone started listening, and Sen ought to be heard, so here we are.
"And maybe the whatever-it-was you talked to can give us some of the 'where is he now' part of the information."
<.>
Faolan listens politely, then exchanges a glance with Dmitri that turns into another look of puzzlement.
"Do you know Calabra?"
From across the space, over the heads of a large group of ghouls, Sen catches the kiss without interrupting his tale, presses it to his cheek, and points to the spot. Only then does he interject, stride unbroken, "No treasure more valued than a kiss for luck."
Several heads nod knowingly, several gazes turn briefly towards Rin, and some expressions bear distinct looks of sorrowful longing and distant envy.
Attention returns to Sen's tale quickly enough.
From behind Dmitri and Faolan, a voice says with good-natured exasperation, “Bards.”
Nerys waits patiently, arms folded, a scroll tapping slowly against his upper arm. "He's really very good. It takes a particular sort of talent to tell the Conception of Halister with such command. Moreso without the whole thing turning to shambles amid bawdy jokes and unseemly gestures.
"We ought to contract him sometime."
<.>
Dima looks to Faolan, feeling a dim flicker of concern; it might not be wise to mention his own connection to nobility of any sort. Then again, Dmitri has no wish to veil what he is, certainly not from Faolan, and if their group happens to meet with the vacuous fool, it's better he know beforehand.
"In passing. I'm blessed to have had little interaction with the esteemed 'lord'; matters of his - mmm - call it business, call it intrusions, have been my sister's prevue. Calabra and his taxation practices have proven a thorn in her side.
"And the man is an absolute bore. I'd be entirely content to let the thieves handle his interactions."
Meaning also: If Faolan wishes to not place himself in the room with the man, Dima will see that he doesn't have to.
Rin beams as Sen takes their kisses, as he puts it on his cheek which is a very good place for it to live, they think. (They should kiss his cheek sometime. Actually kiss his cheek. Actually kiss him at all. That'd be very nice, and better still.) When Sen speaks of their kiss, Rin offers a bow in his direction, and a wink. That felt nice, as well; Sen speaking of them. Sen speaking so well of their kiss which must certainly give him extra luck!
They hear someone approach and seem to address their gathered trio. They don't really pay attention - though they note with satisfaction that whoever-it-is is praising Sen's performance, as whoever-it-is very well should - until the voice speaks of a contract.
At which point Rin turns on their heels to face the— Oh, the speaker is an elf! Who doesn't look very undead at all, but not everyone is, and the point is that Sen might find opportunities here - if Sen wants, of course! - and the point is that when opportunities arrive they ought to be taken, and since Sen isn't here to claim it for himself—
"He might like that." Rin nods seriously, thinks, and sticks out their hand. "I'm his manager; you can talk to me."
<.>
Faolan isn't considering the aspect of Calabra's nobility - or wasn't. He is now that he's aware Dmitri is trying to protect him from the possibility of interacting with Calabra.
He doesn't know what to do with that. (The protection. The thought that he needs protection. The thought that Dmitri wants to be his protector.)
When Nerys joins them, it's almost a relief to have a distraction from the direction that conversation could have gone, though he does keep stealing puzzled glances at Dmitri.
If Nerys is at all surprised by Rin's claim, he has the good grace to hide it. He takes Rin's hand and bows courteously - neither kissing nor shaking, as though he recognizes something about the tiefling without inquiry.
"And so I shall - though I'll need to defer that conversation until later. There's something of an emergency that requires my attention. I came only to deliver this to Dmitri here, and to inform you that your assassin ghost is right across the path, in that shop with the mirrors. Do you see? Yes, just there. Payl Gower, I believe."
As he speaks, he hands off the contract, and pauses before making a departure. "Try to deal gently with him. It's not an easy transition. The first years are terribly hard on them."
<.>
[note: Dmitri is going to look over the contract before Nerys heads off. Does it all look to be as they discussed? Slash also is there a section for or space left for the negotiation of including an item from the Market?
dm: The contract is exactly as discussed, with space left for the negotiation of an item from the Market.]
In that case, Dima offers Nerys an appreciative nod, and asks Faolan via Message if he'd like to take a look at it, adding that [ It's all in order; I only thought you might like a glance. ]
And, to Nerys, "You have my thanks." And. "What manner of emergency?"
Rin, meanwhile, is pleased by Nerys's courtesy, and offers a bow of their head. "I'll let Sir Sen know of your interest."
Not particularly concerned about any emergency, they've turned their eyes toward the shop and yes, why yes there are a number of mirrors and Rin is very intrigued and thinks they'll have to take a look around whenever they've all finished with whatever they're doing with the ghost.
Turning back to Sen - taking a moment to appreciate his performance - they Message him: [ Ghost alert! ]
<.>
Faolan starts to reach for the contract, then stops, his fingers curling. His hand drops uselessly to his side and his head cocks in almost good-natured perturbance.
[ You don't need to do that, Dmitri. Ask my input. I'm no more qualified to advise you than any other shit-sm- ]
He silences himself, pursing his lips, and breathes once before amending, [ Any other farmer's son. ]
With a shake of his head, he folds his arms and turns away to watch the performance come to its conclusion.
Sen might be rushing things a bit; he received Rin's message and would indeed like to dispense with the necessaries of business before any more fun's to be had. At the end of the tale, he gives a bow to slow applause (thankfully, slow only because the ghouls in the crowd seem to have limb control problems.)
He doesn't ask for coin, but someone presses a drink into his hands when he jumps down from the table; he motions for Rin to come join him, to come show him the ghost with one hand and discretely dumps out the drink with the other.
Meanwhile, Nerys has paused in his step and is offering an awkward sort of smile. "Oh, nothing out of the ordinary, I assure you. This is part and parcel to my work with the Market. Disputes occur, trades go a little awry. It's why adjudicators exist. Nothing to worry about, Gentlemen. And Rin."
He bows again and strides off - and when he thinks he's out of sight (but probably isn't), starts to run.
<.>
It's Dima's turn to look puzzled, then stung (feeling a moment's wounding for himself; feeling wounding as well for Faolan, who must have heard the word a hundred times), though he composes himself a half-moment later, a long-learned instinct. Faolan turns and in the silence after, Dima places the contract in a pocket, feeling unsteadied, fighting against a furrowed brow and a tick of his lip.
To Nerys, he inclines his head. "As you say. Your information is appreciated, Nerys."
And after a few moments, he Messages Faolan again: [ I would be pleased to have your advice. I've watched you, Faolan; you're no fool.
I thought as well that you might like to review the contract for yourself, in case you— ] An awkward halt, and if he were speaking, Dima might nearly have stammered the start of a word. What he'd intended to say was 'In case you come along.' What he realized partway through the sentence was a possible cause for Faolan's declining the contract: That the man doesn't intend to aid in the task. (The Faolan doesn't intend to travel with Dima beyond Loch Bien, and really, Dima was jumping ahead of himself again to think otherwise, and really, it isn't an expectation Faolan needs placed upon his shoulders.
Dima clicks his tongue, tries again. [ In case you were curious. ]
He tries not to think about what will follow from Loch Bien. He tries not to notice the way his chest feels constricted, or the metallic taste within his mouth.
Rin's applause is enthusiastic, with a whistle thrown in for good measure. When Nerys departs, they offer him a pleased smile, then turn to find Sen beckoning to them. Of course they dash his way, then fling their arms around his waist, looking upward with a toothy grin. "That was magnificent. I've never seen anyone hold a roomful of ghouls rapt, but you did it!" Lowering their voice, looking briefly annoyed: "It's a shame we can't pick pockets here. They never would've noticed." Then, brightening, "But Sen, Sen, you tell stories so wonderfully! I could listen to you all day, and then all the next day and the next after!
"Speaking of!" The raise their forefinger, teasing silence for juuuust a moment before continuing, "They want to have you perform here again. For pay, you know. This— Nar... Nor... Something. A wood elf, the one Faolan and Dmitri were talking to. He was impressed, as he ought to be, and I told him I'd talk to you, and I think—"
Oh, right! They just remembered! "Also I'm your manager now. If that's all right with you."
Oh, he went too far and wounded Dmitri with his godsdamned pride.
(And in wounding the man, Faolan has learned something he wish he never had cause to discover: he never wants to see that look on Dmitri's face again. He doesn't think he can bear it a second time.) (Only a few moments ago, he was cause for Dmitri's smiles. He was -)
He's becoming cruel. He was cruel.
His heart feels like a stone in his chest. He knows there's more to this than just his pride; the way Dmitri corrected himself there, chose a different 'in case' from what he initially wanted to say.
A moment passes. Then another. Then, softly, [ I'm sorry. ]
He swallows and tries both to look and not look at Dmitri. [ I am sorry. I - ]
What can he say? He looks around himself, lost and frowning. Searching the crowd of undead for the right thing to say in such a precarious situation.
Because he has no script, no knowledge of how to make amends when he has done the hurting, he lets instinct win out; he takes Dmitri's hand in both of his own. There aren't any words, but his hands warm until it seems flames ought to spring from them - then do. Harmless against Dmitri's palm, engulfing and speaking something -
(About wanting. About desire.) (About fondness.) (Things that can't be spoken.)
How he would rather keep Dmitri safe within his fire than burn him.
Holding Dmitri's gaze with imploring eyes, he finally speaks again. [ Please, forgive me. Please - please understand, and forgive me. ]
He thinks, but doesn't say, For all the wrongs I've yet to do.
Sen looks pleased solely by the embrace - pleased and honored - and strokes the backs of his fingers along one of Rin's horns. This lovely creature. (How he would like to call himself theirs!)
They speak of all that occurred while he was on his makeshift stage and he smiles, thinking he could listen to them and their meandering speech for centuries. Clever, pretty Rin.
Their 'speaking of!' and torturous pause earns an appropriate feigning of breathless interest that dissolves into an amused little laugh. Well, of course they may be his manager; he never has needed one before, but he finds just now that he's never needed anything more, and there's no one more appropriate.
"I was only just saying to myself, Sen, Old Boy, you need a manager. Someone to ensure you're paid fairly in ball bearings and gold, and not in boggy ale." Tapping the tip of Rin's nose, he goes on, "You're hired. Pay yourself fairly, Pretty Rin."
..Does he dare?
He feels daring after reciting an epic to a group of undead.
"A problem. You see, I -" He turns suddenly sober, gone from playful to soft wondering. "You needn't answer. You could even pretend I never asked, and so shall I. But I'd like it if you weren't only that. A small step in another direction, perhaps, where -"
He laughs at himself then. "All the words in the world and I can't find some clever way to say I'd like to kiss you sometime. Oh, not here,” he says in faint horror at their surroundings. "But if, some other night, you felt charitable and the weather was right for it. Would you let me?"
Half-fanciful and glancing off from them - only to be drawn back to them and their perfect nose, perfect horns, perfect little thiefling - Sen adds hopefully, "And if you don't find it unendurable, consider allowing it again?"
<.>
He didn't intend this: The ache in Faolan's voice - palpable even in Messaging - or the pain written in his eyes. The man has done nothing in error. Dmitri built the cause for his own pain; he knows this. And it's no fault of Faolan's that he's known far too much of dismissiveness and cruelty, likely (certainly) from people of Dmitri's class.
He wants to interrupt that apology. He wants to speak after that first 'I'm sorry,' feeling certain he never wants to hear those words from Faolan; wanting to assure him that all is... if not well, at least not harmed by Fae. But Faolan hasn't finished; Dima reads that much in his expression, and he thinks perhaps, perhaps he ought to let Faolan say his piece before butting in. He can give the man that much, at least.
What follows stalls the Market into silence and distant haze.
What follows strikes Faolan in brilliant light, and turns Dima's heart to amber warmth.
Faolan took his hand. Faolan's keeping hold of his hand, Faolan's watching Dmitri attentive, with intention, and Dima finds he can't quite swallow. Feels choked up, and blink, feels dizzy feels a velvet tingle through his nerves and feels close to the presence of peace, of ease.
He feels the flames; not painful, but offering a subtle, flickered warmth. (He thinks, distantly, that he could weep.) (He does feel a burn at the back of his eyes, though there are no tears, not now.) It's beautiful, it's—
Oh, it's a kind of poetry. This offering from Faolan. This apology that never needed to be given, but this sight will keep forever in Dima's knowing: how his hand looked held in Faolan's, bathed in protective flame.
He doesn't watch the flame for long. Faolan's eyes draw his, and again Dmitri feels shaken through his core. He'd smile, if Faolan didn't look so distressed; if Dima didn't hear such aching in Faolan's apology.
Dima shakes his head softly, not breaking their shared gaze, wanting never to look away. His free hand moves to settle on the back of Faolan's, unwary of the flames, wanting only to offer an encouraging, a reassuring touch. [ There isn't anything to forgive. ]
At the back of Faolan's hand, Dima's fingertips press, then draw a steady, light-pressured brush, back and forth. [ You have known— Faolan. I understand you've been treated wretchedly, and known treachery in many names.
That isn't any fault of yours. You've been given reason for mistrust, and I understand that my class and name alike speak poorly for me.
I count myself fortunate that you've sustained my company at all. And I hold every moment dear.
No more apologies, Faolan; please.
If you feel it would help, of course I forgive you. But truly, truly, you've done nothing to forgive. ]
Rin likes the way Sen brushes their horns; no one's ever done that. (Even if anyone did, even if anyone tried, it would likely turn Rin ireful, their horns being no one's to touch.
Until now, of course. Now is - Sen is - very different.)
They like the way he looks at them, and lets them sway back and forth just a little as they keep their arms around him. They like the way - the many ways! - he speaks, of course they do, and how very well he plays and joins in their own mischief. They like how he listens, how he understands their meaning even if they don't head straight for any point; they like that he talks in his own meanders. They even like his finger tapping on their nose; another gesture no one else could get away with (Rin's bitten people for precisely that; right through veins and nerves and all).
They like the thought of being his manager, for real and for true!
And they like very, very much the thought of kissing him, and receiving a kiss from him.
Rin laughs, pleased and light, and their smile tells their answer ahead of speaking. Playfully, happily, they tap their finger against Sen's chest. "I have a secret for you, just for you.
"While you were onstage, after you kept my kiss and gave it a perfect perch, a perfect place to stay, I thought how much I’d like to kiss your cheek.
"And then something more than your cheek. You see, it struck me as the very nicest idea, and it strikes me as the very nicest idea, and in fact I'd made up my mind that someday I ought to kiss you, but of course only if you also thought it might be nice."
They bite their lip briefly, smiling upward still at Sen, and settle their palm against Sen's chest. "So you see, what I mean to say is 'Yes, I will let you,' and 'Yes, I will require - even demand! - this kiss from you."
After a slight pause, as if deciding whether they can say this, they offer warmly, "A kiss from my Sen. And I think another, and another, and another after that."
<.>
That look. That one that Dmitri gives him when their hands join.
That's the one he wants, oh, for the rest of his life. Although he's recognized the look of desire in Dmitri's eyes, no one's ever looked at him this way, with so much...hope. So much joy in just a touch. (So much peace, as though he came home.)
He could sob from the strength of his longing, stoked further by the tender brush of fingers.
He wants to ask, Why couldn't you have come along sooner?
Or, Why did you have to find me? Why did you have to be nothing I expected and everything I wanted?
He wants to ask what will happen to that look when they reach somewhere that Dmitri is known, and if Dmitri knows how much it would destroy him if he had to see the loss of it.
Instead, something else takes his attention. He speaks carefully - always gently. (As soft as the answering caress of his own fingers.) [ Be careful, Dmitri.
Don't let fondness blind you to cruelty. A man who learns he can mistreat you because you have a tender heart will keep doing it - until your heart isn't tender anymore. ]
One of his hands releases, then raises to draw a fire-warm trail of fingertips down Dmitri's cheek. Then, with a sad smile, he eases away as gently as he can - and feels more lost now than a moment ago. (Feels so much colder, so much less sure of what he knows.)
(It felt right.)
(He tells himself it always feels right at first.)
Sen radiates pure joy - that they'll allow a kiss, and that they have an accord with him. An agreement of the wishful mind. Oh, he's found rare fortune, and he'll be sure that the kiss is as perfectly imperfect as can be.
(And every one after!)
But it's the 'my Sen' that devastates him. When has he ever wanted to be possessed by anyone at all, claimed like a ragdoll or a servant? But that's not what this is, no! This is (his?) (no, never!) Rin, claiming him as their fondness. Their playmate, their friend, and maybe. Maybe their lover. (Whatever form that last may take, it's all the same to him!)
"A kiss from -" He laughs, lost little sound, then smiles a lopsided flash of teeth. "Yes. Your Sen. In whatever way you'll allow. I'd like that very much."
Ah, but!
"Rin, business first, and then we'll have the last of the night to wander and talk and enjoy. You said 'Ghost alert', so I can only assume you've discovered where our friend Payl might be?"
<.>
He leans into the trail of Faolan’s touch, his eyes just slightly slipping shut. Thinking how well he'd like this touch to linger. Thinking how he'd like to return the touch in-kind.
When the man draws away, Dima begins to move with him, reluctant to release, wanting to hold tighter. He manages to halt himself; he manages to let Faolan move as he must, though he lets his fingertips drag along the departure of Fae's; though he moves not an inch after Faolan has drawn apart.
And watching the man, offering a soft, a sad smile of his own: [ Oh, Faolan, I’m well aware. ]
Didn’t Dmitri learn long ago? He'd never truly given his heart, granted. Dmitri learned to guard himself long before he stepped foot outside his family's home. Long before eyes began to trail him, interests began to speak his name. He'd been cautious with all of them, and even then, there had been damage. Even then, he'd closed in further on himself, until there was no one, there was nothing he'd let into his chest, save the image, the dream of a creature like a raven.
What's remarkable is that he's dropped his guard, softened his walls at all with anyone.
What's remarkable is how he feels no real unease in it. If pain follows from this - this resurgence of his heart; this knowledge, this wondrous fact of Faolan - he'll accept it as he must. However much it aches him; however much that ache may never leave.
He's lived too long within himself. And there are some things - some moments; one man - worth running risks for.
[ It’s a hard lesson to learn; it is a lesson you never ought to have suffered. ] It's a lesson Dima would like to bury beneath other, gentler lessons. (If he could have the chance.) (If he can find the chance, and bring Faolan toward its holding.)
Dima finds he's looking at his hand (absent now of Faolan's) (stark, all on its own, and aching for the warmth of fire), and looks up, seeks honeyed eyes again. [ I don’t mean to startle you. Or push ahead of what feels— Reasonable, comfortable, sustainable for you.
Only know that you are always welcome, Faolan.
And hard lessons needn't always stay; not forever. ]
Ah, Rin likes so well to see Sen radiant! (Is he so very pleased with them? That's— That's better than nice. That runs through their heart, a feeling giddy and sparking trills.) To see their Sen radiant, and there's another flipping of their heart to know that yes they can call him so, and yes he seems to like it, and they speak it again softly - smile briefly, briefly almost shy - wanting to feel its lightness on their tongue: "My Sen."
Thinking they'll find out how many ways - so many ways, they're certain, they feel and know it! - he'll be their Sen. Wondering how many ways they might be his Rin. Knowing whatever the answers may be, the world ahead seems suddenly more vivid, more dawn-brushed and lovely.
(And hopefully - probably! - filled with more of those charming smiles!)
Sen's correct, though; business first, that's very wise! Rin nods, gives a glance back toward the shop with many mirrors. "He's over there. In there, apparently; I guess we ought to move before he makes a change. I haven't seen him yet, but the— That elf with the name I can't remember, he seems to know this place pretty much through-and-through, and he said we'd find Payl in there.
"So!" Rin unwinds their arms from Sen with a laugh, then - because they aren't through with him, oh no! - they blow him another kiss, another wink. "Until we find the right time, yes?"
And, giving a tug to Sen's wrist. "To the mirrors!"
Sen and Rin, with Faolan trailing along after, approach a canopied shop with rows of tables displaying nothing but mirrors. Some of these seem perfectly normal at a glance, albeit ranging from common to ornate. Other distort the reflection, or the world around the reflection. Some show no reflection at all - only blackness, only an empty white space.
Floating dismally between the tables, here and there rearranging a display, is Payl Gower. He is - was - a younger human man, and from the lighter pearlescence of his hair, it's easy to see he was blond, likely fair-skinned. Now, he's pearly gray, sad-eyed and frowning at himself in his merchandise.
When he sees the party, he gestures, "Please, have a look. If you have any questions -"
His customer service attitude drops a little. "Well. I'm not exactly going anywhere."
<.>
Rin is going to try very, very hard to stay focused on what they've come here for. (It's definitely about Payl Gower, who is a ghost and is supposed to be in here and might be that ghost right there.) The trouble is, there are an awful lot of mirrors. And Rin is awfully fond of mirrors. They're definitely glancing at the mirrors around. Then stopping briefly in front of one, and a little less briefly in front of the other.
Rin is in fact quickly losing focus on what they've come here for.
Dima hangs back briefly, not letting the others from his sight, not about to let them enter the tent before he joins—
He only needs a moment. To think; to let the image of hands upon his hand, fire around both settle deep in his mind. To scratch Liviana's neck lightly, and nod when she asks in her way whether he's all right. A moment, and moment, and then he follows after, into the shop of mirrors, standing near to Faolan.
The tiefling swirls around, blinks, then slips back toward the group, now offering the ghost a nod of their head, "It's Payl, right?"
<.>
Sen does nothing to curb Rin's enthusiasm or redirect them from their reflection. Shouldn't they admire their appearance? He does, so very much. He trails them; they look in mirrors and he watches them, and all is right in the world until Dima enters.
He must have said something. Sen darts a suspicious look at the man and pulls a face that clearly says, Don't harass Rin.
Faolan watches all of this with a faintly amused expression that fades when he meets Dima's eyes. His look becomes complicated, because it's all complicated when it should be very simple. (He should get away from Dmitri before getting away hurts any worse than it already will.)
The ghost furrows its brow at Rin, then inclines his head in confirmation. "Do I know you?"
And then, by way of explanation, he adds apologetically, "My memory - I can't recall much. I'm told it's normal. If I've met you, I don't remember you. I would have, I think. Never - Might have never. Met a tiefling."
<.>
Rin has - for the moment, and moments don't last so very long - let the mirrors go. Ghosts might not be any match for a mirror, but they're still interesting; Rin hasn't exactly conversed with many of them. And if Payl can't remember having met a tiefling, well! He is very lucky that Rin should be the first! Grinning, they offer a bow, with a sweep of their arm.
"Now you can say for certain that you have! And no, no, I believe if you had met me, you'd remember. I'm not so simple to forget." They raise a finger to tap their cheek, thinking, thinking. "I am very good at forgetting, however, so if I'd met you, I also wouldn't recall! Faces elude me, do you see? Most faces; there are some that stay forever, right there in my head."
They move their hand back to their side— But not before giving Sen's arm a playful poke, then a small brush. "The point is that we have a question for you. Or several questions?" Does Rin recall the questions.
Not precisely...
But they'll take a running guess!
"How did you die, anyway?"
Dmitri meets Sen's glance with a studiously neutral expression. They are here for a reason, and Rin may scurry about as they please once this has been completed.
Though. Now that Rin's offered a question, Dima begins to think that maybe, maybe he ought to have left them to their mirrors.
He clears his throat, shakes his head, but doesn't speak yet. He is watching Payl closely, seeking any signs of the being he might have been in living, trying to determine for himself how newly this man became a ghost.
<.>
The forthrightness of the question seems to surprise Payl; it's apparent that it isn't a common (or polite) subject, and perhaps it's one that no one's approached him with before.
"I..." he begins, then trails off. He seems to be searching his memory when he looks away. "It was a knife. Sudden - It's so strange. It felt like nothing at first. Like someone dragged a thumb across my neck.
"I don't think I felt much pain at all, actually. Shock of the body. By the time I realized what had happened, it was nearly over."
He looks at the party again and laughs a perfunctory, self-effacing sound that dies immediately. "That's not what you wanted to know. Forgive me. I - had gone to do something terrible. Stupid. But I have a daughter, and it's more terrible to watch her go hungry. I was promised what seemed a small fortune for helping my employer to his end.
"It would have been enough to keep her warm and fed for years. Enough to set her up somewhere in the city and give her a life.
"So I went with poison, and because I'm no studied killer, I was caught. I tried to run and his brute caught me."
<.>
"Your employer?" It's Dmitri who speaks first, voice even, showing little of his own feeling. (His own feeling, which isn't nothing. Which carries the sensation of two hands around his own, and the ache in hearing Faolan's pain, and Faolan's turn away. Which carries as well, just now, some modicum of pity for the man. It was a foolish choice Gower made - an errand taken without skill, without means - but poverty drives men to far, far worse.
And in formation, there's a thought, a plan to follow from Dima's pity.)
"Forgive me; I impose inquiry without offering my name. I am Dmitri Voronin. The four of us" (here he gestures to the group) "are seeking information related to the circumstances of your end, and the work that led to it.
"We're to receive payment for whatever we might glean. And it occurs to me that we might see that some share of the profit is directed to your daughter."
<.>
Sen again shoots Dmitri a look - a glare - but almost immediately rolls his eyes in acquiescence. Nevermind that this is his little errand, and Dmitri is just along for the Market trip. Bastard.
Double bastard: Faolan weighs in with, "If nothing else, we could make sure she's well."
The two of them need to crawl into a sack together so Sen can win his bet and he and Rin can be on their way.
Payl looks torn; clearly, his daughter's security means a good deal to him.
"I - was one of the servants of the merchant-lord Calabra." He seems to be restraining himself from speaking further and clears his throat in discomfort. "What kind of information are you looking for?"
<.>
Dmitri isn't going to give Sen the satisfaction of acknowledging that Look, though he does Message the elf, [ If you have a more pertinent question, feel free to unleash your torrent. ]
At Faolan's words, he nods once; it wouldn't be, won't be so difficult to do. If nothing else, Dima can see that some measure of Voronin money is carried to the girl. (He isn't going to consider the fact that he isn't typically prone to offering monetary support, not so early in a negotiation.) (He isn't going to think on what this early offering might have to do with Faolan, or with the rings on Dima's hand.)
It's an interesting revelation - that the man was a servant of Calabra - though not at all unheard-of. Dima's about to respond when Rin cuts in with a 'tsk' and—
“That [ brimstone-encrusted anus ] seems about as nice to work for as a constipated chimera." And, after a moment, a little softer, "Well, I'm sorry about your daughter."
And, from Dima: "Did you recognize the being who offered you this fortune?"
<.>
Payl smiles at Rin's comment, though it's more perfunctory than amused. It seems he knows exactly what kind of man Calabra is. As for his daughter- "As am I."
To Dima, he replies, "I did. At the time, I - or, no. No, that's wrong. What I remember is I knew a name, because I spoke with someone sent by -"
He frowns darkly. "It's all jumbled and patched. I can't remember who wanted Calabra dead and who hired me on whose behalf. The faces are blurred. Voices distorted."
He motions to one of the mirrors reflecting back a hazy view of the Nightmare Market. "Like this."
And then, suddenly, "I would like it. If you'd look in on her. My sister will have her now, I'm certain of it. Morwenna Gower. She's not much older than my girl, though. Only nineteen now to Manon's twelve. Can I trust you?"
Sen pulls a flat look at Dmitri, then steps in. "You have our word. We'll make certain the girl is unharmed and looked after. You don't have anything to worry about from us; we may be scoundrels, but we're generally the honorable kind."
[PERS, s: nat 20]
Payl looks relieved, even smiles genuinely at the group and utters, "Pelor bless you all."
"Can you tell us anything about the person who hired you?" Faolan presses gently. "Anything at all. Even if it doesn't seem important."
Payl considers the mirror under his ghostly hand for a moment; he begins to shake his head, then starts suddenly. "Wait. There was something troubling about their face. I think they kept it hidden, but the wrap fell and -"
He drags a hand down along his jaw. "There were scars here. Three or four - like a bear or some beast took a great swipe at them."
<.>
It takes everything in Dima's power not to roll his eyes at Sen— Or it would, were it not for Gower's sorrow and subject, or for the promise Sen gives; it's one Dima can only agree with, and he can't pretend Sen doesn't say it well.
He does give Faolan a glance of approval, both for the question and the manner of its asking. (For a man so long abused, he can be achingly gentle, careful.) (However his tender heart has been kicked, wounded, he hasn't lost it wholly; hasn't, Dima thinks, lost much of it at all.)
Rin nods vigorously with Sen's promise. They don't do a lot of making sure anyone's taken care of, but no kid should be left almost alone at twelve, and if word's gotten around about the circumstances of her father's death, the road ahead could be extra rough— For her, and for the ghost's sister, as well. (Who isn't a ghost, but also probably didn't count of raising her niece out of nowhere.)
"That helps," they say to Payl's description. And, "Are there any mirrors in here that might help put things together? Like. Mirrors that can show 'what was,' or whatever?"
[q: would dima or rin have met anyone whose face would match the scarred description?
If the person with the scarred face is someone they've ever encountered, they can't remember the meeting.]
<.>
Payl doesn't bother looking around. He just shakes his head at Rin. "There was a mirror of that kind, but I sold it at the last Market, south of Mysos. Doesn't matter, though. It only showed what a person remembered. I'd touch it and the whole thing would turn black."
Seeming to remember something more, Payl makes a small 'ah' sound. "They gave me gold. I remember that. They gave me a pouch with gold in it - half of what was promised. I can't remember what I did with it, but I can guess. Tell Morwenna to look in our old hiding spot. She'll know."
A sense of peace seems to descend over Payl. "If you can do that - I'd be grateful."
That's a shame about the mirror, and Rin still thinks it might be worth checking out what all of these mirrors do because maybe there's one Pyle hasn't had a chance to look at? He hasn't been here that long, right? Or does time even work right in the Market? Whatever the point about the mirrors - and they will look at those mirrors! - they speak, "We can do that, definitely. And if your sister can't find it there, we'll search it out for you. I'm pretty talented at finding hidden things. Especially if it's gold. Or some nice bones or stones."
Something occurs to them! "How're we going to find your sister, though? Do you remember where she's at? Or I guess we could ask around."
Dmitri thinks, but doesn't say, that there's a not-nil chance that whoever paid for the assassination is also searching for the gold. If it is the case, it's not something Gower needs to worry about. (It might be something for their group to look into once they get a sense of who offered the money, and what their usual practices might be.)
<.>
Sen has been awfully quiet through most of this conversation; he's watching Payl closely, wondering how much of his amnesia is truth. If it's entirely true, he's about to spend a lot more time than a single evening running around looking for their would-be-assassin's shadowy employer.
"Awich," Gower nods. "Work's not easy to come by when you don't work the docks. I took the river south to Mysos with Manon and my wife; they're always looking for servants. That's where I was when..." A shaking off of the thought. "She's in Awich. She has a house in South Ward. It isn't much, but she gets by. She'll get by."
Faolan almost asks what happened to Payl's wife, but he can guess. It's the first time he's mentioned her, after all; either she's dead or she left him. Either way, she's not someone Payl is worried about now.
A group of very much alive, very young necromancers filter into the stall; Payl hums a note of apology. "Is there anything else I can answer? I'm afraid I haven't been much help."
<.>
It's a detail worth holding onto, the fact of Gower's (former) wife. Something to ask into, if they end up needing further information, further sources. Something that needn't be brought up just now—
Probably.
For the moment, at least. There's been an interruption, and Dima turns his head just enough to favor the intrusive necromancers with a chilly, an affectless glance. Then, scarcely raising his voice, though he's sharper now in enunciation, and there's a trace of warning in his voice: "Would you mind. Out. I don't appreciate your interruption."
Dima is absolutely attempting to snarl them ouT, at least for a few more minutes.
[INT: 18; There is ONE necromancer permitted in this shop rn >:C]
<.>
The stunned neophytes immediately stumble over one another to try and get out of the tent; one of them knocks into a table, nearly sending a mirror crashing to the floor. Sen only barely manages to grab at it in time, fumbles and nearly drops it, himself, but rescues it from potential shattering.
(Acrobatics: 12. lkfhashdf Had to beat a 10.)
<.>
All Dima needs to see is that they are leaving (little shits); he hears the mirror-shuffling, but fixes his attention of Gower. "My pardons; I haven't finished with our questions.
"First, you said you knew a name: Can you recall it? Or any pertinent name, title at all, however tangential."
"Second: What can you tell us of Calabra himself— Or of his employ.
"Third: Where did you obtain your poison.
"You've given somewhere to begin, and I do appreciate your efforts. But you've had much more to say of your family than the circumstances leading to your end. Understandable, yes, but we need something more if we're to find the ones who put you in this position.
"If the answers elude you, try to focus on what you do know: The feeling of cobblestones beneath your feet, perhaps, or the cloak you wore. Perhaps the scents you noticed when you met your scarred contact."
<.>
"No, no. I've tried that. We don't have any sense memory," he replies disconsolately. "Some of the others claim it comes back, but it's why there's such a - demand for memories. For anything, just a shred, so we can taste wine again, or smell grass -"
"Or touch hair like our child's."
He lifts a shoulder and stares at the ground, clearly trying to think of something, anything. "Calabra's as your companion says. Even his fellow made-nobility don't like him much. He likes to flaunt his money and still whines about earnings.
"Working for him was always being accused of laziness, or theft, or of grifting from the cook's funds. Fucking miser. New-gold trash, really. Heavily on the side of stricter taxes on the canals. On all of us."
Payl looks up again at Dima. "Did you say 'Voronin?" And he laughs with a little schadenfreude. "Oh, he hated you. Or your family. I suppose the feeling was mutual - not to say your family had anything to do with it. I can't remember the name, but I know what the name wasn't."
A sigh. "The poison was just what we use to kill vermin. Concentrated for Calabra, obviously. Like I said: I'm no killer. I'm not - wasn't - very creative about any method of accomplishing a murder."
There's another silence, and Payl thinks to add, "I don't remember who hired me, but I know they weren't from Mysos. They complained of losing their way in the streets, but anyone who's lived there for a month knows the trick to getting around."
<.>
It isn't particularly helpful, but Gower at least seems to be trying in earnest; it's more than can be said for most beings, living or undead. So Dmitri decides to refrain from pushing further.
He did huff an amused laugh at the mention of Calabra's hatred. The hatred's no surprise; the question is how often the shit has cursed Dima's family, and how loudly, and how many vases he might have destroyed in the process. They aren't questions worth asking, or worth entertaining for more than a moment. Dima does, however, remark archly, "Not the most potent choice of poisons, but suited perfectly to Calabra."
Godsdamned ratfink fuck that he is.
"You can't have been the first to attempt to poison him; I'm certain you won't be the last." Most likely, Gower also won't be the last servant approached with the murderous offer. If, if they decide to pursue this further, they could do worse than to surreptitiously question some of Calabra's living servants.
"Payl. You have my thanks, and I've no more questions for you. Your daughter will be cared for; you may rely on that."
Dima folds his arms and looks to the rest of the party.
Rin has no questions to add, though now that the meeting seems to be reaching it's end, they're beginning to grow antsy, their eyes darting to the mirrors more and more often. Clearly, they will not be leaving once the conversation's finished. They have mirrors to look at, thank you very much! Also, maybe if they look at enough mirrors and ask enough questions about enough mirrors, they can help get the ghost's mind off of— Well, off of some of this, at least.
<.>
Sen, seeing Rin's fixation growing, thinks maybe he ought to try to find some way to distract them from the mirrors and allow Payl a little time to compose himself. (Insofar as a ghost may feel composed so soon after its death.) He knows there's a shop full of small totems near the docks, but he's not entirely sure that's enough to pry them away from the dozens of reflected Rins. (He can't blame them.)
Faolan, for his own part, has nothing more he wants to pursue about this. He thinks there's quite a lot of information that's been given, though it might need some puzzling through. Maybe tomorrow after another rest, he can approach all the information Payl's given them and figure out something crucial. Without waiting for the rest, he slips out of the stall and into a little more open space (away from all those mirrors.) (Not now.)
Payl sees the looks Sen keeps casting at Rin, and the looks Rin keeps casting at the mirrors. Hurriedly, he picks up a small hand mirror - folding, with a clever little catch to keep it closed. "Here. It isn't much, and it doesn't have any magic to it, but why don't you have it? With my thanks."
<.>
Rin—
Rin actually. Doesn't quite know what to do with this. People don't really give them things; it's usually a 'Rin takes and nobody realizes until later' sort of arrangement. Or a 'sometimes people give Rin things but it's always when they want something' arrangement.
Which.
Okay, maybe Payl does want something, and maybe what he wants is a little space, and maybe that's also why Sen's been looking at them like that, and it's true Rin's not the best at picking up on hints.
The mirror's in their hands now, and Rin's smiling down at it, pleased, running their hand along its cover. When they look up, there's a grin for Sen and a flash of the mirror - "Sen, Sen, look!" - then a smile for Payl and a little bow of their head. "If you're sure it's all right?
"Here, you should have something to, I'll—" They don't have much a ghost would want. Or could do much with. But there's a thought, something recent that tickles their memory, and as they tug at their hair, the pieces slip into place: "What if I bring you back a memory? If I— When we find your daughter." A pause as they try, they really try to remember and the name issss, "Manon, that's right, right? I could touch her hair - just like—" Here, they demonstrate, combing their fingers slow through their own hair. "Like that, and bring the memory to you? If it's okay with you, and if your daughter's okay with it."
They look to Sen, partly just to look at Sen because he's lovely to look at, partly as a way of checking to see whether they've gone way off-point. Then, back to Payl with a nod: "I'd like to do that."
Dmitri, when he saw the conversation had indeed reached its end, has followed Faolan out. Approaching him without coming too close, just in case the man needs a moment. Just in case what he witnessed was a little overwhelming. After a moment, he does ask, voice not too loud, "How do you feel?"
<.>
Payl looks utterly broken by their offer. If he had breath, it would catch - and it looks as though, if he could weep, maybe he would. "I..."
Composing himself a little, he nods. "I didn't expect anything. But if you would do that - Please. Yes, please. I'd like that."
Sen, with a sense of timing and more than his fair capability to read a room, begins to herd Rin out, offering Payl one parting smile and the reassurance that they'll do all they can.
Once they're just out of Payl's sight, Sen stops and smiles down at them. "You are a remarkable creature - with a lovely mirror and a lovelier heart. Do you know that?"
Faolan, meanwhile, doesn't know how to answer that question. Or rather, he doesn't know what Dmitri picked up one, and why he's asking. (There are so many reasons for him to feel anything other than well.) (...Not when he meets Dmitri's eyes, however. Dangerous, that's very dangerous.)
"I can't say I enjoyed that, obviously." He folds his arms and examines the tops of his shoes a moment before bringing himself back to the conversation - and Dmitri. "Tonight's been...a lot. I'm not used to being around so many people anymore, dead or alive."
Why is he telling Dmitri any of this?
(Because it's nice to tell someone who cares.)
"Also. I can't help but think of the servant stopping by our table. How many other people do you suppose he asked, and how many of them know Calabra is looking for whoever hired Gower?"
Faolan chews his lower lip thoughtfully. "I'm worried for his daughter. Someone might get it in their head that Gower told her what he was doing and who he was doing it for. Someone might get to her and his sister long before we do."
How long has Faolan been alone, or nearly so? There's a likely answer, a wrenching one: Since he was demonized by (humiliated in; exiled from) Morovsk. And since that time, how has he lived? Who has he had to speak to, commiserate with? (Perhaps it isn't all misery. Perhaps there's peace to be found far from crowds. Still, still, it's clear there's so much wounding that hasn't had chance or cause to heal.)
Dima dares to move forward; near enough to reach for Faolan, though his hands stay loose at his sides, not wanting to force further contact. "I've been entertaining a similar thought. There are potentialities of harm we can't predict; strands leading from the attempted assassination and the money paid to his daughter, his sister.
"We'd be wise to seek her home as soon as we're able. If she's there now - if they're both there - we have coin enough to assure their passage from the city, and with a word, I can secure temporary housing, at the least." If Morwenna isn't in the city - if, perhaps, she and the daughter are in the process of traveling from Mysos - they'll need to construct another plan.
"I'm interested in knowing why Calabra had his servant making such an unsubtle search. Unless he thought to avoid the embarrassment of bringing the Nightmare Market to his connections." Dima shakes his head, dismissing the subject for the moment; it's another layer of conflict that Faolan needn't consider, certainly not right now.
Fixing his eyes on Faolan, Dima speaks in a voice soft but self-assured: "We'll find her, Faolan. And there are many places a girl and her guardian might escape discovery."
There's a moment's pause, Dima clearly considering this next action before he takes it, reaching out to settle a hand at Faolan's elbow. "Tonight's been a lot; the past several days have been a lot. It's all become something of a blur, but between the mansion, the rush of the city, and now this—
"You've endured quite a lot, Faolan. It might be best to have a breath outside." Another pause, a cant of Dima's head. "Would you like that?"
With or without Dima's accompaniment, he means (though he hopes, of course he hopes, for 'with').
Nearby, Rin wraps their arm around Sen's, shifting their gaze between the mirror and the elf. They'd given Payl a parting wave of their hand goodbye, vowing to themself all over again to bring him back his memory, and to make it a very good one. Now they laugh a little, beaming up at Sen.
“I don’t know so much about my heart, but it is a lovely mirror, isn’t it? And you are a lovely elf.” They open the mirror again to examine their face, then hold it up toward Sen so that he may see himself (himself?). "See what I mean?
"Well, I mean your face, and also... everything you said to him in there. The promises; I think he needed that. And if anyone can keep those promises, it's us honorable scoundrels." Considering, considering, and, "This all got more complicated, didn't it? I mean. There's a lot to do if we want that money, and if we want to help Calabra with anything at all.
"...Maybe we could just rob him?"
<.>
He doesn't know quite how he ends up at the docks with Dmitri beside him; he didn't invite the man, but neither did he turn him away, and he did agree that he was in need of space. He did need freedom from the crowd. Perhaps Dmitri led him out, and he simply followed because -
He always has been something of a follower.
(And if he did let himself care for, want Dmitri, he would follow him anywhere.)
So Faolan is sitting now on the dock with his shoes off and his legs dangling, feet drifting in the water fearlessly, unmindful of what creatures might see them as opportunity.
He's been quiet all this time, other than his assent. He's had a good deal to think about, and truthfully, he's growing tired of thinking. It's nice to sit here and look at the reflection of stars on the water, to look up and see those stars above him. (To feel Dmitri beside him.)
It's nice to know Dmitri expects nothing from him, demands nothing. Is simply here, maybe happy to be in his company.
Sen is having a very different sort of interlude. As he and Rin wander the market, he picks and prods at the problems with Calabra, with the assassin, and is beginning to wonder how much more there is to this.
How deep the rabbit hole goes, so to speak.
"I'm curious why someone would pay a servant a small fortune to kill him. Why not hire an actual assassin? Someone with experience would surely have gotten the job done. Do you suppose this is the exact outcome they wanted? A message of some sort to Calabra, that he can be reached from anywhere, at any time? It might have been difficult for an assassin to get close, but not unmanageable."
<.>
There isn't any need to speak, not now.
Dmitri did lead Faolan from the Market. Gently, with a hand at his elbow. Speaking a soft series of inconsequential notions; remarks on a stall's wares requiring no answer, thoughts of what the hour might be and how the sky might appear, talk of sights encountered on the road prior to meeting this man.
The dock seemed the natural place to take their quiet. Whether Dima led or whether he felt Faolan tending toward the shore, he can't say. He knows he's glad for the water's presence. He knows the silence of the night brings comfort, helps begin to clear his head of convolutions. He knows he's pleased, he's unspeakably lucky to be here, seated by this man, sharing in his silence and his presence.
He knows there's quiet thrill each time he turns to see Faolan still here, and sitting close. As if he's found a kind of peace. And it's charming, the way he sits, feet kept within the water while Dmitri sits with one leg crossed beneath him, the other upright, crooked, the better to wind his arm around it. He doesn't venture to touch Faolan; he also sits near enough to feel Faolan's warmth, and almost hear his heartbeat.
Liviana flies above, occasionally dipping close, the soaring toward the slowly, slowly fading night. She hunts, yes, and keeps an eye to any signs of movement, any signal that might suggest attack, or merely an equally unwanted interruption. (She, too, is glad of the quiet, the open sky. There was much to witness in the Market, but Liviana has always preferred vast spaces to crowds.)
At some point, Dmitri does speak. Again in the soft voice that demands no response; demands no active listening. Speaking of the night sky as he's seen in from so many cities, town, uninhabited places. Of the stars' reflections on the lake before them now, and the way they shimmer upon rivers, caught in streams. Of how well he likes the sky apart from any city's bustle.
He thinks he's never seen a more comforting sky than the one before him now. He thinks, he knows, he's never met a fonder night. And if he adjusts himself, if the adjustment shifts him just a little nearer to Faolan, it's with no expectation; only gladness for Fae's company; only relief, to know his presence.
In the Market, Rin pauses frequently to look through varied offerings, to touch when no one says 'no touching,' to ask questions and nod and move along again. There was a very nice fan, a few stalls back. A gathering of bones at the one to their right. They like these items, but they like their mirror better, and their attention stays primarily with Sen and with his musings.
He's got a lot of good points, and the more he talks, the clearer the whole situation becomes for Rin (it's a lot easier, they're finding, to hold onto details and track the bigger picture when Sen puts everything into words; it's like everything turns from clouds they can't quite keep together into solid images). They hum, they nod, and really, yeah, they can think of several handfuls of ways someone could have a Sir Lord Fuck-His-Face killed than passing an offer to an untried servant.
Which. Is extra shitty for Payl. Because he not only got caught up in some game of murder chess; he was always going to lose.
"Shit," they hiss. "Yeah, it seems funny - and by funny I mean kinda fucked - to not at least give their mm 'assassin' some better poison, or at least tips for a better poison, maybe some suggestions for how to go about killing. Those are all pretty basic 'if you want a job done right' steps, probably.
"I think you're right, Sen. Unless whoever hired him is the world's stupidest conspirator, they can't have thought it'd end with a dead Calabra. Some sort of bullshit message-sending sounds pretty likely. Like yeah, maybe they were trying to scare him. Or maybe this is step one in a bigger plan?
"Maybe we should ask Dmitri? Seems like he might know about this kind of thing." A shrug, a little skip in their step. "Not that we can't figure it out. ...And now that I think about it, we could always ask some people who know people who are assassins if anyone heard about an offer like this."
<.>
Sen nods along, finding Rin's feedback more helpful than most. They take the things he says and add a new step, a new thread to pull at, but rather than destroying a tapestry, they help create one.
Rin is...really all he's ever been looking for in the world. Someone he can adore, whose nature suits his own. The fact that they are a vain and daydreaming little thing only makes them better.
"I'm sure I know one or two in Striker's Bay, but no one near Awich. Certainly none in Mysos. Do you often come in contact with assassins?" He drops a wink and continues, craning to see over the crowd, "Speaking of Dmitri, though. Where did he and his druid get off to?"
It's a suggestive question. He thinks maybe he won that bet.
Faolan listens - hangs on every word. At some point during these stories, he summons the wildfire spirit to let it run along the river's banks,; it chases Liviana in flight or rolling against the fine sediment by the water, returns again and again to circle him and Dmitri.
(This is, he thinks, how life could have been. If he hadn't become what he did, and if Dmitri hadn't been a Voronin, they could have sat like this by the water and spun dreams for one another.)
Dmitri shifts closer and for a while, Faolan lets their shoulders touch. He closes his eyes and plays his game of pretending, imagines a time when Dmitri won't tire of him, won't realize what sort of man he is. When Dmitri won't remember his own nobility and leave Faolan behind.
Eventually, he moves away - not far. He lies back on the wood of the dock and rests with his arms under his head, his eyes drifting from the sky to Dmitri and back again. And then, surprisingly, he begins to offer his own tales. Places he's seen since leaving Morovsk. Caverns and hidden groves, springs he swam in at midnight under skies just like this. (Alone. Always alone.) He talks about creatures in underground lakes that glowed with their own light.
His stories twine with Dmitri's, offered one for one as though they both need someone else to hear. (Or as though they create a harmony together.) (It's so godsdamned easy to talk to him.)
<.>
If Rin thought about it, they'd be surprised to find how recently they met Sen, surprised to think they haven't known him all their life. (Mostly surprised. Because there's a lot in their life that hasn't been very bright. There's a lot touched with shadow, touched with pains they don't much like revisiting, and mostly let lie in forgetting. It would've all been very different had Sen been there, so in that sense, it makes sense they only just met him, found him, really.) He fits so perfectly beside them, and he broadens all the prospects in the world, and oh, they love every word he says, and they wind their arm a little further around his, infinitely, infinitely pleased.
"Maybe I do.” They bat their eyelashes, most winningly! "You'd be surprised to know the characters a tiefling meets while breaking and entering! ...Well. No, you wouldn't be surprised, but you must let me have my mystery, so please, Sen, do look very surprised when I tell you I have encountered an assassin or even several!"
They look around, as if they just might spot Faolan and Dmitri, but no, no, they haven't seen either since Payl's shop, they're mostly sure of it. And they gasp, oh no! "Sen, do you really think??
"Hmm, but where would they have found a blanket roll? Surely they would be in the grass, or behind a stall, and I can't be certain whether that means the bet is forfeit!" A nod, solemn. "We failed to consider the ramifications of illicit meetings where bedrolls fail to tread!
"Also, how will we find out, if we don't catch them? Should we go look— Oh, no.” They pull an exaggerated, sour face. "No probably not that. But will we know by the look of them? I'm not sure how druids and necromancers look post-coitus."
It means something (it means, Dima thinks, quite a lot) that Faolan summons the wolf, and Dima watches the wolf run, watches Liviana circle the spirit, black feathers and bright fire spiraled through the sky. Smiles crooked (*happy*) when the wolf runs circles around the two of them, and Liviana gyres overhead.
It's perfect, crystalline; this moment, this space.
Faolan's shoulder against his own. Their bodies warm against the night's subtle chill.
Faolan, eyes closed, accepting - trusting, for the moment? - Dima's presence, bathing in the stars' light.
In this moment, Dmitri thinks, he has everything.
(And this— Whatever follows, he'll have this night forever in his heart, written with slow, ceaseless fire in his bones.)
In the next moment, nearly, he finds he has more, still. Yes, Faolan moves away, but Faolan doesn't go far, and there's a new charm in the way he lies back, beautiful, unwary. It's a movement away that doesn't leave Dima cold. It's a continuation of their closeness; another way of sharing space together. And after—
And after, Faolan speaks. As if a string's been tugged, a slow rush of words freed forth. And Dmitri listens, rapt, feeling fortune-struck. Seeing the pictures Faolan paints in perfect clarity. Thinking how well he'd like to see those places with this man; he'd like Faolan to share the secret places he best liked, and be led, hand-in-hand, through all.
More talk, more telling, and Dmitri finds they've begun to speak their tales in a kind of conversation, and that somehow, somehow, the tales together glow with deeper resonance, seem to echo into one another and form images, possibilities unseen; beauty in a vision. Faolan, stretched still across the dock. Dima, sitting with his legs curled behind him, leaning on one arm that keeps him balanced, lets him watch and watch over Faolan.
At some point, Liviana joins them, settling near Dima's feet. At some point, the wolf curls up near Faolan, watching with ears perked and slowly blinking eyes.
And at some point, as Faolan speaks, Dima drifts one hand to settle on Faolan's arm. Slowly, unintrusive (asking no more than a touch); ready to draw back if Faolan seems not to want it.
He doesn't...want to shrug off the hand. It's as though this moment, this space has become sacred. Liviana and his wolf sit close by, and he swears he can feel the nearness of Rose and Thorn. (He could almost believe he has everything.)
Faolan lets the touch linger, then shifts his other hand to carefully rest atop it. Unguardedly, he closes his eyes and breathes slowly, feeling everything here that could have been his, once. (But isn't it true that it's his right now, even if it's only for an hour?) (Would he pay for this the way other men paid for the things they got from him?)
(No. Not if it's Dmitri.)
Opening his eyes again, he regards the other man in silence, in peace, his hand remaining warm atop Dmitri's despite his (fleeting) misgivings.
Sen, meanwhile, is pulling a face at the thought of post-coital necromancers, because he's quite certain (as he relays to Rin) that they make the most godforsaken faces mid-coitus. As for druids, they probably rut like dogs and howl just as loud. The post-coitus is bound to be messy.
"Best we leave them be and make our own entertainment until they deign to make an appearance again."
Which leads him to a sign marking 'the Pits' - a pair of makeshift fighting rings where contenders at present are facing off against mud golems. "Care to watch someone find themselves absorbed after trying to land a blow?"
<.>
Sacred, he thinks, to know his touch accepted, his hand covered.
Sacred to sit beneath the stars with their familiars, with the vestiges of Rose and Thorn, with Dima's voice and Faolan's brushing soft with one another, turning the night into their own.
There could be no world beyond them. They - the, yes, the six of them - could compose the world alone. (They could, Dima thinks, be a family.) (Oh, if only. (Oh, it isn't impossible— But he can't think that. Not now, and right now, there's no need.))
All thought - all breath - stalls as Faolan's eyes turn open, upward. As Dmitri beholds what ought to be impossible: This man, witnessing his eyes (Dima's eyes, now unguarded; wondering and looking on a world anew) (Dima's eyes, stricken with experience, with years of harshness, years of echoed hollows), and not drawing away. This man, who knows some measure of what Dmitri is, who has seen some of the fury, the fascinations Dima possesses, and still, still looks upon him, still lies in steady-breathing peace.
Beneath Faolan's hand, Dima presses his own, softly, a gesture of thanks and of kinship; something kindred (something of soul calling to soul; heart recognizing its own). And Dmitri speaks, awestruck and hushed, "Astonishing, this night."
And. "Fae. Thank you."
Yeah, Rin thinks; yeah, they're probably both better off not walking in on, hmmm, whatever they could walk in on, or its aftermath. This Pit's got to be better (if - oh no, don't think about that - no less messy), and!
"Only if we can bet on it!" They have a feeling Sen won't be opposed, but also just in case, "Or pretend bet. I've still got a lot of ballbearings, and we can chuck the ones we win at anyone who annoys us. Or we can bet in stories; if I win, you have to tell a story for me, and if you win, I'll make a story just for you.
"Yours'll be better though. That's pretty sure, so you'll have to go in knowing you've got the short end of the stick. But Sen!" They step suddenly in front of his, setting their hands on his chest and watching with a grin. "I shall do my very best, and if my stories don't have the best quality, they will have a lot of, so very much heart!"
<.>
He knows better. He's been telling himself he knows better for three days now. There's no happy ending here.
But. Right now, tonight, he has this. He has their familiars close, and, in this distorted fantasy, their children likewise near at hand. He has a sky stretching above them, full of stars that reflect off the water idling past.
And Dmitri called him 'Fae'. (And in that thanks, in that familiar name and the touch of the hand at his arm, in the weaving of stories, he knows he has love, however insubstantial it might be.
It's more than he ever had before.)
He closes his eyes against a pricking of tears but breathes steadily anyhow. Right now, tonight, he has everything he could ask for. Why would he discard this, even if tomorrow it's gone like a dream? (Or in a week, Dmitri shuns him before a crowd of nobles.) (He won't give him the chance.)
Without a word, he grasps the hand below his own and draws it to his lips for a chaste kiss, then shifts, holding out his other arm in invitation to Dmitri - to lie beside him. (With him. In his arms, just for a little while.)
When Dmitri's head is resting on his shoulder, when they press body-to-body and Faolan's arm holds securely around the man's shoulders, only then does he consider the look that seemed to pass through Dmitri's eyes. There's something raw and broken inside him, too. Maybe he doesn't need Faolan, but he needs this. (Maybe he doesn't need Faolan, but Fae, instead.) (That's too much to hope for, and too dangerous to think.)
"Just tonight," he says softly. "Just for right now, like this, I'll be 'Fae' - and you be 'Dima', and this can be what we are together."
And softer still, with something a little like longing but far more like loss in his voice, "My Dima."
<.>
He could be dreaming.
In his pleasant dreams - rare and far-between - it's always deep night, and there's always water. In these dreams, he's known at times the presence of a corvid-seeming creature, yes—
But there never was a man beside him.
There never was the ghost of anyone beside himself and the shadowed creature-to-be. It wouldn't have occurred to Dmitri to consider the possibility; long ago, he learned there was no good in seeking company. Long ago, he learned reliance solely on himself. So he never could have imagined this man (this beautiful man, in soul in magic in body in being), or imagined his own heart opened so quickly, so wholly.
Nor could he have known how his heart would shiver, how thought and feeling would thaw, melt, blossom at the sound of his own name.
('Dima.')
(‘My Dima,' and a kiss offered upon his hand, a place granted beneath the open stars.)
(He couldn't have known how a sound would germinate within his throat and catch, the bare beginning of a sigh, an almost-laugh or almost-sob; signal of a soul beholding revelation; signaling of an unsuspected, decades-buried longing granted fire.)
He wants this forever. He wants this: To stay here, unguarded and secure, his cheek brushing a nuzzle against Faolan's (Fae's) shoulder. To bring this feeling out into the world beyond, and know it to be something lasting. To know himself as Fae's, and Fae as his own.
He knows the wish is foolhardy. He hears Faolan's meaning: That what they have just now is temporary, is for this moment and perhaps, perhaps never again. There's pain to be found in the absence that may follow, but why think on that now? Why not wrap himself and Fae alike within the cloak of velvet silver-stricken blue; why not wrap his arm closer, closer around Faolan's chest. Why not dare - just softly, as an offering without declaring claim, as an expression of devotion, adoration - to set a kiss upon Fae's cheek, and speak with hush, with wonder—
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
onefellswoop) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
kingdomsofrain2026-01-17 02:26 pm
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?"
<.>
Dima might, might have gotten caught on staring a little to clearly at Faolan, and the sound of his own name.
Still. He gathers himself after a moment, and nods toward Moloch. "The more you can tell us, the sooner we can find your warlock."
<.>
Moloch makes a slight buzz, the face of the golem working to form words and failing miserably. It turns its head to Nerys and 'speaks', inviting an immediate, "No, Moloch. Not after last time. You wouldn't vacate poor Tennebrid and now look at her. She was -"
Moloch hisses, the buzzing becoming sibilant, an effort at speech.
Nerys sighs and shakes his head. "Fine. But this is your last warning; if you don't go back in your golem, Dmitri has my permission to slay Seddum, and back to the abyss you go."
Moloch considers this, then buzzes meekly before the golem goes slack, slumping to the ground like a ragdoll. Nerys stiffens, his eyes rolling up into the back of his head until only the whites show.
And Moloch speaks.
Haltingly, as though every word is a battle against a tide, it uses Nerys's mouth to say, "Sssseddum ssssummoned us. From the abyss. The infernal. Plane.
"A wine scrawl on. Wood. A tavern. We drank cups. Red wine like murk and r-rot. He took us to himself. For power. For the ssssecrets of the. Sstars. And void. For knowing.
"Elo- Kuh. Kuh. Elokuhw-"
"Eloquent?" Faolan offers, and Nerys gives a jerk of his head that's probably a nod.
"Ssspoke our. Pact. Tongue of ssilver and charm. We sss. Spoke. Walked the canal of Myssssosss. Hours in union. Intoxicated. Took a man. A woman. To a bed. Indulged in. Flesh.
"As was promised. As is our right. The pact. Delights of this plane to us. Moloch. Power. Knowledge to Seddum."
Moloch reaches Nerys's hand to Faolan's head; the druid jerks back, giving Moloch only a momentary pause. It levels Nerys's palm down and flat, then raises it a few inches above Faolan's head. "Thisss. Our height."
"An elf. Tall. The high elven kind. Skin ssss-mooth. Young. We are so young. In union. New. Why, Ssseddum?"
This last is a wail, sorrowful and heartrending. The wail becomes buzzing as Moloch flees Nerys's body, leaving the elf to stagger and cough, putting out his hand to stave off assistance.
The golem takes on 'life' again, but remains sitting morosely on the floor.
"Well," Nerys says awkwardly. "There you are. I suggest searching in Mysos -"
The buzzing picks up again, and Nerys hums. "He says they traveled north. Moloch, that's not helpful."
<.>
no subject
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.)
<.>
no subject
...And he won't pretend he doesn't feel an ember of warmth in his chest every time Dmitri speaks of 'we', or 'us', or 'you and I'. Dangerous though it is, at least someone other than Faolan is chasing that union for once.
(It has nothing to do with what he's been through, though, does it? He looks over at Dmitri and feels like 'we' ought to be implicit. He sees the toss of hair and crooked smile, feels the way Dmitri wants to be near him just to be near, and that warmth has nothing to do with vindication.)
[ You'll have your chance to explore to your heart's content. ] There's some amusement in his tone, and equal measures of happiness for Dmitri.
[ We'd better find the thieves sooner rather than later; Nerys is going to have more luck finding our would-have-been-assassin than those two. ]
And, bemusedly: [ How DO you know Sen? ]
And just as curiously: [ And how long has he been married to Rin? I keep trying to sort out how he found a tiefling who just happens to be as - mm. Criminally fanciful? As he is. All the luck in the world, there. ]
And, quickly, [ And what's his arrangement with you? ]
Perhaps he's asking too many questions - but it's better to turn his prodigious (and heretofore curtailed) curiosity on Sen and Rin than on more likely subjects. (Dmitri Voronin, for one.)
<.>
Faolan's remark about exploring the Market draws a soft laugh from Dima (unintended) (unusual; he hasn't laughed that way - in warmth, in pleased surprise - in quite some time), and a half-smile. He'd like that chance. He will have that chance—
And he'd like to explore the Market - he'd like to see so much - in Faolan's company. Unusual as well, that, when Dima has always preferred to travel alone when possible. Even when circumstances - typically diplomatic ventures - required accompaniment of a retinue, he'd keep largely to his own company outside of his duties, his plans and the regulation of displeased parties (the regulation, typically, of fellow nobles throwing minor shitfits).
Faolan is an exception. (Faolan, Dmitri thinks, is a rule, a realm all of his own.)
...Oddly. Sen, too, is a kind of exception. And a relentless pain in the ass. (And a not earnestly unwanted presence, trying though he can be.)
Dima clicks his tongue, thinking, before he responds. [ Sen's 'arrangement' is cropping up every time I travel in order to rob me and talk my ear off. How the shithead KNOWS when and where I'll be away from Morovsk is a mystery to me. And why I tolerate him— ]
A shrug, a performative sigh. [ You've met him.
One might say I appreciate the routine; the performance of his theft. 'Criminally fanciful' describes him to a T. And it does break the monotony of travel.
He takes my gold. We have a drink, we talk; we part ways. ] It strikes Dima - it has struck Dima - that this is the longest he's spent in Sen's company. A question is why the elf hasn't - why both thieves haven't - slipped away. A question is why Dima is content to see them stay.
And, regarding the question of Rin: [ I don't believe he'd ever met the tiefling in his life; not before that night. ] He doesn't know this, true, but Dima's fairly certain if Sen had known Rin, he'd have mentioned them - would have chattered long into the night, whenever possible - long before that attack in the forest.
[ I suspect Sen may simply BE a lucky bastard.
...Though. Perhaps it isn't only Sen. Perhaps there was more luck in that grove than any of us knew. ]
And, perhaps a little too hastily - as if Dima's aware he's ushered them toward ground Faolan might not wish to tread - he adds: [ In any case, for all his absurdity, the elf is better company than I usually handle. ]
<.>
Faolan doesn't respond immediately. Perhaps it was the comment about luck that did it, or perhaps he's simply preoccupied with his own thoughts, or the undead bustle around them.
He thinks, maybe. Maybe there was luck in that grove. Good for Sen.
Bad for himself and Dmitri.
[ He seems heartfelt. About you. About Rin. Whatever else he may be, that's a quality one doesn't find often. ]
It's surprising to learn Sen only met Rin the other day; they seem like two halves of the same coin. Instantly a keen friendship, or lovers - or whatever they may be. Faolan hasn't quite worked it out, if they aren't married.
(Maybe they haven't, either.)
[ Maybe he knows you're traveling because he watches you. He jumped into that fight pretty quickly; maybe he's some kind of self-appointed guardian.
Looking out for his investment. Or his friend. Or both. ]
<.>
In the silence, Dmitri wonders whether he did speak too far (it's so much harder to curb his words, his impulses of speech around this man; much as Dima tries, and wants to try). There's no telling what Faolan thinks of his fortunes since that day— Not so very long ago, true, but a lot has happened. And Dima may know his feelings toward Faolan, but he also knows the man is wary; knows the man has cause to be. And can't tell whether the signs of... of perhaps-interest he sees in Faolan are true, or are of Dima's own imagining.
He needs to be careful, he reminds himself.
This man needs and ought to have care, he knows. (A warning, a could-be-hesitation: When has Dima learned to care for someone, truly?) (A rejoinder: He'll learn. He learns with every word, and every pained expression. And even if— Mm. If Faolan doesn't share Dima's longings, still there is care to be offered; still Dima wants him well.)
Dmitri nods, head canted in consideration. [ ’Heartfelt'; there, yes, is another apt descriptor. I've never met a man more honest in his knavery— Or in much of anything. ]
A pause, and, [ I'm more comfortable with 'looking out for his investment.' Though I— ]
Dima huffs, and shakes his head. [ Never let him know I suggested this, but. I suppose 'friend' might not be an inapt descriptor.
It isn't one that I'm precisely accustomed to. ] He lifts one shoulder in a subtle shrug, then pauses, cants his head, and—
[ Faolan. Speaking of that fight, that night—
What were you doing with Wythall? Rather. Did you know what HE was doing? ] And, voice assuring, [ I won't push, and you needn't answer if you'd rather not. ]
<.>
Faolan looks puzzled now, huffing a little laugh at the thought that he might have been doing anything at all with Wythall.
[ He asked to share my campfire. You came along only moments after.
I didn't know what he was about at the time, but I have my suspicions NOW. Those plants were Awakened. He- ]
As he steps around a shambling creature with eyes that don't fix on anything in particular, his hand brushes Dmitri's; a burst of longing makes his breath catch. (This. This is what he was trying to avoid.) (But what harm is it, really, if - accidentally - his hand brushes Dmitri's now and then?)
(A world of harm.)
He was saying - what was he saying?
Wythall.
[ He wasn't any sort of Druid - and I don't think he was much of anything else. An opportunist, mostly.
The gemstone Rin pocketed. It probably has some ability left to Awaken more plants.
In Rin's hands, that might be a bad thing? ]
<.>
There's a stammer in his step as he feels the brush of Faolan's hand (an accident, perhaps? probably) (did Faolan's breath falter for a moment, or was that Dima's invention only?), as he longs to reach out, to draw the brief touch into a twine of hands.
He doesn't. He thinks of Faolan drawing from his touch, disappearing into an empty tent. He thinks of that almost-offer earlier; Faolan's hand beginning to move, then shifting, settling on his scimitar. The man isn't— Ready, perhaps. Or it's his wariness, or he simply... Well. Doesn't wish to take Dima's hand, or - perhaps more likely - permit Dima to take his own.
It might happen yet. Dima tells himself (hopefully or hopelessly?) that their hands will link again. He needs to be patient, though. He can't force it on Faolan, if the man requires time to think, or observe, or simply wait, Dima will try to keep cautious. (When he can help it.) (When he can brush down his own impulse.)
As they continue walking, his eyes wander to Faolan's hand once, twice, several times throughout.
[ I'm curious what the man thought he was doing; what he planned to do with that tree. An immaterial question, perhaps. That he wasn't a Druid might tell enough.
Have you encountered stones like this before? ]
And, after a hummed sound, [ I'm not certain there's any harm Rin would do with it. It wouldn't hurt to keep an eye on them, but I suspect they're more likely to make up a parade of walking shrubs than orchestrate any forestation-based attack.
IF they learn the gemstone's use. And if they want the stone for anything beyond its sheen. ]
<.>
He won't think about it. He won't mention it. It can't happen again, no matter how much his impulsivity fixates on Dmitri. (Beautiful man. Why did he have to be Dmitri Voronin, why did it have to be now?)
Faolan draws up to a stall purveying a collection of items with no particular theme - a skull here, a bit of something labelled 'summer sand' there. He feigns interest in a tunic made of some silky, ethereal fabric.
[ It's not uncommon for those without magic to buy it from others and store it a while. I've done it, myself, a time or two. ]
He doesn't elaborate.
[ Maybe he was using his shrubs to attack travelers. Or maybe he just wanted the company. It's a little late to ask him. ]
He glances at Dmitri and again finds himself suspended. Again finds himself held safe in the blueness of his eyes - and for just a moment, he could believe maybe Dmitri doesn't mean him harm. Maybe all he really wants is something Faolan hasn't encountered before.
(But think. Think what will happen in Loch Bien, or in Morovsk, when Dmitri's surrounded by other nobles. Think of what he'll say, and how much more it will hurt.)
He shakes himself out of it and looks away.
[ If you were a pair of criminally fanciful thieves, where would you go? ]
<.>
What did Faolan mean by that.
Clearly it isn't a question for pursuing. (Not now; maybe not ever.) Without further context, it's nothing Dmitri can suss out for himself. He simply nods at the remarks; it makes sense enough, and whether Wythall wished to harness the magic he did or whether it was simply what he could obtain, it seems he was using it toward his own ends. Meaning - hopefully - that there's isn't an entire conclave of Wythalls bent on turning forests toward attack.
[ I'd heard talk of travelers in the area suffering mysterious attacks, unwilling to name the creatures that attacked them.
It occurs to me that few people would be eager to confess that their wounds were inflicted by a meager bush. ] And— [ I encountered one earlier on the day I met you. It was startling, I'll admit. ] He realizes he still has the vial of bush dust; he also realizes there's likely no value in employing it. Ah, well.
It doesn't hurt to have a memento. The vial of dust and the raven totem; reminders of a day that brought forth one dire meeting.
Glancing around the stall before them, Dima lifts the skull for inspection, sets it down. Nods to a half-melted candle, its wax a nauseating off-green, and asks the seller just what it might be.
Then, to Faolan: [ Gods only know. If there is a logic followed by criminally fanciful thieves - and I'll allow there may well be - it's beyond my comprehension.
I suppose they'd be attracted to either the strangest goods, or the shop with the largest array. Perhaps somewhere with a minor crowd to entertain Sen's ceaseless chatter. ]
<.>
Not the worst conjecturing, Faolan thinks. Sen's a bard, so he'll be in a crowd. He thinks he saw something like an open-air tavern near the center of the market.
The seller of the candle is explaining to Dmitri the alchemical properties and value of the candle, so he waits until the conversation finishes before suggesting, [ We should make toward the gibbets. It looked like there were tables and a barmaid. If he's looking for an audience, it'll be there. ]
And, just for good measure, [ I wouldn't buy that. It smells rancid; it can turn lead to gold but can't manage to be odorless? That's suspect. ]
<.>
There's the glint of a smirk from Dmitri, and his response to Faolan is toned with amusement: [ Let it never be said that alchemy doesn't bring its share of stench. But I agree with your suspicions; as a rule, claims of turning lead to gold are the hallmark of a useless item. ]
To the shopkeeper, he lifts his eyebrows just slightly, expression reserved, and explains that - how very interesting, and what a coincidence! - he has a torch at home that serves the same function, and so won't be requiring the candle.
Then turning, taking in the lay of the market at nodding at Faolan - catching, blood quickening, at the sight of him - he nods and begins to walk. [ It's a better bet than any. The gibbets, then. We'll see what manner of eager souls he's managed to gather. And whether the two of them have managed to refrain from stealing anything for such a terribly long time. ]
<.>
no subject
As they wend their way closer to the Market's center, it's easy to see Sen standing atop a table in the 'tavern', gesturing theatrically as he recites some tale to a gathering circle of undead.
He's good; Faolan has to admit that: he takes on the voices of each character of some epic poem, lends the accent of older Common speech to the narration. His movements are full of vitality, of frenetic energy that even Faolan, for all his distaste for crowds, finds enthralling.
He doesn't see Rin immediately, but that could mean anything. (And likeliest, that Rin has a hand in someone's pocket.)
[ He's not half bad. ]
<.>
[ No; he's not. ]
Dima's not seen Sen in full performance mode. He's known the elf to be eloquent; has known Sen's penchant for the dramatic, and to have a knack for cadences of speech. This, though—
Well. He's not so bad, at all. (There's almost a question of how he hasn't secured a reliable circuit of work among those who have money.) (There are a dozen immediate answers, including the likelihood of Sen telling a lord to stick a finger up his own ass, including the elf's clear distaste for the inevitable and entitled haughtiness of the wealth, and of course including Sen's not entirely unknown status as a criminal.)
He doesn't quite want to interrupt Sen. He does catch sight of a tiefling darting among the crowd, and yes, that was Rin's hand in someone's pocket. Shit's sake.
Dima sighs, gives Faolan's shoulder a light touch (he's like to linger) (he lingers only briefly, briefly, and lets the touch warm through him) and Messages Rin's location, then Messages Rin, [ Have you two located our spirit already. ]
Rin responds, [ The what? ], then seems to put two and two together, and after slipping their hand into one more pocket, darts over to Faolan and Dima, blinking rapidly, bouncing up onto their toes, then down. They look over at Sen, seem to catch upon his story, then with effort look back to Fae and Dima. "Find anything?", they ask, pulling at their own hair.
<.>
That touch is something he could live off of for years. The memory of it: Sen telling his evocative story in blue wisplight, and Dmitri beside Faolan, bathed in that same blue - dreamlike. (His hair catching the color in its blackness, becoming Stygian, soft, inviting-)
And the hand at his shoulder like a promise of what every touch could be.
If the world was only a little different, he would press a hand to Dmitri's waist and let the natural movement of an embrace draw them together.
(It's not...fair.) (Very little is fair.)
He's glad Rin's arrival stems the flow of thought and suppresses a smile at the almost coquettish way they're playing with their hair.
(Sen must be smitten with them.)
(They certainly seem something with Sen.)
"One of the adjudicators is going to ask around. He'll come find us in - forty-five minutes or so." He raises his chin towards Sen. "Do you suppose he'll be done by then, or is this a two-act performance?"
<.>
Rin flicks a glance toward the stage— And catches there, one hand moving to their cheek as they follow Sen's hands in a series of gestures, hum at the sound of his voice. (They were doing something. Talking to someone? Talking with— Oh. yes!)
To Faolan, "He's been at it a bit now."
[q: did sen and rin’s search of the tent and ghosts turn up anything?
INV
s: 13
r: 22
dm: Sen found very little; he kept finding himself distracted, though who can really say why!
Rin managed to find out there is in fact a newcomer in the Market who was slain while attempting to assassinate a lord from Mysos. They also managed to learn that his name is Payl Gower before both they and Sen were run out of the shop for time-wasting.]
As Rin tell it, their voice hushed: "So one, if you don't buy things they kick you out, which I think is pretty rude. Also, it's hard to find out how ghosts go about getting hired. It's obvious they do, but everyone was mum about the process. Third, Sen made a ghoul laugh so hard she snorted bile.
"Yeah, also, it seems a lot like the guy's - the ghost's - called Payl Gower, or Payl Gower tried to kill some lord from Mysos who may or may not have been Calabra, but probably was. Oh, oh, did Sen tell you? That [muncher of seared shit] acts like a guy who's asking to get killed."
Dima, against his better judgment, snorts. And adds, "You're not wrong."
Rin nods; of course they're not wrong. "Also no one wants to eat with him.
"Anyway. That's what we've got so far, and then Sen started telling a story and..." They gesture to the stage— And turn the gesture to a wave, because they've met Sen's eyes! While they're at it, they're going to blow him a kiss, then rock back onto their heels, smiling bright. "Of course everyone started listening, and Sen ought to be heard, so here we are.
"And maybe the whatever-it-was you talked to can give us some of the 'where is he now' part of the information."
<.>
Faolan listens politely, then exchanges a glance with Dmitri that turns into another look of puzzlement.
"Do you know Calabra?"
From across the space, over the heads of a large group of ghouls, Sen catches the kiss without interrupting his tale, presses it to his cheek, and points to the spot. Only then does he interject, stride unbroken, "No treasure more valued than a kiss for luck."
Several heads nod knowingly, several gazes turn briefly towards Rin, and some expressions bear distinct looks of sorrowful longing and distant envy.
Attention returns to Sen's tale quickly enough.
From behind Dmitri and Faolan, a voice says with good-natured exasperation, “Bards.”
Nerys waits patiently, arms folded, a scroll tapping slowly against his upper arm. "He's really very good. It takes a particular sort of talent to tell the Conception of Halister with such command. Moreso without the whole thing turning to shambles amid bawdy jokes and unseemly gestures.
"We ought to contract him sometime."
<.>
Dima looks to Faolan, feeling a dim flicker of concern; it might not be wise to mention his own connection to nobility of any sort. Then again, Dmitri has no wish to veil what he is, certainly not from Faolan, and if their group happens to meet with the vacuous fool, it's better he know beforehand.
"In passing. I'm blessed to have had little interaction with the esteemed 'lord'; matters of his - mmm - call it business, call it intrusions, have been my sister's prevue. Calabra and his taxation practices have proven a thorn in her side.
"And the man is an absolute bore. I'd be entirely content to let the thieves handle his interactions."
Meaning also: If Faolan wishes to not place himself in the room with the man, Dima will see that he doesn't have to.
Rin beams as Sen takes their kisses, as he puts it on his cheek which is a very good place for it to live, they think. (They should kiss his cheek sometime. Actually kiss his cheek. Actually kiss him at all. That'd be very nice, and better still.) When Sen speaks of their kiss, Rin offers a bow in his direction, and a wink. That felt nice, as well; Sen speaking of them. Sen speaking so well of their kiss which must certainly give him extra luck!
They hear someone approach and seem to address their gathered trio. They don't really pay attention - though they note with satisfaction that whoever-it-is is praising Sen's performance, as whoever-it-is very well should - until the voice speaks of a contract.
At which point Rin turns on their heels to face the— Oh, the speaker is an elf! Who doesn't look very undead at all, but not everyone is, and the point is that Sen might find opportunities here - if Sen wants, of course! - and the point is that when opportunities arrive they ought to be taken, and since Sen isn't here to claim it for himself—
"He might like that." Rin nods seriously, thinks, and sticks out their hand. "I'm his manager; you can talk to me."
<.>
Faolan isn't considering the aspect of Calabra's nobility - or wasn't. He is now that he's aware Dmitri is trying to protect him from the possibility of interacting with Calabra.
He doesn't know what to do with that. (The protection. The thought that he needs protection. The thought that Dmitri wants to be his protector.)
When Nerys joins them, it's almost a relief to have a distraction from the direction that conversation could have gone, though he does keep stealing puzzled glances at Dmitri.
If Nerys is at all surprised by Rin's claim, he has the good grace to hide it. He takes Rin's hand and bows courteously - neither kissing nor shaking, as though he recognizes something about the tiefling without inquiry.
"And so I shall - though I'll need to defer that conversation until later. There's something of an emergency that requires my attention. I came only to deliver this to Dmitri here, and to inform you that your assassin ghost is right across the path, in that shop with the mirrors. Do you see? Yes, just there. Payl Gower, I believe."
As he speaks, he hands off the contract, and pauses before making a departure. "Try to deal gently with him. It's not an easy transition. The first years are terribly hard on them."
<.>
[note: Dmitri is going to look over the contract before Nerys heads off. Does it all look to be as they discussed? Slash also is there a section for or space left for the negotiation of including an item from the Market?
dm: The contract is exactly as discussed, with space left for the negotiation of an item from the Market.]
In that case, Dima offers Nerys an appreciative nod, and asks Faolan via Message if he'd like to take a look at it, adding that [ It's all in order; I only thought you might like a glance. ]
And, to Nerys, "You have my thanks." And. "What manner of emergency?"
Rin, meanwhile, is pleased by Nerys's courtesy, and offers a bow of their head. "I'll let Sir Sen know of your interest."
Not particularly concerned about any emergency, they've turned their eyes toward the shop and yes, why yes there are a number of mirrors and Rin is very intrigued and thinks they'll have to take a look around whenever they've all finished with whatever they're doing with the ghost.
Turning back to Sen - taking a moment to appreciate his performance - they Message him: [ Ghost alert! ]
<.>
Faolan starts to reach for the contract, then stops, his fingers curling. His hand drops uselessly to his side and his head cocks in almost good-natured perturbance.
[ You don't need to do that, Dmitri. Ask my input. I'm no more qualified to advise you than any other shit-sm- ]
He silences himself, pursing his lips, and breathes once before amending, [ Any other farmer's son. ]
With a shake of his head, he folds his arms and turns away to watch the performance come to its conclusion.
Sen might be rushing things a bit; he received Rin's message and would indeed like to dispense with the necessaries of business before any more fun's to be had. At the end of the tale, he gives a bow to slow applause (thankfully, slow only because the ghouls in the crowd seem to have limb control problems.)
He doesn't ask for coin, but someone presses a drink into his hands when he jumps down from the table; he motions for Rin to come join him, to come show him the ghost with one hand and discretely dumps out the drink with the other.
Meanwhile, Nerys has paused in his step and is offering an awkward sort of smile. "Oh, nothing out of the ordinary, I assure you. This is part and parcel to my work with the Market. Disputes occur, trades go a little awry. It's why adjudicators exist. Nothing to worry about, Gentlemen. And Rin."
He bows again and strides off - and when he thinks he's out of sight (but probably isn't), starts to run.
<.>
It's Dima's turn to look puzzled, then stung (feeling a moment's wounding for himself; feeling wounding as well for Faolan, who must have heard the word a hundred times), though he composes himself a half-moment later, a long-learned instinct. Faolan turns and in the silence after, Dima places the contract in a pocket, feeling unsteadied, fighting against a furrowed brow and a tick of his lip.
To Nerys, he inclines his head. "As you say. Your information is appreciated, Nerys."
And after a few moments, he Messages Faolan again: [ I would be pleased to have your advice. I've watched you, Faolan; you're no fool.
I thought as well that you might like to review the contract for yourself, in case you— ] An awkward halt, and if he were speaking, Dima might nearly have stammered the start of a word. What he'd intended to say was 'In case you come along.' What he realized partway through the sentence was a possible cause for Faolan's declining the contract: That the man doesn't intend to aid in the task. (The Faolan doesn't intend to travel with Dima beyond Loch Bien, and really, Dima was jumping ahead of himself again to think otherwise, and really, it isn't an expectation Faolan needs placed upon his shoulders.
Dima clicks his tongue, tries again. [ In case you were curious. ]
He tries not to think about what will follow from Loch Bien. He tries not to notice the way his chest feels constricted, or the metallic taste within his mouth.
Rin's applause is enthusiastic, with a whistle thrown in for good measure. When Nerys departs, they offer him a pleased smile, then turn to find Sen beckoning to them. Of course they dash his way, then fling their arms around his waist, looking upward with a toothy grin. "That was magnificent. I've never seen anyone hold a roomful of ghouls rapt, but you did it!" Lowering their voice, looking briefly annoyed: "It's a shame we can't pick pockets here. They never would've noticed." Then, brightening, "But Sen, Sen, you tell stories so wonderfully! I could listen to you all day, and then all the next day and the next after!
"Speaking of!" The raise their forefinger, teasing silence for juuuust a moment before continuing, "They want to have you perform here again. For pay, you know. This— Nar... Nor... Something. A wood elf, the one Faolan and Dmitri were talking to. He was impressed, as he ought to be, and I told him I'd talk to you, and I think—"
Oh, right! They just remembered! "Also I'm your manager now. If that's all right with you."
<.>
no subject
Oh, he went too far and wounded Dmitri with his godsdamned pride.
(And in wounding the man, Faolan has learned something he wish he never had cause to discover: he never wants to see that look on Dmitri's face again. He doesn't think he can bear it a second time.) (Only a few moments ago, he was cause for Dmitri's smiles. He was -)
He's becoming cruel. He was cruel.
His heart feels like a stone in his chest. He knows there's more to this than just his pride; the way Dmitri corrected himself there, chose a different 'in case' from what he initially wanted to say.
A moment passes. Then another. Then, softly, [ I'm sorry. ]
He swallows and tries both to look and not look at Dmitri. [ I am sorry. I - ]
What can he say? He looks around himself, lost and frowning. Searching the crowd of undead for the right thing to say in such a precarious situation.
Because he has no script, no knowledge of how to make amends when he has done the hurting, he lets instinct win out; he takes Dmitri's hand in both of his own. There aren't any words, but his hands warm until it seems flames ought to spring from them - then do. Harmless against Dmitri's palm, engulfing and speaking something -
(About wanting. About desire.) (About fondness.) (Things that can't be spoken.)
How he would rather keep Dmitri safe within his fire than burn him.
Holding Dmitri's gaze with imploring eyes, he finally speaks again. [ Please, forgive me. Please - please understand, and forgive me. ]
He thinks, but doesn't say, For all the wrongs I've yet to do.
Sen looks pleased solely by the embrace - pleased and honored - and strokes the backs of his fingers along one of Rin's horns. This lovely creature. (How he would like to call himself theirs!)
They speak of all that occurred while he was on his makeshift stage and he smiles, thinking he could listen to them and their meandering speech for centuries. Clever, pretty Rin.
Their 'speaking of!' and torturous pause earns an appropriate feigning of breathless interest that dissolves into an amused little laugh. Well, of course they may be his manager; he never has needed one before, but he finds just now that he's never needed anything more, and there's no one more appropriate.
"I was only just saying to myself, Sen, Old Boy, you need a manager. Someone to ensure you're paid fairly in ball bearings and gold, and not in boggy ale." Tapping the tip of Rin's nose, he goes on, "You're hired. Pay yourself fairly, Pretty Rin."
..Does he dare?
He feels daring after reciting an epic to a group of undead.
"A problem. You see, I -" He turns suddenly sober, gone from playful to soft wondering. "You needn't answer. You could even pretend I never asked, and so shall I. But I'd like it if you weren't only that. A small step in another direction, perhaps, where -"
He laughs at himself then. "All the words in the world and I can't find some clever way to say I'd like to kiss you sometime. Oh, not here,” he says in faint horror at their surroundings. "But if, some other night, you felt charitable and the weather was right for it. Would you let me?"
Half-fanciful and glancing off from them - only to be drawn back to them and their perfect nose, perfect horns, perfect little thiefling - Sen adds hopefully, "And if you don't find it unendurable, consider allowing it again?"
<.>
He didn't intend this: The ache in Faolan's voice - palpable even in Messaging - or the pain written in his eyes. The man has done nothing in error. Dmitri built the cause for his own pain; he knows this. And it's no fault of Faolan's that he's known far too much of dismissiveness and cruelty, likely (certainly) from people of Dmitri's class.
He wants to interrupt that apology. He wants to speak after that first 'I'm sorry,' feeling certain he never wants to hear those words from Faolan; wanting to assure him that all is... if not well, at least not harmed by Fae. But Faolan hasn't finished; Dima reads that much in his expression, and he thinks perhaps, perhaps he ought to let Faolan say his piece before butting in. He can give the man that much, at least.
What follows stalls the Market into silence and distant haze.
What follows strikes Faolan in brilliant light, and turns Dima's heart to amber warmth.
Faolan took his hand. Faolan's keeping hold of his hand, Faolan's watching Dmitri attentive, with intention, and Dima finds he can't quite swallow. Feels choked up, and blink, feels dizzy feels a velvet tingle through his nerves and feels close to the presence of peace, of ease.
He feels the flames; not painful, but offering a subtle, flickered warmth. (He thinks, distantly, that he could weep.) (He does feel a burn at the back of his eyes, though there are no tears, not now.) It's beautiful, it's—
Oh, it's a kind of poetry. This offering from Faolan. This apology that never needed to be given, but this sight will keep forever in Dima's knowing: how his hand looked held in Faolan's, bathed in protective flame.
He doesn't watch the flame for long. Faolan's eyes draw his, and again Dmitri feels shaken through his core. He'd smile, if Faolan didn't look so distressed; if Dima didn't hear such aching in Faolan's apology.
Dima shakes his head softly, not breaking their shared gaze, wanting never to look away. His free hand moves to settle on the back of Faolan's, unwary of the flames, wanting only to offer an encouraging, a reassuring touch. [ There isn't anything to forgive. ]
At the back of Faolan's hand, Dima's fingertips press, then draw a steady, light-pressured brush, back and forth. [ You have known— Faolan. I understand you've been treated wretchedly, and known treachery in many names.
That isn't any fault of yours. You've been given reason for mistrust, and I understand that my class and name alike speak poorly for me.
I count myself fortunate that you've sustained my company at all. And I hold every moment dear.
No more apologies, Faolan; please.
If you feel it would help, of course I forgive you. But truly, truly, you've done nothing to forgive. ]
Rin likes the way Sen brushes their horns; no one's ever done that. (Even if anyone did, even if anyone tried, it would likely turn Rin ireful, their horns being no one's to touch.
Until now, of course. Now is - Sen is - very different.)
They like the way he looks at them, and lets them sway back and forth just a little as they keep their arms around him. They like the way - the many ways! - he speaks, of course they do, and how very well he plays and joins in their own mischief. They like how he listens, how he understands their meaning even if they don't head straight for any point; they like that he talks in his own meanders. They even like his finger tapping on their nose; another gesture no one else could get away with (Rin's bitten people for precisely that; right through veins and nerves and all).
They like the thought of being his manager, for real and for true!
And they like very, very much the thought of kissing him, and receiving a kiss from him.
Rin laughs, pleased and light, and their smile tells their answer ahead of speaking. Playfully, happily, they tap their finger against Sen's chest. "I have a secret for you, just for you.
"While you were onstage, after you kept my kiss and gave it a perfect perch, a perfect place to stay, I thought how much I’d like to kiss your cheek.
"And then something more than your cheek. You see, it struck me as the very nicest idea, and it strikes me as the very nicest idea, and in fact I'd made up my mind that someday I ought to kiss you, but of course only if you also thought it might be nice."
They bite their lip briefly, smiling upward still at Sen, and settle their palm against Sen's chest. "So you see, what I mean to say is 'Yes, I will let you,' and 'Yes, I will require - even demand! - this kiss from you."
After a slight pause, as if deciding whether they can say this, they offer warmly, "A kiss from my Sen. And I think another, and another, and another after that."
<.>
That look. That one that Dmitri gives him when their hands join.
That's the one he wants, oh, for the rest of his life. Although he's recognized the look of desire in Dmitri's eyes, no one's ever looked at him this way, with so much...hope. So much joy in just a touch. (So much peace, as though he came home.)
He could sob from the strength of his longing, stoked further by the tender brush of fingers.
He wants to ask, Why couldn't you have come along sooner?
Or, Why did you have to find me? Why did you have to be nothing I expected and everything I wanted?
He wants to ask what will happen to that look when they reach somewhere that Dmitri is known, and if Dmitri knows how much it would destroy him if he had to see the loss of it.
Instead, something else takes his attention. He speaks carefully - always gently. (As soft as the answering caress of his own fingers.) [ Be careful, Dmitri.
Don't let fondness blind you to cruelty. A man who learns he can mistreat you because you have a tender heart will keep doing it - until your heart isn't tender anymore. ]
One of his hands releases, then raises to draw a fire-warm trail of fingertips down Dmitri's cheek. Then, with a sad smile, he eases away as gently as he can - and feels more lost now than a moment ago. (Feels so much colder, so much less sure of what he knows.)
(It felt right.)
(He tells himself it always feels right at first.)
Sen radiates pure joy - that they'll allow a kiss, and that they have an accord with him. An agreement of the wishful mind. Oh, he's found rare fortune, and he'll be sure that the kiss is as perfectly imperfect as can be.
(And every one after!)
But it's the 'my Sen' that devastates him. When has he ever wanted to be possessed by anyone at all, claimed like a ragdoll or a servant? But that's not what this is, no! This is (his?) (no, never!) Rin, claiming him as their fondness. Their playmate, their friend, and maybe. Maybe their lover. (Whatever form that last may take, it's all the same to him!)
"A kiss from -" He laughs, lost little sound, then smiles a lopsided flash of teeth. "Yes. Your Sen. In whatever way you'll allow. I'd like that very much."
Ah, but!
"Rin, business first, and then we'll have the last of the night to wander and talk and enjoy. You said 'Ghost alert', so I can only assume you've discovered where our friend Payl might be?"
<.>
He leans into the trail of Faolan’s touch, his eyes just slightly slipping shut. Thinking how well he'd like this touch to linger. Thinking how he'd like to return the touch in-kind.
When the man draws away, Dima begins to move with him, reluctant to release, wanting to hold tighter. He manages to halt himself; he manages to let Faolan move as he must, though he lets his fingertips drag along the departure of Fae's; though he moves not an inch after Faolan has drawn apart.
And watching the man, offering a soft, a sad smile of his own: [ Oh, Faolan, I’m well aware. ]
Didn’t Dmitri learn long ago? He'd never truly given his heart, granted. Dmitri learned to guard himself long before he stepped foot outside his family's home. Long before eyes began to trail him, interests began to speak his name. He'd been cautious with all of them, and even then, there had been damage. Even then, he'd closed in further on himself, until there was no one, there was nothing he'd let into his chest, save the image, the dream of a creature like a raven.
What's remarkable is that he's dropped his guard, softened his walls at all with anyone.
What's remarkable is how he feels no real unease in it. If pain follows from this - this resurgence of his heart; this knowledge, this wondrous fact of Faolan - he'll accept it as he must. However much it aches him; however much that ache may never leave.
He's lived too long within himself. And there are some things - some moments; one man - worth running risks for.
[ It’s a hard lesson to learn; it is a lesson you never ought to have suffered. ] It's a lesson Dima would like to bury beneath other, gentler lessons. (If he could have the chance.) (If he can find the chance, and bring Faolan toward its holding.)
Dima finds he's looking at his hand (absent now of Faolan's) (stark, all on its own, and aching for the warmth of fire), and looks up, seeks honeyed eyes again. [ I don’t mean to startle you. Or push ahead of what feels— Reasonable, comfortable, sustainable for you.
Only know that you are always welcome, Faolan.
And hard lessons needn't always stay; not forever. ]
Ah, Rin likes so well to see Sen radiant! (Is he so very pleased with them? That's— That's better than nice. That runs through their heart, a feeling giddy and sparking trills.) To see their Sen radiant, and there's another flipping of their heart to know that yes they can call him so, and yes he seems to like it, and they speak it again softly - smile briefly, briefly almost shy - wanting to feel its lightness on their tongue: "My Sen."
Thinking they'll find out how many ways - so many ways, they're certain, they feel and know it! - he'll be their Sen. Wondering how many ways they might be his Rin. Knowing whatever the answers may be, the world ahead seems suddenly more vivid, more dawn-brushed and lovely.
(And hopefully - probably! - filled with more of those charming smiles!)
Sen's correct, though; business first, that's very wise! Rin nods, gives a glance back toward the shop with many mirrors. "He's over there. In there, apparently; I guess we ought to move before he makes a change. I haven't seen him yet, but the— That elf with the name I can't remember, he seems to know this place pretty much through-and-through, and he said we'd find Payl in there.
"So!" Rin unwinds their arms from Sen with a laugh, then - because they aren't through with him, oh no! - they blow him another kiss, another wink. "Until we find the right time, yes?"
And, giving a tug to Sen's wrist. "To the mirrors!"
<.>
no subject
Floating dismally between the tables, here and there rearranging a display, is Payl Gower. He is - was - a younger human man, and from the lighter pearlescence of his hair, it's easy to see he was blond, likely fair-skinned. Now, he's pearly gray, sad-eyed and frowning at himself in his merchandise.
When he sees the party, he gestures, "Please, have a look. If you have any questions -"
His customer service attitude drops a little. "Well. I'm not exactly going anywhere."
<.>
Rin is going to try very, very hard to stay focused on what they've come here for. (It's definitely about Payl Gower, who is a ghost and is supposed to be in here and might be that ghost right there.) The trouble is, there are an awful lot of mirrors. And Rin is awfully fond of mirrors. They're definitely glancing at the mirrors around. Then stopping briefly in front of one, and a little less briefly in front of the other.
Rin is in fact quickly losing focus on what they've come here for.
Dima hangs back briefly, not letting the others from his sight, not about to let them enter the tent before he joins—
He only needs a moment. To think; to let the image of hands upon his hand, fire around both settle deep in his mind. To scratch Liviana's neck lightly, and nod when she asks in her way whether he's all right. A moment, and moment, and then he follows after, into the shop of mirrors, standing near to Faolan.
And, seeing Rin distracted, Dima sighs internally, Messages, [ Rin. ]
The tiefling swirls around, blinks, then slips back toward the group, now offering the ghost a nod of their head, "It's Payl, right?"
<.>
Sen does nothing to curb Rin's enthusiasm or redirect them from their reflection. Shouldn't they admire their appearance? He does, so very much. He trails them; they look in mirrors and he watches them, and all is right in the world until Dima enters.
He must have said something. Sen darts a suspicious look at the man and pulls a face that clearly says, Don't harass Rin.
Faolan watches all of this with a faintly amused expression that fades when he meets Dima's eyes. His look becomes complicated, because it's all complicated when it should be very simple. (He should get away from Dmitri before getting away hurts any worse than it already will.)
The ghost furrows its brow at Rin, then inclines his head in confirmation. "Do I know you?"
And then, by way of explanation, he adds apologetically, "My memory - I can't recall much. I'm told it's normal. If I've met you, I don't remember you. I would have, I think. Never - Might have never. Met a tiefling."
<.>
Rin has - for the moment, and moments don't last so very long - let the mirrors go. Ghosts might not be any match for a mirror, but they're still interesting; Rin hasn't exactly conversed with many of them. And if Payl can't remember having met a tiefling, well! He is very lucky that Rin should be the first! Grinning, they offer a bow, with a sweep of their arm.
"Now you can say for certain that you have! And no, no, I believe if you had met me, you'd remember. I'm not so simple to forget." They raise a finger to tap their cheek, thinking, thinking. "I am very good at forgetting, however, so if I'd met you, I also wouldn't recall! Faces elude me, do you see? Most faces; there are some that stay forever, right there in my head."
They move their hand back to their side— But not before giving Sen's arm a playful poke, then a small brush. "The point is that we have a question for you. Or several questions?" Does Rin recall the questions.
Not precisely...
But they'll take a running guess!
"How did you die, anyway?"
Dmitri meets Sen's glance with a studiously neutral expression. They are here for a reason, and Rin may scurry about as they please once this has been completed.
Though. Now that Rin's offered a question, Dima begins to think that maybe, maybe he ought to have left them to their mirrors.
He clears his throat, shakes his head, but doesn't speak yet. He is watching Payl closely, seeking any signs of the being he might have been in living, trying to determine for himself how newly this man became a ghost.
<.>
The forthrightness of the question seems to surprise Payl; it's apparent that it isn't a common (or polite) subject, and perhaps it's one that no one's approached him with before.
"I..." he begins, then trails off. He seems to be searching his memory when he looks away. "It was a knife. Sudden - It's so strange. It felt like nothing at first. Like someone dragged a thumb across my neck.
"I don't think I felt much pain at all, actually. Shock of the body. By the time I realized what had happened, it was nearly over."
He looks at the party again and laughs a perfunctory, self-effacing sound that dies immediately. "That's not what you wanted to know. Forgive me. I - had gone to do something terrible. Stupid. But I have a daughter, and it's more terrible to watch her go hungry. I was promised what seemed a small fortune for helping my employer to his end.
"It would have been enough to keep her warm and fed for years. Enough to set her up somewhere in the city and give her a life.
"So I went with poison, and because I'm no studied killer, I was caught. I tried to run and his brute caught me."
<.>
"Your employer?" It's Dmitri who speaks first, voice even, showing little of his own feeling. (His own feeling, which isn't nothing. Which carries the sensation of two hands around his own, and the ache in hearing Faolan's pain, and Faolan's turn away. Which carries as well, just now, some modicum of pity for the man. It was a foolish choice Gower made - an errand taken without skill, without means - but poverty drives men to far, far worse.
And in formation, there's a thought, a plan to follow from Dima's pity.)
"Forgive me; I impose inquiry without offering my name. I am Dmitri Voronin. The four of us" (here he gestures to the group) "are seeking information related to the circumstances of your end, and the work that led to it.
"We're to receive payment for whatever we might glean. And it occurs to me that we might see that some share of the profit is directed to your daughter."
<.>
Sen again shoots Dmitri a look - a glare - but almost immediately rolls his eyes in acquiescence. Nevermind that this is his little errand, and Dmitri is just along for the Market trip. Bastard.
Double bastard: Faolan weighs in with, "If nothing else, we could make sure she's well."
The two of them need to crawl into a sack together so Sen can win his bet and he and Rin can be on their way.
Payl looks torn; clearly, his daughter's security means a good deal to him.
"I - was one of the servants of the merchant-lord Calabra." He seems to be restraining himself from speaking further and clears his throat in discomfort. "What kind of information are you looking for?"
<.>
Dmitri isn't going to give Sen the satisfaction of acknowledging that Look, though he does Message the elf, [ If you have a more pertinent question, feel free to unleash your torrent. ]
At Faolan's words, he nods once; it wouldn't be, won't be so difficult to do. If nothing else, Dima can see that some measure of Voronin money is carried to the girl. (He isn't going to consider the fact that he isn't typically prone to offering monetary support, not so early in a negotiation.) (He isn't going to think on what this early offering might have to do with Faolan, or with the rings on Dima's hand.)
It's an interesting revelation - that the man was a servant of Calabra - though not at all unheard-of. Dima's about to respond when Rin cuts in with a 'tsk' and—
“That [ brimstone-encrusted anus ] seems about as nice to work for as a constipated chimera." And, after a moment, a little softer, "Well, I'm sorry about your daughter."
And, from Dima: "Did you recognize the being who offered you this fortune?"
<.>
Payl smiles at Rin's comment, though it's more perfunctory than amused. It seems he knows exactly what kind of man Calabra is. As for his daughter- "As am I."
To Dima, he replies, "I did. At the time, I - or, no. No, that's wrong. What I remember is I knew a name, because I spoke with someone sent by -"
He frowns darkly. "It's all jumbled and patched. I can't remember who wanted Calabra dead and who hired me on whose behalf. The faces are blurred. Voices distorted."
He motions to one of the mirrors reflecting back a hazy view of the Nightmare Market. "Like this."
And then, suddenly, "I would like it. If you'd look in on her. My sister will have her now, I'm certain of it. Morwenna Gower. She's not much older than my girl, though. Only nineteen now to Manon's twelve. Can I trust you?"
Sen pulls a flat look at Dmitri, then steps in. "You have our word. We'll make certain the girl is unharmed and looked after. You don't have anything to worry about from us; we may be scoundrels, but we're generally the honorable kind."
[PERS, s: nat 20]
Payl looks relieved, even smiles genuinely at the group and utters, "Pelor bless you all."
"Can you tell us anything about the person who hired you?" Faolan presses gently. "Anything at all. Even if it doesn't seem important."
Payl considers the mirror under his ghostly hand for a moment; he begins to shake his head, then starts suddenly. "Wait. There was something troubling about their face. I think they kept it hidden, but the wrap fell and -"
He drags a hand down along his jaw. "There were scars here. Three or four - like a bear or some beast took a great swipe at them."
<.>
It takes everything in Dima's power not to roll his eyes at Sen— Or it would, were it not for Gower's sorrow and subject, or for the promise Sen gives; it's one Dima can only agree with, and he can't pretend Sen doesn't say it well.
He does give Faolan a glance of approval, both for the question and the manner of its asking. (For a man so long abused, he can be achingly gentle, careful.) (However his tender heart has been kicked, wounded, he hasn't lost it wholly; hasn't, Dima thinks, lost much of it at all.)
Rin nods vigorously with Sen's promise. They don't do a lot of making sure anyone's taken care of, but no kid should be left almost alone at twelve, and if word's gotten around about the circumstances of her father's death, the road ahead could be extra rough— For her, and for the ghost's sister, as well. (Who isn't a ghost, but also probably didn't count of raising her niece out of nowhere.)
"That helps," they say to Payl's description. And, "Are there any mirrors in here that might help put things together? Like. Mirrors that can show 'what was,' or whatever?"
[q: would dima or rin have met anyone whose face would match the scarred description?
HIST
d: 14
r: 15
f, s: also failed check
scarred face: nat 20
If the person with the scarred face is someone they've ever encountered, they can't remember the meeting.]
<.>
Payl doesn't bother looking around. He just shakes his head at Rin. "There was a mirror of that kind, but I sold it at the last Market, south of Mysos. Doesn't matter, though. It only showed what a person remembered. I'd touch it and the whole thing would turn black."
Seeming to remember something more, Payl makes a small 'ah' sound. "They gave me gold. I remember that. They gave me a pouch with gold in it - half of what was promised. I can't remember what I did with it, but I can guess. Tell Morwenna to look in our old hiding spot. She'll know."
A sense of peace seems to descend over Payl. "If you can do that - I'd be grateful."
<.>
no subject
Something occurs to them! "How're we going to find your sister, though? Do you remember where she's at? Or I guess we could ask around."
Dmitri thinks, but doesn't say, that there's a not-nil chance that whoever paid for the assassination is also searching for the gold. If it is the case, it's not something Gower needs to worry about. (It might be something for their group to look into once they get a sense of who offered the money, and what their usual practices might be.)
<.>
Sen has been awfully quiet through most of this conversation; he's watching Payl closely, wondering how much of his amnesia is truth. If it's entirely true, he's about to spend a lot more time than a single evening running around looking for their would-be-assassin's shadowy employer.
"Awich," Gower nods. "Work's not easy to come by when you don't work the docks. I took the river south to Mysos with Manon and my wife; they're always looking for servants. That's where I was when..." A shaking off of the thought. "She's in Awich. She has a house in South Ward. It isn't much, but she gets by. She'll get by."
Faolan almost asks what happened to Payl's wife, but he can guess. It's the first time he's mentioned her, after all; either she's dead or she left him. Either way, she's not someone Payl is worried about now.
A group of very much alive, very young necromancers filter into the stall; Payl hums a note of apology. "Is there anything else I can answer? I'm afraid I haven't been much help."
<.>
It's a detail worth holding onto, the fact of Gower's (former) wife. Something to ask into, if they end up needing further information, further sources. Something that needn't be brought up just now—
Probably.
For the moment, at least. There's been an interruption, and Dima turns his head just enough to favor the intrusive necromancers with a chilly, an affectless glance. Then, scarcely raising his voice, though he's sharper now in enunciation, and there's a trace of warning in his voice: "Would you mind. Out. I don't appreciate your interruption."
Dima is absolutely attempting to snarl them ouT, at least for a few more minutes.
[INT: 18; There is ONE necromancer permitted in this shop rn >:C]
<.>
The stunned neophytes immediately stumble over one another to try and get out of the tent; one of them knocks into a table, nearly sending a mirror crashing to the floor. Sen only barely manages to grab at it in time, fumbles and nearly drops it, himself, but rescues it from potential shattering.
(Acrobatics: 12. lkfhashdf Had to beat a 10.)
<.>
All Dima needs to see is that they are leaving (little shits); he hears the mirror-shuffling, but fixes his attention of Gower. "My pardons; I haven't finished with our questions.
"First, you said you knew a name: Can you recall it? Or any pertinent name, title at all, however tangential."
"Second: What can you tell us of Calabra himself— Or of his employ.
"Third: Where did you obtain your poison.
"You've given somewhere to begin, and I do appreciate your efforts. But you've had much more to say of your family than the circumstances leading to your end. Understandable, yes, but we need something more if we're to find the ones who put you in this position.
"If the answers elude you, try to focus on what you do know: The feeling of cobblestones beneath your feet, perhaps, or the cloak you wore. Perhaps the scents you noticed when you met your scarred contact."
<.>
"No, no. I've tried that. We don't have any sense memory," he replies disconsolately. "Some of the others claim it comes back, but it's why there's such a - demand for memories. For anything, just a shred, so we can taste wine again, or smell grass -"
"Or touch hair like our child's."
He lifts a shoulder and stares at the ground, clearly trying to think of something, anything. "Calabra's as your companion says. Even his fellow made-nobility don't like him much. He likes to flaunt his money and still whines about earnings.
"Working for him was always being accused of laziness, or theft, or of grifting from the cook's funds. Fucking miser. New-gold trash, really. Heavily on the side of stricter taxes on the canals. On all of us."
Payl looks up again at Dima. "Did you say 'Voronin?" And he laughs with a little schadenfreude. "Oh, he hated you. Or your family. I suppose the feeling was mutual - not to say your family had anything to do with it. I can't remember the name, but I know what the name wasn't."
A sigh. "The poison was just what we use to kill vermin. Concentrated for Calabra, obviously. Like I said: I'm no killer. I'm not - wasn't - very creative about any method of accomplishing a murder."
There's another silence, and Payl thinks to add, "I don't remember who hired me, but I know they weren't from Mysos. They complained of losing their way in the streets, but anyone who's lived there for a month knows the trick to getting around."
<.>
It isn't particularly helpful, but Gower at least seems to be trying in earnest; it's more than can be said for most beings, living or undead. So Dmitri decides to refrain from pushing further.
He did huff an amused laugh at the mention of Calabra's hatred. The hatred's no surprise; the question is how often the shit has cursed Dima's family, and how loudly, and how many vases he might have destroyed in the process. They aren't questions worth asking, or worth entertaining for more than a moment. Dima does, however, remark archly, "Not the most potent choice of poisons, but suited perfectly to Calabra."
Godsdamned ratfink fuck that he is.
"You can't have been the first to attempt to poison him; I'm certain you won't be the last." Most likely, Gower also won't be the last servant approached with the murderous offer. If, if they decide to pursue this further, they could do worse than to surreptitiously question some of Calabra's living servants.
"Payl. You have my thanks, and I've no more questions for you. Your daughter will be cared for; you may rely on that."
Dima folds his arms and looks to the rest of the party.
Rin has no questions to add, though now that the meeting seems to be reaching it's end, they're beginning to grow antsy, their eyes darting to the mirrors more and more often. Clearly, they will not be leaving once the conversation's finished. They have mirrors to look at, thank you very much! Also, maybe if they look at enough mirrors and ask enough questions about enough mirrors, they can help get the ghost's mind off of— Well, off of some of this, at least.
<.>
Sen, seeing Rin's fixation growing, thinks maybe he ought to try to find some way to distract them from the mirrors and allow Payl a little time to compose himself. (Insofar as a ghost may feel composed so soon after its death.) He knows there's a shop full of small totems near the docks, but he's not entirely sure that's enough to pry them away from the dozens of reflected Rins. (He can't blame them.)
Faolan, for his own part, has nothing more he wants to pursue about this. He thinks there's quite a lot of information that's been given, though it might need some puzzling through. Maybe tomorrow after another rest, he can approach all the information Payl's given them and figure out something crucial. Without waiting for the rest, he slips out of the stall and into a little more open space (away from all those mirrors.) (Not now.)
Payl sees the looks Sen keeps casting at Rin, and the looks Rin keeps casting at the mirrors. Hurriedly, he picks up a small hand mirror - folding, with a clever little catch to keep it closed. "Here. It isn't much, and it doesn't have any magic to it, but why don't you have it? With my thanks."
<.>
Rin—
Rin actually. Doesn't quite know what to do with this. People don't really give them things; it's usually a 'Rin takes and nobody realizes until later' sort of arrangement. Or a 'sometimes people give Rin things but it's always when they want something' arrangement.
Which.
Okay, maybe Payl does want something, and maybe what he wants is a little space, and maybe that's also why Sen's been looking at them like that, and it's true Rin's not the best at picking up on hints.
The mirror's in their hands now, and Rin's smiling down at it, pleased, running their hand along its cover. When they look up, there's a grin for Sen and a flash of the mirror - "Sen, Sen, look!" - then a smile for Payl and a little bow of their head. "If you're sure it's all right?
"Here, you should have something to, I'll—" They don't have much a ghost would want. Or could do much with. But there's a thought, something recent that tickles their memory, and as they tug at their hair, the pieces slip into place: "What if I bring you back a memory? If I— When we find your daughter." A pause as they try, they really try to remember and the name issss, "Manon, that's right, right? I could touch her hair - just like—" Here, they demonstrate, combing their fingers slow through their own hair. "Like that, and bring the memory to you? If it's okay with you, and if your daughter's okay with it."
They look to Sen, partly just to look at Sen because he's lovely to look at, partly as a way of checking to see whether they've gone way off-point. Then, back to Payl with a nod: "I'd like to do that."
Dmitri, when he saw the conversation had indeed reached its end, has followed Faolan out. Approaching him without coming too close, just in case the man needs a moment. Just in case what he witnessed was a little overwhelming. After a moment, he does ask, voice not too loud, "How do you feel?"
<.>
Payl looks utterly broken by their offer. If he had breath, it would catch - and it looks as though, if he could weep, maybe he would. "I..."
Composing himself a little, he nods. "I didn't expect anything. But if you would do that - Please. Yes, please. I'd like that."
Sen, with a sense of timing and more than his fair capability to read a room, begins to herd Rin out, offering Payl one parting smile and the reassurance that they'll do all they can.
Once they're just out of Payl's sight, Sen stops and smiles down at them. "You are a remarkable creature - with a lovely mirror and a lovelier heart. Do you know that?"
Faolan, meanwhile, doesn't know how to answer that question. Or rather, he doesn't know what Dmitri picked up one, and why he's asking. (There are so many reasons for him to feel anything other than well.) (...Not when he meets Dmitri's eyes, however. Dangerous, that's very dangerous.)
"I can't say I enjoyed that, obviously." He folds his arms and examines the tops of his shoes a moment before bringing himself back to the conversation - and Dmitri. "Tonight's been...a lot. I'm not used to being around so many people anymore, dead or alive."
Why is he telling Dmitri any of this?
(Because it's nice to tell someone who cares.)
"Also. I can't help but think of the servant stopping by our table. How many other people do you suppose he asked, and how many of them know Calabra is looking for whoever hired Gower?"
Faolan chews his lower lip thoughtfully. "I'm worried for his daughter. Someone might get it in their head that Gower told her what he was doing and who he was doing it for. Someone might get to her and his sister long before we do."
<.>
no subject
Dima dares to move forward; near enough to reach for Faolan, though his hands stay loose at his sides, not wanting to force further contact. "I've been entertaining a similar thought. There are potentialities of harm we can't predict; strands leading from the attempted assassination and the money paid to his daughter, his sister.
"We'd be wise to seek her home as soon as we're able. If she's there now - if they're both there - we have coin enough to assure their passage from the city, and with a word, I can secure temporary housing, at the least." If Morwenna isn't in the city - if, perhaps, she and the daughter are in the process of traveling from Mysos - they'll need to construct another plan.
"I'm interested in knowing why Calabra had his servant making such an unsubtle search. Unless he thought to avoid the embarrassment of bringing the Nightmare Market to his connections." Dima shakes his head, dismissing the subject for the moment; it's another layer of conflict that Faolan needn't consider, certainly not right now.
Fixing his eyes on Faolan, Dima speaks in a voice soft but self-assured: "We'll find her, Faolan. And there are many places a girl and her guardian might escape discovery."
There's a moment's pause, Dima clearly considering this next action before he takes it, reaching out to settle a hand at Faolan's elbow. "Tonight's been a lot; the past several days have been a lot. It's all become something of a blur, but between the mansion, the rush of the city, and now this—
"You've endured quite a lot, Faolan. It might be best to have a breath outside." Another pause, a cant of Dima's head. "Would you like that?"
With or without Dima's accompaniment, he means (though he hopes, of course he hopes, for 'with').
Nearby, Rin wraps their arm around Sen's, shifting their gaze between the mirror and the elf. They'd given Payl a parting wave of their hand goodbye, vowing to themself all over again to bring him back his memory, and to make it a very good one. Now they laugh a little, beaming up at Sen.
“I don’t know so much about my heart, but it is a lovely mirror, isn’t it? And you are a lovely elf.” They open the mirror again to examine their face, then hold it up toward Sen so that he may see himself (himself?). "See what I mean?
"Well, I mean your face, and also... everything you said to him in there. The promises; I think he needed that. And if anyone can keep those promises, it's us honorable scoundrels." Considering, considering, and, "This all got more complicated, didn't it? I mean. There's a lot to do if we want that money, and if we want to help Calabra with anything at all.
"...Maybe we could just rob him?"
<.>
He doesn't know quite how he ends up at the docks with Dmitri beside him; he didn't invite the man, but neither did he turn him away, and he did agree that he was in need of space. He did need freedom from the crowd. Perhaps Dmitri led him out, and he simply followed because -
He always has been something of a follower.
(And if he did let himself care for, want Dmitri, he would follow him anywhere.)
So Faolan is sitting now on the dock with his shoes off and his legs dangling, feet drifting in the water fearlessly, unmindful of what creatures might see them as opportunity.
He's been quiet all this time, other than his assent. He's had a good deal to think about, and truthfully, he's growing tired of thinking. It's nice to sit here and look at the reflection of stars on the water, to look up and see those stars above him. (To feel Dmitri beside him.)
It's nice to know Dmitri expects nothing from him, demands nothing. Is simply here, maybe happy to be in his company.
Sen is having a very different sort of interlude. As he and Rin wander the market, he picks and prods at the problems with Calabra, with the assassin, and is beginning to wonder how much more there is to this.
How deep the rabbit hole goes, so to speak.
"I'm curious why someone would pay a servant a small fortune to kill him. Why not hire an actual assassin? Someone with experience would surely have gotten the job done. Do you suppose this is the exact outcome they wanted? A message of some sort to Calabra, that he can be reached from anywhere, at any time? It might have been difficult for an assassin to get close, but not unmanageable."
<.>
There isn't any need to speak, not now.
Dmitri did lead Faolan from the Market. Gently, with a hand at his elbow. Speaking a soft series of inconsequential notions; remarks on a stall's wares requiring no answer, thoughts of what the hour might be and how the sky might appear, talk of sights encountered on the road prior to meeting this man.
The dock seemed the natural place to take their quiet. Whether Dima led or whether he felt Faolan tending toward the shore, he can't say. He knows he's glad for the water's presence. He knows the silence of the night brings comfort, helps begin to clear his head of convolutions. He knows he's pleased, he's unspeakably lucky to be here, seated by this man, sharing in his silence and his presence.
He knows there's quiet thrill each time he turns to see Faolan still here, and sitting close. As if he's found a kind of peace. And it's charming, the way he sits, feet kept within the water while Dmitri sits with one leg crossed beneath him, the other upright, crooked, the better to wind his arm around it. He doesn't venture to touch Faolan; he also sits near enough to feel Faolan's warmth, and almost hear his heartbeat.
Liviana flies above, occasionally dipping close, the soaring toward the slowly, slowly fading night. She hunts, yes, and keeps an eye to any signs of movement, any signal that might suggest attack, or merely an equally unwanted interruption. (She, too, is glad of the quiet, the open sky. There was much to witness in the Market, but Liviana has always preferred vast spaces to crowds.)
At some point, Dmitri does speak. Again in the soft voice that demands no response; demands no active listening. Speaking of the night sky as he's seen in from so many cities, town, uninhabited places. Of the stars' reflections on the lake before them now, and the way they shimmer upon rivers, caught in streams. Of how well he likes the sky apart from any city's bustle.
He thinks he's never seen a more comforting sky than the one before him now. He thinks, he knows, he's never met a fonder night. And if he adjusts himself, if the adjustment shifts him just a little nearer to Faolan, it's with no expectation; only gladness for Fae's company; only relief, to know his presence.
In the Market, Rin pauses frequently to look through varied offerings, to touch when no one says 'no touching,' to ask questions and nod and move along again. There was a very nice fan, a few stalls back. A gathering of bones at the one to their right. They like these items, but they like their mirror better, and their attention stays primarily with Sen and with his musings.
He's got a lot of good points, and the more he talks, the clearer the whole situation becomes for Rin (it's a lot easier, they're finding, to hold onto details and track the bigger picture when Sen puts everything into words; it's like everything turns from clouds they can't quite keep together into solid images). They hum, they nod, and really, yeah, they can think of several handfuls of ways someone could have a Sir Lord Fuck-His-Face killed than passing an offer to an untried servant.
Which. Is extra shitty for Payl. Because he not only got caught up in some game of murder chess; he was always going to lose.
"Shit," they hiss. "Yeah, it seems funny - and by funny I mean kinda fucked - to not at least give their mm 'assassin' some better poison, or at least tips for a better poison, maybe some suggestions for how to go about killing. Those are all pretty basic 'if you want a job done right' steps, probably.
"I think you're right, Sen. Unless whoever hired him is the world's stupidest conspirator, they can't have thought it'd end with a dead Calabra. Some sort of bullshit message-sending sounds pretty likely. Like yeah, maybe they were trying to scare him. Or maybe this is step one in a bigger plan?
"Maybe we should ask Dmitri? Seems like he might know about this kind of thing." A shrug, a little skip in their step. "Not that we can't figure it out. ...And now that I think about it, we could always ask some people who know people who are assassins if anyone heard about an offer like this."
<.>
Sen nods along, finding Rin's feedback more helpful than most. They take the things he says and add a new step, a new thread to pull at, but rather than destroying a tapestry, they help create one.
Rin is...really all he's ever been looking for in the world. Someone he can adore, whose nature suits his own. The fact that they are a vain and daydreaming little thing only makes them better.
"I'm sure I know one or two in Striker's Bay, but no one near Awich. Certainly none in Mysos. Do you often come in contact with assassins?" He drops a wink and continues, craning to see over the crowd, "Speaking of Dmitri, though. Where did he and his druid get off to?"
It's a suggestive question. He thinks maybe he won that bet.
Faolan listens - hangs on every word. At some point during these stories, he summons the wildfire spirit to let it run along the river's banks,; it chases Liviana in flight or rolling against the fine sediment by the water, returns again and again to circle him and Dmitri.
(This is, he thinks, how life could have been. If he hadn't become what he did, and if Dmitri hadn't been a Voronin, they could have sat like this by the water and spun dreams for one another.)
Dmitri shifts closer and for a while, Faolan lets their shoulders touch. He closes his eyes and plays his game of pretending, imagines a time when Dmitri won't tire of him, won't realize what sort of man he is. When Dmitri won't remember his own nobility and leave Faolan behind.
Eventually, he moves away - not far. He lies back on the wood of the dock and rests with his arms under his head, his eyes drifting from the sky to Dmitri and back again. And then, surprisingly, he begins to offer his own tales. Places he's seen since leaving Morovsk. Caverns and hidden groves, springs he swam in at midnight under skies just like this. (Alone. Always alone.) He talks about creatures in underground lakes that glowed with their own light.
His stories twine with Dmitri's, offered one for one as though they both need someone else to hear. (Or as though they create a harmony together.) (It's so godsdamned easy to talk to him.)
<.>
If Rin thought about it, they'd be surprised to find how recently they met Sen, surprised to think they haven't known him all their life. (Mostly surprised. Because there's a lot in their life that hasn't been very bright. There's a lot touched with shadow, touched with pains they don't much like revisiting, and mostly let lie in forgetting. It would've all been very different had Sen been there, so in that sense, it makes sense they only just met him, found him, really.) He fits so perfectly beside them, and he broadens all the prospects in the world, and oh, they love every word he says, and they wind their arm a little further around his, infinitely, infinitely pleased.
"Maybe I do.” They bat their eyelashes, most winningly! "You'd be surprised to know the characters a tiefling meets while breaking and entering! ...Well. No, you wouldn't be surprised, but you must let me have my mystery, so please, Sen, do look very surprised when I tell you I have encountered an assassin or even several!"
They look around, as if they just might spot Faolan and Dmitri, but no, no, they haven't seen either since Payl's shop, they're mostly sure of it. And they gasp, oh no! "Sen, do you really think??
"Hmm, but where would they have found a blanket roll? Surely they would be in the grass, or behind a stall, and I can't be certain whether that means the bet is forfeit!" A nod, solemn. "We failed to consider the ramifications of illicit meetings where bedrolls fail to tread!
"Also, how will we find out, if we don't catch them? Should we go look— Oh, no.” They pull an exaggerated, sour face. "No probably not that. But will we know by the look of them? I'm not sure how druids and necromancers look post-coitus."
It means something (it means, Dima thinks, quite a lot) that Faolan summons the wolf, and Dima watches the wolf run, watches Liviana circle the spirit, black feathers and bright fire spiraled through the sky. Smiles crooked (*happy*) when the wolf runs circles around the two of them, and Liviana gyres overhead.
It's perfect, crystalline; this moment, this space.
Faolan's shoulder against his own. Their bodies warm against the night's subtle chill.
Faolan, eyes closed, accepting - trusting, for the moment? - Dima's presence, bathing in the stars' light.
In this moment, Dmitri thinks, he has everything.
(And this— Whatever follows, he'll have this night forever in his heart, written with slow, ceaseless fire in his bones.)
In the next moment, nearly, he finds he has more, still. Yes, Faolan moves away, but Faolan doesn't go far, and there's a new charm in the way he lies back, beautiful, unwary. It's a movement away that doesn't leave Dima cold. It's a continuation of their closeness; another way of sharing space together. And after—
And after, Faolan speaks. As if a string's been tugged, a slow rush of words freed forth. And Dmitri listens, rapt, feeling fortune-struck. Seeing the pictures Faolan paints in perfect clarity. Thinking how well he'd like to see those places with this man; he'd like Faolan to share the secret places he best liked, and be led, hand-in-hand, through all.
More talk, more telling, and Dmitri finds they've begun to speak their tales in a kind of conversation, and that somehow, somehow, the tales together glow with deeper resonance, seem to echo into one another and form images, possibilities unseen; beauty in a vision. Faolan, stretched still across the dock. Dima, sitting with his legs curled behind him, leaning on one arm that keeps him balanced, lets him watch and watch over Faolan.
At some point, Liviana joins them, settling near Dima's feet. At some point, the wolf curls up near Faolan, watching with ears perked and slowly blinking eyes.
And at some point, as Faolan speaks, Dima drifts one hand to settle on Faolan's arm. Slowly, unintrusive (asking no more than a touch); ready to draw back if Faolan seems not to want it.
<.>
no subject
Faolan lets the touch linger, then shifts his other hand to carefully rest atop it. Unguardedly, he closes his eyes and breathes slowly, feeling everything here that could have been his, once. (But isn't it true that it's his right now, even if it's only for an hour?) (Would he pay for this the way other men paid for the things they got from him?)
(No. Not if it's Dmitri.)
Opening his eyes again, he regards the other man in silence, in peace, his hand remaining warm atop Dmitri's despite his (fleeting) misgivings.
Sen, meanwhile, is pulling a face at the thought of post-coital necromancers, because he's quite certain (as he relays to Rin) that they make the most godforsaken faces mid-coitus. As for druids, they probably rut like dogs and howl just as loud. The post-coitus is bound to be messy.
"Best we leave them be and make our own entertainment until they deign to make an appearance again."
Which leads him to a sign marking 'the Pits' - a pair of makeshift fighting rings where contenders at present are facing off against mud golems. "Care to watch someone find themselves absorbed after trying to land a blow?"
<.>
Sacred, he thinks, to know his touch accepted, his hand covered.
Sacred to sit beneath the stars with their familiars, with the vestiges of Rose and Thorn, with Dima's voice and Faolan's brushing soft with one another, turning the night into their own.
There could be no world beyond them. They - the, yes, the six of them - could compose the world alone. (They could, Dima thinks, be a family.) (Oh, if only. (Oh, it isn't impossible— But he can't think that. Not now, and right now, there's no need.))
All thought - all breath - stalls as Faolan's eyes turn open, upward. As Dmitri beholds what ought to be impossible: This man, witnessing his eyes (Dima's eyes, now unguarded; wondering and looking on a world anew) (Dima's eyes, stricken with experience, with years of harshness, years of echoed hollows), and not drawing away. This man, who knows some measure of what Dmitri is, who has seen some of the fury, the fascinations Dima possesses, and still, still looks upon him, still lies in steady-breathing peace.
Beneath Faolan's hand, Dima presses his own, softly, a gesture of thanks and of kinship; something kindred (something of soul calling to soul; heart recognizing its own). And Dmitri speaks, awestruck and hushed, "Astonishing, this night."
And. "Fae. Thank you."
Yeah, Rin thinks; yeah, they're probably both better off not walking in on, hmmm, whatever they could walk in on, or its aftermath. This Pit's got to be better (if - oh no, don't think about that - no less messy), and!
"Only if we can bet on it!" They have a feeling Sen won't be opposed, but also just in case, "Or pretend bet. I've still got a lot of ballbearings, and we can chuck the ones we win at anyone who annoys us. Or we can bet in stories; if I win, you have to tell a story for me, and if you win, I'll make a story just for you.
"Yours'll be better though. That's pretty sure, so you'll have to go in knowing you've got the short end of the stick. But Sen!" They step suddenly in front of his, setting their hands on his chest and watching with a grin. "I shall do my very best, and if my stories don't have the best quality, they will have a lot of, so very much heart!"
<.>
He knows better. He's been telling himself he knows better for three days now. There's no happy ending here.
But. Right now, tonight, he has this. He has their familiars close, and, in this distorted fantasy, their children likewise near at hand. He has a sky stretching above them, full of stars that reflect off the water idling past.
And Dmitri called him 'Fae'. (And in that thanks, in that familiar name and the touch of the hand at his arm, in the weaving of stories, he knows he has love, however insubstantial it might be.
It's more than he ever had before.)
He closes his eyes against a pricking of tears but breathes steadily anyhow. Right now, tonight, he has everything he could ask for. Why would he discard this, even if tomorrow it's gone like a dream? (Or in a week, Dmitri shuns him before a crowd of nobles.) (He won't give him the chance.)
Without a word, he grasps the hand below his own and draws it to his lips for a chaste kiss, then shifts, holding out his other arm in invitation to Dmitri - to lie beside him. (With him. In his arms, just for a little while.)
When Dmitri's head is resting on his shoulder, when they press body-to-body and Faolan's arm holds securely around the man's shoulders, only then does he consider the look that seemed to pass through Dmitri's eyes. There's something raw and broken inside him, too. Maybe he doesn't need Faolan, but he needs this. (Maybe he doesn't need Faolan, but Fae, instead.) (That's too much to hope for, and too dangerous to think.)
"Just tonight," he says softly. "Just for right now, like this, I'll be 'Fae' - and you be 'Dima', and this can be what we are together."
And softer still, with something a little like longing but far more like loss in his voice, "My Dima."
<.>
He could be dreaming.
In his pleasant dreams - rare and far-between - it's always deep night, and there's always water. In these dreams, he's known at times the presence of a corvid-seeming creature, yes—
But there never was a man beside him.
There never was the ghost of anyone beside himself and the shadowed creature-to-be. It wouldn't have occurred to Dmitri to consider the possibility; long ago, he learned there was no good in seeking company. Long ago, he learned reliance solely on himself. So he never could have imagined this man (this beautiful man, in soul in magic in body in being), or imagined his own heart opened so quickly, so wholly.
Nor could he have known how his heart would shiver, how thought and feeling would thaw, melt, blossom at the sound of his own name.
('Dima.')
(‘My Dima,' and a kiss offered upon his hand, a place granted beneath the open stars.)
(He couldn't have known how a sound would germinate within his throat and catch, the bare beginning of a sigh, an almost-laugh or almost-sob; signal of a soul beholding revelation; signaling of an unsuspected, decades-buried longing granted fire.)
He wants this forever. He wants this: To stay here, unguarded and secure, his cheek brushing a nuzzle against Faolan's (Fae's) shoulder. To bring this feeling out into the world beyond, and know it to be something lasting. To know himself as Fae's, and Fae as his own.
He knows the wish is foolhardy. He hears Faolan's meaning: That what they have just now is temporary, is for this moment and perhaps, perhaps never again. There's pain to be found in the absence that may follow, but why think on that now? Why not wrap himself and Fae alike within the cloak of velvet silver-stricken blue; why not wrap his arm closer, closer around Faolan's chest. Why not dare - just softly, as an offering without declaring claim, as an expression of devotion, adoration - to set a kiss upon Fae's cheek, and speak with hush, with wonder—
"Astonishing— My Fae."
<.>