watch it burn

Though he knows Thorne doesn’t say the words seriously, Canaan still rolls his eyes, his reply approaching brassy. And on some levels, he knows this had been the other’s intention—to draw a reaction out of him, to needle him into an emotional response. Which is frustrating, because he doesn’t like to be manipulated, but considering it’s an emotional response still well within his realm of ordinary (cynicism, contempt, general-and-flagrant bitching), he lets it slide. 

“It’s a very good thing you’re pretty, Thorne, because you’re talking like a fucking idiot,” he drawls after a colourful scoff, shooting the other a look. “Fuck that. I’ll tell you what I told the Queen—not in so many words, of course, but—I will put up with this charade, I will even support the notion of this… mending of bridges, so to speak, considering I have voiced on multiple occasions that I… reluctantly believe this is the best course of action for us. But I don’t have to like it. And don’t think for one second that I’m going to just play nice with the Seelie for the sake of protecting their fragile sensibilities.”

He takes a sip of the drink he’s taken from Thorne—a sip becomes a hearty chug. When he brings it back down from his lips, he’s depleted it by half. He can almost see the bottom—a shame. 

“Missing out? You mean if I sneak away early?” Another scoff. “Please, there’ll be nothing to be missed here save for a whole lot of tiring, empty pleasantries and drunken, Seelie embarrassment.” Nonetheless, he turns Thorne an inquiring gaze—one that he disguises as distinctly disinterested, but that he’s asking at all suggests his mild curiosity. “Why—are you suggesting you actually think something will happen tonight?”

"I like to think my charming wit matches my outstanding good looks, but you know, I wouldn't want to sound vain about things." Thorne chirps in easy reply with a purposed study of his nails as though admiring his own physics. "Most people look better without a scowl, just some friendly advice, I seem to recall that works even for you." The words, while humored, are still careful in a way Canaan would not wanted spoken, he knows to tread very lightly on certain subjects and the interests of others are one his dear friend dismisses for his continued courting of that ghost in his memories. By way of teasing it's a gentle version, about as much as anything can be with Canaan without encouraging him to tense over such a notion as care extended. 

With his interest flickered, the words draw Thorne in and he enjoys the ease Canaan has in saying them. He cannot agree with the idea of them but the intensity behind them and the brazen tongue the other takes is something he respects and finds almost a comfort. His scrutiny at times with the Queen is for different reasons, not in bridges that need to be built but in distractions that have costs, but at least between the two of them he can speak freely. Canaan may not like what he has to say, that's nothing rare, but doesn't hold his words on anything more than Thorne himself. Even ground is nothing to be underestimated, nor is a friend who will call someone out on their nonsense. 

"Spend much time with them and you'll learn they don't play nice often themselves," Thorne found it entertaining how few contrasts he saw at times during his ventures around the Seelie. Canaan though had history to it, likely more than he knew from him, the same as far too many of their collective kin. "And at the moment I'm not too keen on another war either, less so when I'm not going to have much choice over bleeding for it." It's the sort of sobering thought Thorne doesn't like to discuss, but necessity won't grant him freedom from the Queen's demands if he prefers to keep his head. "We don't even need a war these days to kill each other." It's a bristled mutter, a bit too much like the growl of a restless animal pacing a corner; his kin and cousins may as well be the same when they're all living under the uncertain shadow of unnatural death.

If there's anything to fault both sides for it's in waiting too long to find some common ground, pity it had to be stained with blood and suspicion. He doesn't allow the thought to fester too long before setting it aside, he doesn't want crimson soaking the conversation, so his eyes draw back to the drink to refocus, tone dry. "By all means, enjoy yourself with my drink. Actually, I'm serious, go ahead; the drunker you are the less I get those lovely death-glares." Being able to smile with the words was the benefit of knowing Canaan for far too long and picking which nerves to test. He does recall what an actual smile looks like from the other, nothing soft in that expression either but it wouldn’t have suited him, but has lost count of how long it’s been since seeing it for himself. 

Ah, and there it is, that tiny snare and the slim second of attention offered up that he has to settle for instead. It couldn't be a light conversation, no, feathery matters aren't enough. "You think something won't? Both sides drinking, distracted, enjoying themselves too much to care about anything else?" It was the sort of logic that was hardly difficult to grasp but all the more comical from someone who indulged vices so eagerly as he did. "I'd be more surprised if nothing happened, and be honest; so would you. It takes all the fun out of causing any trouble myself."

No use in already having the scrutiny of the Queen in case something did happen, even if it meant the evening would be more subdued than he preferred but the conversation is something. "Might as well finish drinking, we're not important enough to have to worry about seeing the morning. Too many better targets." 

"Nothing creeping around in the dark in going to bother trying to get you anyway, you'd scare it away." Thorne added, hands lifted in a gesture of claws and high shoulders, as high as he could manage because Canaan was unnaturally tall in a way that lends itself to that intimidating presence. "Unless they were going to take out your ankles or have a stepladder with them you'll be safe."  

june 25th - the gutter bookshop ( @bedlamroad​ )

There’s a book open on the table in front of him, a rapidly cooling cup of coffee by his elbow, but the only thing he can seem to focus on is the way the clouds are shifting outside the window - twisting and undulating like a serpent shedding its skin, preparing for a new beginning. 

More rain on the horizon, then. 

Oz heaves a sigh and sinks further down into the stiff wooden chair he’s claimed. He’s at his usual secluded spot, wedged into the corner of the building, behind the last set of non-fiction stacks. It’s quiet. Peaceful. This far back in the shop, the noise from the other patrons is deluded to a soft murmur. The only other sound is the comforting hum of the ancient AC unit overhead.

He’s been coming here for ages, now. Ever since his first year of university, when the campus library still seemed so daunting - too crowded and competitive and loud. At this point, The Gutter is more of a security blanket, than anything. A safe haven. 

Somewhere he can let his guard down, even if just for a few fleeting moments.

Oz forcibly returns his attention to the tome he’d grabbed from the folklore section earlier. He flips a page or two, scans a couple paragraphs as he chances a sip of his now stone cold coffee. He’s not really looking for anything in particular, honestly. It’s just…. habit. To come here and research - about Fae. The Otherworld. 

Knowledge is the only armor he has. The best way he knows to keep himself safe. In the beginning, after Aoife, the only thing that kept him sane was this corner table and the publications he’d consume here. Back then, he inhaled ever scrap of info he could get his hands on - whether there was any truth in it or not. Anything was better than nothing, then, and he wasn’t willing to risk skipping over something on the off chance that it was purely fiction. 

And all that studying did yield some results, in the end. 

He fidgets with the plain, iron ring on his index finger, turning it round and round as he reads. That was the first, and best, thing he learned: iron. The one thing, it seemed, that stayed consistent throughout all the legends. He went out and bought the ring on a whim, one afternoon, and he’s seldom taken it off since. 

He knows that, in all likelihood, it wouldn’t offer that much protection if a Fae were truly intent on harming him. It mainly exists as a reminder - a promise to himself. That he’ll never forget who he is and what they are. A line, drawn in the sand. 

He takes another sip of coffee. Grimaces. Contemplates heading home. But, instead, his eyes drift once again to the landscape outside the window. To the dark, foreboding sky overhead. 

“I think we’ve had enough fucking doom-and-gloom lately, thanks,” he murmurs to himself.

"I thought gloom and doom were quite the fixation for all of you." The voice carries with an air of what might be mistaken for indifference but that's by no means the case, obviously there must be some degree of interest to even approach. "You are all dying from the moment you're born; exciting but also a bit morbid." Thorne hums with the words as he circles, having spotted the lurking figure as one he has seen far more often than some Fae might have cared to. It suits him fine though, just as scouring dusty old books and forgotten places do, something in him prefers the human lot even with their dire existence. More so because of it, actually. 

"And what's it today? Some old Scottish sonnet about little faeries in the garden? Welsh rambling over trolls and snatching babies? Or are you just here to enjoy the lovely weather?" He laughs at himself, the words, pleasure in the absurdity of them that he stresses and knows will catch Oz's ears as he invites himself into the small safe-haven built up around the other. With a book plucked from a nearby shelf Thorne leans next to the window and the backdrop of nature’s growing foul mood with a contemplative expression painted on thickly, "I think the problem with human stories is they're written by humans, and who can ever trust one?" 

How he enjoys it, and there's not fault in twisting the minds of mortals for little more than sheer sport of it, but Thorne sees more in that pastime. Nothing he might ever voice, wouldn't risk his Queen at his neck for too much sympathy over such lesser beings, but he rather likes them. They're born of chaos and impossibility, raised upon hunger for more, and all those things Thorne feels something in common with. 

He might be too kind to them, but they are such delicate creatures for being such brazen and determined ones, all things that makes them better. Oz has been a source of curiosity since first discovering him, someone to cultivate, as he can't call the mortal a friend for either of their sake Thorne deems him a project. The man wears an iron ring as though it matters and clambers half starved for words he offers him, some less a game of half-truths than others, all for the sake of being part of both worlds. It's a wonderful madness that Thorne thinks worth encouraging and, in a distant way, protecting. 

He draws a deep breath and tosses the book back amid the others, shifting on his feet as though a threat to leave, waiting for that moment when he knows he has Oz's attention ensnared; there's some satisfaction in being listened to when his own kin rarely bother.

He knew the first moment, the first day he entered Loophole, how could he possibly not? Griffith wanted to laugh, desperately, when he likened his presence to a current dancing across his nerves, buzzing underneath his skin, alive, electric, and difficult to ignore. Oh, but he tried, how he tried. Griffith kept his gaze focused, smiling easily at familiar customers, even at strange ones. He retained his affable manner, the slight tease, flirtation in his tone - easy enough to fake - always earning him good tips for the night. Some part of him wondered if Thorne would be angered by the persona he adopted when he worked the bar, but he shut down that thought quickly enough. It was of no use to even contemplate. 

He came and went, some (read: most) nights. Always at the edges, the periphery, nursing his drink and never taking a step in his direction. Perhaps Griffith was being too arrogant, thinking that Thorne was there for him, perhaps he was fulfilling a task by his Queen, or he was just in need of alcohol and only a few clubs catered to the Fae in Dublin. But then his eyes would meet Thorne’s across the crowd - bright, fiery, furious - and Griffith would quickly wrench his gaze away and continue to work, as if nothing happened. 

Tonight, tonight on the other hand, Griffith was already tired. He had a long day in class, hours and hours of recitation only to be reprimanded at the slightest mistake. He still had a hundred readings to go through, the stack of papers on his desk like a looming challenge he wasn’t ready to take on quite just yet. He just wanted to get in bed and sleep for days on end, and having Thorne always there, at the back of the club and at the back of his mind was giving him a headache he was certain would keep him up for hours.

So consumed with his thoughts, Griffith did not notice the next man lumbering up to him, huge in a way that suggested excessive body building with no intent to use it. He towered over Griffith, which was a feat in itself, and was clearly ten yards past wrecked already. He slammed his first down on the bar, his speech slurring as he ordered for another drink. Griffith, already an old hand at this, told him quite nicely - despite the ache throbbing in his right temple - that sorry, he’ll already have to cut him off. 

The next series of events were something so laughably common that Griffith didn’t even flinch when the drunk grabbed his collar, his muscles bulging as he tried to haul him forward, completely unaware of the fact that Griffith’s entire frame remained steady, not moving a single inch forward despite his efforts. Griffith raised a brow, hand reaching up to firmly grasp the offender’s wrist, his tone mild as he spoke.

“Now, now, no need for that my good friend.” 

He might have bought it, the weight of being entirely forgotten would have sank into his veins and trickled there like poison, if not for the familiarity between them. Thorne had watched, only with a hint of sideways glance of course, as Griffith flickered about with all the air of disinterest in anything outside the norm, trying so hard to grip onto dismissal of his presence. Trying far too hard, as it was, that had given him away more than once. He found a hint of smug amusement in it but just as much pointless effort; how circular it all felt when Griffith was trying to avoid the idea of avoiding him to make the point that he wasn't attempting to. 

It hadn't used to be that way. Thorne didn't care to admit that with changes came more trouble, some self-damning truth to the fact that a great deal of the world Griffith seemingly knew now was an ugly one that Thorne was a part of.

If Griffith was disgusted with whatever he might have learned about him though, he assumed, harsh words and demands of distance would have been the reaction more than skirting the edges of interaction. He was slowly growing tired of that game, the interest in it unraveling at the seams the longer he observed and the deeper the memories dug into him. Griffith was someone new and still the same, time kept trying to take that resolve from him but he wouldn't allow it; quite the asinine battle to fight with himself. 

There was something of interest though in the encounter, it fell into the new realms of clearly not his business but that did nothing to keep Thorne from observing. Nothing suspicious in that, no underlying motives to be read; people stared at altercations all the time in clubs. It was part of the reason, at times, to even go; drunken spats. It didn't even cause the edge of his lip to draw back across his teeth, not more than a tiny amount that hardly counted, or his fingers to tap the edge of his glass restlessly. Griffith could handle himself perfectly well; wasn't that part of what he was out to flaunt? 

He didn't care all too much if he were being obvious at that point, Thorne watched with a lift of his brows and gathered curiosity. The thought crossed his mind and traveled to his fingertips as they curled around the small glass that, if he wanted to, it would have been a clear enough shot to the lumbering disaster’s  head. He toyed with the idea, set it aside for the moment. Not his business. He didn't have to like it though. That itch crept up the back of his neck, the one he could never really trust, whispering the most delightful ideas and promising the sort of excitement he thrived on. 

Besides, it was concern; he might have done the same for anyone he knew. It was a crowded club, surely too crowded to pinpoint a single person. All logic enough, Thorne decided, because he required very little logic at all to chase those destructive possibilities.  He didn't feel bad in the least flipping the object off the counter, really it was the snap of fingers at Griffith's collar that did him in and made the decision so he couldn't be blamed, and felt more accomplishment than regret in flinging the small glass with reasonably honed aim at the target he mentally painted on the back of that thick skull. Unable to resist, he abandoned his seat to meander towards the scene with eyes glinted in the darkness and flashing neon around him. 

“Oh, there’s the bartender.” He couldn’t even hide the edge of a smirk at his lips with the words as the evening was taking a far more entertaining turn. “I seemed to have lost my drink and need another.” 

location: the stone circle

date: june 22, afternoon

status: closed to @bedlamroad​, @arowankeriran​

The news hits her harder than she expected that morning, as reports of tracks and blood near the Stone Circle- their circle, come in. True, there was no body, but that didn’t mean much to her. Someone still stepped into their sacred place and tainted it with blood her kind hadn’t spilled themselves. She took it as a warning, that whoever was doing this was much closer than she thought, and held no reservations in making such a bold claim in her court’s territory. 

She arrives earlier than the others, not wanting neither Thorne or Kieran to see her initial reaction to it all. Her breaths were unsteady as she closes in on the soiled earth. This place, where the war council would so often meet, was no stranger to her, but it felt like it that day. The air, normally charged, felt different- chillier than usual. Something unwelcome had crossed the stones threshold, and it wasn’t welcome. 

Thirty minutes after she arrives she can hear at least one of her two companions approach. Turning towards the sound, she immediately recognizes Thorne, and gives him a curt nod. Choosing Thorne and Kieran of all the Unseelie soldiers to accompany her was certainly a gamble given the two’s reputation, but it was that very reputation for violence and ruin that made her choose them in the first place. After all, who better to understand the mind of a potential killer, than the court’s two most prolific?

“You live close to here, right?” She asks, bypassing any verbal greeting. “You remember anything strange last night?” 

Blood doesn't stir much in him, it's the sort of thing that, unfortunately, a person can grow accustomed to if enough of their time is spent in the company of it. Seeing his fair share, if not more, left a mark too long ago for Thorne to put time to, a twinge of crimson has overcast too many of his days for a little more of it to inspire much wariness. It’s too much of a stain on his own hands to be a shock. Irritation, raised hackles at the prospects of someone, or something, bringing that reminder of the dark cloud too many of his kin and cousins were trying to ignore with parties and distance right to his own backyard leaves him restless with anger though, just short of pacing the circle. Thorne is, unsurprisingly, by nature more territorial than many of the Fae and it's not only a grim discovery but a personal sort of insult, maybe even a hint of self-directed frustration that he failed to notice something so close happening right under his nose.

He doesn't answer at first, it's common enough knowledge that his home is barely a walk from the sticky trails along the ground, close enough that if he had the good sense to ignore the lure of the past few days he might have nearly smelled the blood in the air. 

Eventually he has to speak though, with a muttered tone and an expression far too similar to a wolf with teeth drawn tensely. "I can practically see it from my cabin, but I wasn't there last night." Damned distractions, the mistake makes him seethe for letting that guard drop and having Nathair show up to question him over the one place he's more familiar with than most; it needles his pride more than he'll admit. 

He earns it then, apparently for his own foolish ignorance, the annoyance of having to deal with both of them. He's not even remotely the same person between them, could not have picked a worse set if he'd personally tried to, but it wasn't a choice. The Queen didn't grant many choices, Nathair granted even fewer to him.   Doesn't matter; there's too much tension to bother with games. 

His eyes only shift to Keiran momentarily with the crackle and crunch of his steps in approach, devoid of the cynic's humor from their previous conversation, flat and focused. He knows why they're both here, destruction pairs well with ruin when dealing with ugly matters; fire with fire. "I guess we're all here now," his lingering tone suggests that he might have preferred for it to not be a group effort, but so be it.

Rarely had the question of pride crossed Thorne’s mind, he knew himself to be stubborn to a fault more often than not and embraced it with no real interest in the opinions others might have of it. He could argue that any given day might find him lurking around Loophole, his draw to the glittery glow and the chaotic energy within those walls is nothing he denied in the past, liked to think it one of his better qualities being able to appreciate distraction so fully. 

Harmless, inviting, he’d lost count of the nights the club stood as a replacement for the sort of places he would rather immerse himself in past the borders and in the human’s world. It’s a different, more extreme version; there was a razor in the sounds and a harshness to the neon that comes from the Fae reflection of what they try to steal from humans. He enjoyed the place, had thought more than once that if life might have been different and he wasn’t so busy chasing shadows around for the Queen he might have just haunted the corners of the club instead. He could have spent a few lifetimes lost there, quite happily.

Except not, because stubborn pride is what it is and fate had a terrible sense of humor in what it took away and, sometimes, what it gave back in tarnished ways. 

Thorne wanted to say he loathed it but all he loathed was the situation, the mockery that digs under his skin and forced him to bite back his words. Childish, he stalked the club with too-obvious presence and made a point more than one night to be seen. He did so for a week, longer, lost all track of the exact when and how but his spare moments are split between the woods and the one singular place.

Because he liked to torment himself, evidently, and doesn’t recall being such a masochist otherwise. 

He refused to say it’s concern, his jaw set tight and won’t allow him to betray himself the times he might have confessed it. But it’s a lifetime past, and in the lifetimes between he felt more misery from that ghost than he cared to admit. Damn it all and damn him, both of them for good measure. 

It’s a wonderfully bitter notion, a nice undertone to the taste of the amber-colored drink clenched just barely too tight in his hand while he played the exhausting schoolyard game of pretending to pretend not to take any notice at all of the person he could pinpoint across the busy club in an instant. Even from his perch at the furthermost edge of the bar, just close enough to keep track of the other man’s motions, it’s a calculated distance for his own sanity. 

Lifting the glass and letting the liquid burn all the way down his throat Thorne offered another silent curse to whatever Gods happen to be around to blame and narrowed his gaze over Griffith for yet another round of side-eyed study. 

He hadn’t changed so much, Thorne noted, age makes mortals different but he still saw the same person as before. When it was less real and the world was a single bubble they’d built around themselves maybe they both had been ageless, he wonders how long it will take for his blindness to lift and the years will be visible to his eyes. Not that night, no, and that just made it worse somehow. 

He won’t be silent and reserved over it, maturity a waste when it comes to matter of broken emotions, Thorne felt as though he were in the middle of a war he can’t come out of without more scars than he already held from those memories.  

A scoff escapes his lips, eyes rolling at the words offered to him by Thorne. He takes the moment to reach out, gently bat Thorne’s hand out of the air to force him to abort the gesture. “There’s no accounting for your shitty taste, I suppose.” He says, more amused than anything else. Bullshit, but fun bullshit that will get his mind off of the darkness of the times. Thorne’s nonsense, if nothing else, is amusing to him.

“It’s definitely an insult.” He agrees, a certain gruffness in his voice. Keiran usually sounds like he’d rather be doing anything else than speak with you, even if he really is enjoying himself. Still, he lets out a small huff of a laugh. Too early, indeed. The day has long hours spread out ahead of them, it seems almost like an inescapable expanse. Keiran would rather it was over, done and ended and ready to release him back to some semblance of freedom. He’d like to flee from it, but it’s his job to be here with keen eyes and a heavy heart. 

He shakes his head, almost fond, at the way the other fae talks about their Queen. She’d have him by the scruff of his neck if she heard him talking like that, have him on his knees with a blade to the delicate meat of his throat. They’d all watch. People would cheer her on. God, Thorne was an annoying little thing at the best of times, but at least it was fun. “True enough,” He agrees, courting doom with it, taking a long drink. “She could use the practice hating the rest of us. Stretch those unused muscles.” 

He snorts another laugh, shoving Thorne gently away again. “And what real fun would you recommend, if you were the type of person I took advice from?” 

"That we can both probably agree on, my tastes are atrocious and change by the minute; it's a terrible burden." The sigh he heaves is long and overdone by a good few seconds, the grin hanging at his lips one set firmly in place. "But on the other hand I'm hardly the one brooding in the dark, am I? It has some charm to it but, really, so dramatic of you." Perhaps that's the fascination with Keiran, he exists within something other than the placid indifference and Thorne prefers it. Or it's a passing whim that strikes him to play at ruffling the other's feathers playfully. 

He laughs at the reply, far less reserved over than matter than Keiran's caution. He sees the wisdom in it, careful words, but that isn't the caution he has built. If he were to do anything else but flex his claws foolishly then people would find suspicion; he has the pleasant freedom to make a fool of himself because to say he doesn't care what most think of him is an understatement that is obvious. Freedom comes in real dishonesty at times; he can't count on more than one hand the number among Fae and human alike who actually know him. Plenty know the court's watchdog, certainly, and plenty speak behind his back over it, but their leashes are shorter than his own when they watch every word they say to anyone more important than himself. She'll have his throat one day, no doubt, but it won't be today. 

"Hate and love might as well be the same thing, they both do the best and worst to people. Let her hate the whole miserable, tiresome bunch of us; all in all as a group we are like whinny children." Some worse than others. While he finds Sorcha wrong at times he still needs her eye on himself strongly enough to keep a place. "It's when she stops hating you that you have to worry; then you're just expendable and not worth having around." Being forgotten is a death sentence, being under the Queen's scrutiny still a safer edge to walk, at least in his opinion.

Thorne yawns though, as though tired of the musing about the politics of it all. Just as well might have been, he spends enough time balancing that knife and he has no want to do so with the toxic distraction in his blood. "Oh, you expect me to do all the work? Lazy bastard; I'm here entertaining you and you still want me to make your plans?" His cup is empty, Thorne notes as he speaks and glances down to see that nothing spills with that light jostling, and that is a real travesty that requires a pained expression for an instant. "But I'm already having my fun, the entirely acceptable type, I wouldn't dream of doing anything questionable or troublesome." Lies, no, he wouldn't have dreamed of it, he would plan and act on it; of course.

‘Babysitter’. The word puts something sick and vile in the back of his throat, on the roof of his mouth, and he has to actively keep himself from retching. He all-but instantly regrets coming over here, with the words, and he wonders if that was Thorne’s intention. 

The gesture Canaan’s way is vague, Thorne’s gaze dark, a bit moody. Looming. It makes Canaan both roll his eyes and bite back a smirk—a faint want of a curl of his lips, which he tucks behind the rim of his glass. Irritability pools, though—as is always the case with this particular, nettlesome reminder of a life Canaan once lived—or might’ve lived in another universe. Sometimes, were it not for Thorne, he thinks that he’d be halfway to convincing himself that Thallis hadn’t even happened, that his heartbreak was all an illusion—a made up story he’d woven for himself to help justify his apathy and malice. 

But here Thorne is, day in and day out, a barbed, acerbic echo of his brother—harder in appearance and in demeanour, and it serves as a painful reminder everyday that Canaan’s loss is just as real as that life long ago. 

“Whether I’m looming or not, it has little to do with you. Don’t flatter yourself.” Looming is who he is, what he is. He has loomed this whole lifetime, since the time those hundreds of years ago he’d slid into someone else’s shadow and never reemerged. 

He gives Thorne a dry look at the barb about his enjoying himself. “Maker, your wit astounds, me,” he drawls, gaze shifting away to the fire for a moment or two. It’s hard to look Thorne in the eyes too long. Thankfully, Canaan doesn’t often look anyone in the eyes too long in general, an impulse to avoid deep or lengthy connections, he would assume—so he has a reasonable cover for not doing so now. He doesn’t have to admit, even to himself, that it’s because Canaan sees Thallis in Thorne’s eyes when the moonlight hits them just so. 

“Besides. Liquor makes me more agreeable to others, and them more agreeable to me. I’m doing everyone a favour.” 

"You agreeable is hardly you, so that's not much of a favor." Thorne counters with the certainty of one who has seen that to be the case. Canaan is many things, some downright abysmal and others more interesting than most people, but agreeable is rarely one that holds much honesty. Between the two, honest or agreeable just for the sake of playing nice? Thorne would have picked the first, the latter was an ill fit for someone like Canaan, but maybe he held some old, dusty bias from rare moments he's seen the fool closer to happy. 

Thorne finds no fault in having it out with Canaan whenever the mood hits, whatever stray notion or thin edge happens to fall between them, it may not be a healthy back and forth but there's something to it, and Canaan, that he values enough to face his barbs now and again. Nothing holds much real sting to it, feeling anything at all is a thousand times better than nothing; he cannot fathom how it is his old friend finds the will to pass the days in such a state but making a hobby of trying to rile him out of it remains a puzzle worth sifting the pieces apart and shoving back together to see how they might fit. Something owed, yes, because he cannot bring Thallis back or either of them, and something offered more out of wishing he could convince the other not to disappear in slow degrees with his brother. 

"Yes, of course, looming, lurking, frightening the small children and humans. You must be very busy. You scare me." A solemn nod entirely betrayed by the tone of humor in his words, there's no reason to scowl but he leaves Canaan to if it makes him feel better. "But that's just a normal day for you, tonight is supposed to be a poorly veiled attempt at raising everyone's spirits in the middle of murder and social discord; aren't you supposed to be faking happy and pretending to like each other like everyone else?"  The words ended with a mocking laugh, wiser to watch his words but Thorne offers criticism where it belongs; the whole idea is absurd. 

A thought to retrieve his drink follows but as amusing as the indignant comment that might have followed the attempt it looked like Canaan could have used the alcohol more, his edges sharper in the glinted light. Admirable, in a way, Thorne had always secretly wondered how it was a person could so entirely act as if the world were simply not enough to earn their interest. 

"I would say you're missing out on the disaster this'll all become by the end of the night, but I suppose that sort of entertainment is below you these days." It's bound to turn that way, there are too many roaming eyes and drawn whispers lacing the air and leaving it thick; if there is anything to be found in that it's trouble. He has a nose for it as an instigator himself, hungry for chaos in spite of himself. "I probably won't even have a hand it in this time, no promises though."

He’d given in, mildly, to the push and pull of the festivities. Alcohol eased something in him, the sweet wine that tasted of love and home and fun. He was careful not to let it go too far to his head, he had places to be, after all, when the night was over. He made sure his eyes stayed sharp, that he kept an eye out for danger lingering on the horizon of the festivities. Any vicious thing could wander in to the fray, after all, and cut them down while they enjoyed their feasting and libations. Keiran wouldn’t let that happen, if he could stop it. 

He drinks enough to feel the warm buzz. The heat of the sun and the warmth of his own body, blossoming together. He feels alive, wonderfully. He feels worried, anxious. Like he may split open. 

And he hates that Thorne of all people notices it. Such a chaotic little thing, a firecracker in the night. Keiran had always liked him, his feirce and flighty nature. He was a pain in the ass, but only in the best ways possible. Always causing trouble, always up to something, always pissing someone off. Someday, it would get him killed. Keiran hoped that was a long way off. 

He ought to wrangle him and set him loose on someone else, direct his energies towards Canaan and watch them clash. 

“Fuck you, too.” He says, gruff as he always is. “I have it on good authority that the brooding look is very fetching on me.” A joke, an attempt at one. Keiran has never been the funniest, but he does the best he can. 

“Have you started any fights yet, Throne?” He asks, nudging the shoulder of the fae across from him playfully. “Any messes we’ll have to clean up for you? Our Queen will be so angry if you cause a scene at her party, you know.” It’s still playful, wry and mostly friendly. He thinks it would be funny, actually, if Sorcha had cause to shift her disapproval to Thorne instead of someone else. 

There's something marvelous about alcohol in how it makes fools of otherwise reasonable people and turns fools seemingly brilliant; he's rather fond of it for many reasons but that evening his favorite by far is how it leaves so many of his kin and cousins outside their usual, dry, exhausting selves. He's unsure who they think they wear the masks for but it must be very tedious having one nailed to their faces with their little spikes of self-purpose all the time. But don't they all do it? He's guilty as well, his mask just has bolder teeth and less of the pretty lacing of expectations gathered at the edges. If life were as simple as getting the whole lot of them drunk, the courts, and letting them sort themselves it would save everyone a few centuries or so of inane rambling to and fro.

"You may have been misinformed on that," he returns with barely a breath spared to lift his drink to his lips. "Brooding does that thing with your eyebrows,not flattering in the least, looks like a caterpillar." Whatever vague motion he offers is, seemingly, meant to portray the idea of a fuzzy insect in the general brow area. Up to par with the usual nonsense, yes, or at least the level befitting the evening.

He shoots Keiran a look as though he may as well have asked him to take a nap, entertain himself with the inside of  his eyelids or some other equally bland possibility. "Am I really that predictable? That's almost an insult." And one forgotten an instant later while he mulls over the possibilities but sets them aside for the moment.

"It's too early for that anyway." He concludes with a bored sound and a few restless steps that circle back to where he began. No, too early and not nearly drunk enough, everyone, to start them shifting around in discomfort over rumors and murmurs. Which doesn't mean he's any less itching to do so, but that will mark a short end to his evening and Thorne plans to be out and play a little longer.

"I'd hate to take her away from the very important task of scowling at people she doesn't usually get to, she's got me to complain about all the time. Let her have her fun," he snorts and lifts the drink yet again, "I'm even going to be nice and act like I'm surprised you're hiding around in the dark instead of having any real fun." He likes Keiran well enough to give him some grief now and then, really he must like him better than some that evening with the amount of humored torment tossed his way.

It was probably just a bit off-skewed, holding a party in the wake of everything else dismal and death going on, but was it surprising? Thorne couldn't claim to really be shocked that so-called traditions held more weight than murder and the threat of instability; he had to give both sides some credit for their outstanding powers of disconnection from logic. It was one of the few traits he still found entertaining about his cousins and kin; not a shred of common sense won out over whatever they happened to want instead. When that want was distraction so be it; in drink and dark night, and a gathering that must have had whatever creature had taken to picking off a Fae here and there practically salivating at the possibilities. Toss a healthy dose of alcohol into the mix and he was already putting bets on what sort of disaster would end of the wake of the merriment and cold light of morning. 

Did any of it sway Throne from attending the festivities? Of course not; he didn't want to be saddled with common sense anymore than the next person and preferred a front row seat to the chaos if he weren't the one directly responsible for it. Otherwise life blurred one day into the next and Thorne simply could not stand the bland tones, existence was meant to be carried out in neon lights or harsh contrasts and certainly never in beige or ivory. Lately the crimson overcast had been too apparent but why bother to trouble over such heavy thoughts on a night crafted for distance from every little realistic worry?

The hilarious irony of it all was almost as sweet as the drink in his hand, the number of how many had preceded it escaped him and felt like useless information, but not nearly as much to savor as watching the stumbling and scrambling he'd watched both sides do in false efforts to win each other's favor for a single evening. It wasn't as difficult as they made it but far be it for him to point out the simplicity of getting along with each other to those who, clearly, knew better than him how the politics of existence were meant to work. 

It mattered less than the number of stars above or the count of blades of grass under the soles of his boots as he wandered on the outskirts, listening and picking up little conversations in passing but bothering with none until the faintest flicker of motion held his attention and absolutely demanded he give his full focus to somehow who wanted nothing of the sort in their own avoidance of anything but the quiet edges of revelry. He was just, after all, being friendly. 

"You look miserable," no flowery words for it but the words he preferred were usually anything but pretty. Bold, yes, at times far too brash or even nonsensical, but  Keiran was blessed enough that he had just enough alcohol warming his veins for his mood to be downright cheerful in his play at banter. "But you always look miserable so maybe that's just unfortunate genetics."

LABEL: Pyrite NAME: Ruairi Thorne AGE: 400-600 Gender: Cis Male PRONOUNS: He/Him FACECLAIM: Thomas Doherty

All things that burn bright burn quickly, a candle that flames with fury never cuts the darkness as long as the one that glows softly; Thorne has always felt that in the end he would burn. From his childhood steps, not so long past, he has chased the fireflies before him, fingers singed at the tips for the sparse moments he has closed them around some rare glimmer of want fulfilled before moving on to the next. Every leap forward has only left the next one more blissfully risky. Thorne is too bold, he is reckless and for those faults has never been the same as his family with their simple ways and contented life rooted in modest means, his deepest wrong has always lain in want for more than what he should rightfully have.

Mr. Armitage

Thorne won't admit it, not to anyone, the words will never willing leave his mouth. He can't deny though that the death of the antiques dealer was, surprisingly, a painful revelation. Not so much because he ever had much of a speaking relationship with the strange Fae, the only words they ever exchanged were short and direct, but there was a familiarity to it that he still misses. Spending hours roaming the shop, Armitage purposely ignoring the out of place figure among all the dusty trinkets and found objects, had always been an escape.