interlinked

❛ you must never overthink any good and pleasurable thing. ❜ / emm to regin! || @fatewoven

Regin pauses, as the necromancer speaks, and she huffs faintly, expression twisting. "... You underestimate how very good I am at overthinking," she says, somewhat playfully, but regrettably serious in the same breath. And it's true.

She's good at overthinking in general.

But, yes- a moment taken to herself is... Hard. She'd been trying. For a moment, a book in her hand, curled into a soft chair the Lighthouse had seen fit to provide to her. She keeps glancing towards the door, though- waiting for someone to barge in, to be needed for some catastrophe or another.

That is how things tend to go.

"But I don't tend to pursue much beyond duty, so, 'good and pleasurable' are pretty foreign regardless." Unfortunately true. "Unless you count, ah- books on weather patterns and study. Suppose that's something of a guilty pleasure, these days. End of the world having come back and all." Which... Yes, the book in her hand is on wind currents and observations. She closes it, making a deep sigh, careful to mentally mark her page.

She shakes her head a bit, dismissing that with a wave of her hand.

"Did you need something?"

Thrown into the chaos of the world with nary an idea on how to solve such an insurmountable task would daunt any individual. Yet, how many times must the world be saved before a soul could take a well earned rest?

Emmrich studies her, and thinks of the spirit known as Pride. It seems an endless road to try and heal all of the world's sorrows by their lonesome.

feynirin sulked into his bread, the pressing tension of his hangover making him feel sluggish and heavy. he was sure there was something to be said that he was letting himself be seen in such a state in front of a master assassin but he figured that he could dissect that later. after carbs. lots and lots of carbs.

“   it's been my experience that when you hit bottom, the only place left to go is up.   ”

          “True,” Luz concedes, green eyes bright with hellfire as they sweep across the city sprawling below them. From their vantage point on the balcony of Baldur’s Gate’s preeminent trader of precious metals, the two men can see much: the gardens immediately below, a night market bustling lower down, the dark harbor, and a shadow slipping out of a far-off window. Such things are known to transpire in the City of Blood, and tucked safely away within a well-secured estate, they become—at worst—topics of quiet discussion.

          The knife may well have Enver Gortash’s name on it, he knows. But then again, it might not. 

          It isn’t a Gentleman’s place to speculate. Instead, he raises his wine glass to his smiling mouth and takes a drink. One of his own blends, the Ferryman’s Pour: a deep, garnet-colored red with flavors of blackberries, smoke, and rich spices.

The glass tips forward; however, the liquid never makes it to his lips. A constant act of deception required when one wishes to remain in control.

"Indeed. An outstanding merchant such as yourself needn't concern yourself with knives in the dark," he drawls, smoke yet lingering on his breath. He sets the wine at the edge of the marvel-carved balustrade and returns to the tried and true vice of tobacco, the pipe gleaming with its small gold-embossed details as he takes a slow drag. "Trusting soldiers to do what you could do on your own seems a wasted effort. Cleaning up after others' mistakes... It gets quite tiresome."

her expression twists, caught in a limbo between a grimace & recalcitrant amusement, as if teetering on the edge of a blade — one honed to a razor’s edge, cutting as effortlessly through fabric as it would through marrow. his words flay with a precision she loathes, peeling back layers she’d rather keep stitched together. she detests the sensation of being picked apart, dissected beneath the keen scrutiny of those far too perceptive for her liking. the way they watch, how they listen — she can feel them prying, peeling, burrowing beneath her skin. a carcass left too long under a malicious sun, overripe & festering, waiting for scavengers to descend. she has spent years evading the talons of those who pick apart the weak, yet here she is, feeling the carrion birds circle, wings casting shadows over her ribcage where something cold & restless stirs.

she exhales sharply through her nose, the sound a quiet surrender to irritation, her brows knitting together in reproach. damn these crows & their discerning eyes. she should know better than to let her own kind get too close.

despite herself, a smile ghosts across her lips — thin, fleeting, but present. her gaze lingers on him, studying the way he moves through the kitchen with the same fluid grace as an assassin wielding his blade. precision, efficiency, control. it is an art she has never managed to master, no matter how many times she has tried. the delicate balance of heat & timing eludes her; the patience required grates against the very core of who she is. & so, she watches, not with envy, but with that distant sort of admiration reserved for things she knows she will never possess.

“ is that concern i hear ? ” she muses, voice laced with something between jocularity & challenge. “ careful, your reputation might take a hit. ”

she recalls teia’s teasing from before — how the idea of him possessing even the faintest trace of sentimentality had been met with mirth. if word ever got out about his so-called soft heart, she wonders how he would handle the fallout. not that she would be the one to spread such rumors. not out of trepidation, but because it simply did not interest her.

her eyes flick back to him, watching the subtle curve of his mouth, the ease in his movements. moments like these, however brief, were the only respite she allowed herself amid the turbulence of her existence. & so, she takes it.

with a lazy sort of grace, she pulls out a chair, only to seat herself on the armrest rather than the cushion, balancing with the casual nonchalance of someone who never quite allows herself to be comfortable. one elbow props against the chair’s back, her jaw resting against the heel of her palm.

“ welll, i can’t promise i wouldn’t botch a trade deal & saddle you with some god-awful, bitter swill, ” a remark as dry as an arid desert. “ but i’ll see what i can do. if i can track down a single man locked in a prison beneath the sea, i think finding a farmer shouldn’t be beyond my skill set. ”

lilac irises drift, their previous sharpness dimming into something distant as he sets about preparing coffee. her hand lowers, fingers wrapping loosely around her opposite wrist, an unconscious gesture of restraint.

“ fighting is simple, ” the words slip free with quiet certainty. “ there’s a right move & a wrong move. you strike, or you don’t. you live, or you don’t. out there, the choices make themselves. ” a sigh threads its way between her lips, her mouth twisting, as if shaping the next words requires more from her than she is willing to give.

“ but here ? ” a pause, her voice tapering into something quieter, something edged with an irresolution she despises. “ or anywhere that isn’t a battlefield — there’s no enemy to cut down, no singular path forward. just … decisions. ones that don’t come with the clarity of a blade in my hand. ”

she falters. the words catch in her throat before she clears it, inhaling sharply as if steeling herself against a slip in composure. then, a weak chuckle — a half-hearted attempt to shake off the tension. “ but choosing a farmer to spare your pockets ? that, i think i can manage. not the most outlandish request i’ve had. ” a beat. “ though, you should come with me. make sure it meets your standard. i have none. ”

Instead of spooling yarn out of his worries, he turns his focus toward work. Being of use in any capacity as the days whittle onward whilst observing his peer. "Between yours and Harding's skills, there's little doubt about your tracking capabilities. Hunt a god, and the rest falls into place, no?" Gauging, words spoken casually as he slowly pours the boiled water over the grounds, he glances at Amatista through his periphery. Perched as she is, hair down and bearing wary, keeping careful balance despite a haphazard first impression there is, indeed, little doubt about her ability.

A reckless streak that mirrors his own propensity for the dramatic at times. Comparable to the decisive, destructive stroke of an executioner's ax rather than a cut to the carotid. The result will prove the same in the end. And there it is: "Action tends to have an immediate reaction. A flow of events that's instinctive for us to imagine." Perception. Assessment. Habits instilled to hone a killer's latent talent for the trade. If one cannot envision the kill, then they've already failed.

"In the grander scope of matters, asking questions and narrowing down your options make the path forward less unpredictable," he says, voice steadied by experience. "My longest contract took well over a year to complete. It was to destroy an idea. To kill the very thought of it from the populace."

Finally, the coffee poured into their respective cups, Lucanis offers one — the entire process done in clear view to absolve any innate suspicion. A point of understanding between assassins. "If not a farmer, at least an honest trader will do." Again an undercurrent of mirth coils in the quiet, as if such a person exists. Foregoing sitting, his form returns to the fireplace, leaning against the flames with his back half-turned. A sign of trust, or perhaps an assurance of his skill should steel bare itself.

A master assassin must never show weakness, after all.

"We don't have time for me to not be alright." Terse. Not unkind, simply straightforward. They're on a mission. She has to be alright. She can break down about this properly later. Despite this, she finds herself squeezing his hands back, Watcher to Watcher, friend to friend. His aura is comforting.

The handkerchief is even more so, the earthy scents breaking up the terrible smell of the uniform she's been forced into wearing. She wishes Bartleby were here. It was always so good at cheering her up. Sandalwood. Camphor. Breathe.

With considerate care, he begins guiding her from the shadows to rejoin Neve some distance away — he notes the detective's hand is clenched, perhaps wishing for the familiar habit of a smoke. Or perhaps, ideally, a quick solution to everything around them. A sentiment none could disagree with considering the circumstances.

the book is still dangling, useless, between her hands. the stories contained within are memories more than written accounts, tales woven from childhood remembrance and dinners with her uncle instead of a real book. heroic wardens and griffons, dragon slaying, darkspawn killing, apostate and abomination hunting. that one features less often in tevene children's stories. but something about the tome feels...like a combination. something they've accidentally created together. it niggles at her consciousness, those ever-present questions.

Oh hells. He's settling in to talk.

His reproach lands as intended. Harrow winces and closes their eyes again, pressing their lips together hard. He's right, of course. They haven't known the necromancer long, but; he's usually right, they've found. If they don't allow this to properly heal, if they don't rest, they run the risk of shattering like a poorly-quenched blade, and Harrow nods quietly, so Emmrich knows they're listening to him, even if they can't bear to look at him.

Harrow- loves talking with Emmrich, genuinely. Most of the time. But not- not right now while they're trying like hell not to fall apart in front of him, not while they're trying to process the likely... extinction of the Order they'd sworn their life to, the Order that had saved their own life, and, despite the First Warden's most fervent efforts, had given Harrow a hold. A family, of sorts.

How much of that family had been lost, today? Would they ever even know? Had any of Litriu's other Wardens come to Weisshaupt to try and argue for Wardens to fight anew in the South? Had any of the friends that had been in any of Harrow's squadrons been there in Weisshaupt, fighting Ghilan'nain's monstrosities? Had any that had been there survived?

Would Harrow ever even know? If they had, would they blame Harrow for the loss of their Order?

They probably should.

A better Warden would've been able to- save more. Do more.

Manfred's hiss drags them from the spiral of despair, at least momentarily, and Harrow looks to the wisp-skeleton, forcing a soft smile to their face and waving back.

As he leaves, Harrow looks back to the ceiling, trying to swallow the tears and the absolute despair burning in their throat. The scent of Emmrich's tea blooms in the air around them, and it's... Comforting. Floral, warm, earthy from the mushrooms in a way that's familiar. The blend... Perhaps similar to one of the ones Litriu had kept in stock, back in Amaranthine, and Harrow blinks in quiet surprise, taking the mug that's offered with great care.

Their hands are shaking, but they won't drop his mug. They recognize it as one of the ones Bellara had made; this, at least, is one thing Harrow can promise not to ruin, and they shift to carefully rest the mug on their uninjured leg, staring into the still surface of it, but not yet drinking... Just listening, as Emmrich speaks.

Obviously he had been different when he'd been younger, all people were... But it's hard to picture Emmrich ever being callous or cavalier with matters of the dead and matters of spirits. Harrow swallows tightly, closing their eyes again as they nearly lose the battle, nearly shed a tear; they lift their free hand to their face and pinch the bridge of their nose, desperately trying to will them away.

Still, they clear their throat and then manage to speak; though their voice is wobbly, and they pray he won't point it out or pay it any heed. "I'm glad someone helped you. That... Had to be... Really hard." And if they know him at all, he likely blamed himself for the loss of his partner. Perhaps still does.

But then they wince, and draw in on themselves at the attempt to comfort. "...It matters," they agree, voice hoarser. "But it's not enough. I- Weisshaupt. It's just- gone. The history, the legacy, the- so many W-Wardens." Their head hangs forward, dark hair falling to shield their face. "I nearly got you and everyone else killed. I didn't- plan. Not enough. I told myself we'd be able to finish it in one day, to end Ghilan'nain, and d-didn't want... To make some elaborate plan, because I figured it'd go to hell. But I should've- planned something else. Anything else. I should've- moved faster. Something." Their voice breaks, and Harrow grinds their teeth, before forcing themselves to take a sip of the tea.

It's good.

It tastes like home.

"Ah, fuck-" And just like that, Harrow's lost the battle with their tears.

A throbbing in the skull so loud it steals away light and air and gravity as the heart plummets into despair.

The dissolution of language itself. Only a voice crying out where none can hear. Only a prayer that will never be answered.

Sobbing ceaseless at their own survival, a mercy that seems unearned. The feeling of worthlessness.

"At the time I thought the difficulty of the ordeal couldn't be described. Not even an iota of how deeply it wounded me. Despite my familiarity with death, it's near impossible to make peace with its inevitability. In truth, Harrow, I thought we would die there among your brethren, too." Admitting the fear takes effort, vocal cords strung tight. His hand curls uselessly for a moment, silent as Emmrich takes in their slow unraveling — burdened by sorrow so deep it seems to steal every speck of light from their eyes. "Nevertheless... I do not regret following you. We will plan better. You mustn't forget you aren't alone in this work."

The tear drops mix in with the tea, now. He knows it to be bitter, and the accompanying cinch around the lungs terribly, terribly suffocating. After a moment, he offers a handkerchief, the floral embroidery adding a brighter palette of colours if only for a moment. "The most important step we can take is not the first one. It's the next one. Always the next step. There will be time to rebuild, to honour the fallen. For now, do not think less of yourself, my dear. It's alright. It's alright," he murmurs, words of comfort followed by a light touch to their hand, at the bruised knuckles and torn skin.

Dorian's a magister. That said, a meal he finds lacking isn't exactly his normal. He enjoys decadent little suppers with summer-fattened citruses and pours of pleasant wine. The sweetness on his tongue and the sugar in his gullet? Constant. Delectable. And rich and tender.

So, he knows when food's good. He doesn't know, however, with whom to share it. He would peel at an orange, a pocket-sized book splayed out upon the table, and the man in the kitchen thumbing pages of his own? It's new. About them, the vacated restaurant wafts and sings. "Am I to be wary of whatever it is you're about to serve me?" Dorian wonders over a sizzling sauce pan. "It smells marvelous." Astonishing, really. "I might've guessed I was due for the chopping block awaiting my last meal."

"It would be a waste of the poor beast for anyone to die before appreciating the taste." Flitting to the kitchen and back, its with the adjustment of the napkin on his neck before Lucanis sits across from the magister, cutting into the food with a quiet click of the knife against porcelain. The jeweled goblets are a bit much, but anyone sensible would be hard-pressed to find anything simpler in this district. "Your recent political efforts became something of a mild annoyance to a few voices. A remarkable talent to be frustrating to the point of having several contracts petitioned for your head." The again goes unsaid just as the fork stabs into the tender cut. Straight to the point, as always. Pleasantries seem to be an afterthought even as the candlelight adds a playful mood to the whole affair.