Fox In Armor

“No. Maybe.” The answer is quick and foolish, for how obviously false it is. Adrian flushes, pouts. They move to sit at the counter, unable to surprise him now. Their stomach near-rumbles from a skipped lunch, as Adrian starved for warmth, both that of his kindness and the one of the meals he prepared; they lingered on the tongue, a memory to savor, until it is gone and hunger leads one’s steps once again. Treacherous, the way the body betrayed Adrian. Here again, reluctant, half-glaring and half-staring when stealing a peek, knowing that for him it was but day-old grease slipping off the plate, like water off a duck’s back. She looks away firmly, to avoid the sight of his ever-present smile as it shines with the light of the fading sunrise; but speaks in a soft whisper when hoping for him to hear. “Yes. I want… Some rice porridge, if you yet have some. One to eat now, a few for later.”

A small coin-purse is procured, as if a magician spelling it into their hands. They count their coins with cupped hands, hiding the contents—usually tucked tightly under their robes—as if any might come and snatch it away from their bandaged fingers. “Two for later.” They bite their lip. “No—three.” Though it pained; one coin less, to that hidden under the mosaics for their grandmother to find after if Adrian was to become naught but bone fragments among the ash; but they might run into Kastor on the way back, and they did not wish Sheng to have nothing to eat but berries again, bruised as they would be today.

They glance sideways to the rest of the patrons, then back to the hole they are carving on the counter with their gaze. “Why are there always so many people here?” They grumble. “…There’s no hurry.” Though it is a lie, as they feel the gnawing of their empty guts turn crueler. Adrian grabs a bunch of olives and dates, barely chewing before swallowing. Relief is instant, as well as the ache and nausea from sustenance come too late; both showing in the grimace that washes over their face.

His smile turns knowing as the pretty little stranger denies then admits to the reason for coming to Ji-hoon’s food stall. That was what it was for, it shouldn’t be such a great sin to confess to, being hungry and all. If pride or wariness won in every passing person Ji-hoon would likely run out of business here. But he’d learned to expect Adrian’s strange ways. They seemed almost shy, skittish, approachable only as much as an easily spooked little critter is. Food offerings helped with that as well as a patient presence not pushing for contact past the other’s limits, only offering a quiet closeness of a listening ear attuned to timid whispers and mumblings.  “Coming right up. I’ll make a fresh batch for you. It’s best when it’s off the stove and warm.” He announces, a little apology in his tone for having to make them wait a little while longer to satiate that hunger they were so adamant on denying. It did not strike him as odd that they were asking for a few extra portions to go, this wasn’t the first time he had to wrap up a package of food for them to carry off who knows where and to whom. Perhaps family members waiting at home. A sweet and tender notion, an experience Ji-hoon never really had unless found family from the army and the Order can be counted in.  He was about to push off the counter, leave Adrian to count their coins in secrecy and keep on believing that no one noticed that was what they were doing when a random question from them took Ji-hoon slightly aback with mild amusement. “What do you mean? This is the best time to drop by. Don’t you always?” A little harmless jab at their recently more frequent visitations to the stall despite an attitude that said there would be no next time, for sure. He sees them grabbing a handful of snacks then, shoving them into their mouth indiscriminately only to grimace a second later.  “Oi, oi! Don’t you know how to eat those? You should spit out the core inside.” He rushes to pour them a small jug of refreshingly cold posca - a drink of fruity wine vinegar mixed with cold water, honey and coriander if no other aromatic herbs are available. He pushes it over the counter to Adrian, biting down a chuckle. “Ah, well. It will come out one way or another.” A little graphic joke to break the ice though Ji-hoon is not sure if it would work. “Drink, and take it easy, alright? I'll be done quickly.” He urges, supervising before he felt safe enough to leave Adrian alone at the counter for a minute to get those porridges going. 

His yellow, serpentine eyes were searching through venues for a specific location, with a specific name, with a specific person, and he moved with singular-determination to arrive where he'd intended, not allowing himself to be captivated by the many temptations that surrounded him. The scent of alcohol was alluring on his nostrils, and yet he knew better by now than to allow himself the indulgence—it had been but a week since he'd convulsed from one too many sips, so violently ill he barely had the strength to comb his hair, since his last little indulgence. If one could call the punitive, intentional poisoning of self that. And then there was the scent of food—he would not allow himself that either, even as his stomach grumbled in protest. Haneul would already be cross with his sudden departure, leaving no note, no warning—he did not intend to aggravate him further by succumbing to the urge of putting strange things into his mouth.

He entered the establishment with all the gait of one used to being catered to, dainty feet, pristine, translucent robes not leaving much to the imagination, modesty cloaking him in thicker fabrics only where public decency demanded so, the gilded veins decorating his skin and opalescent scales visible through the sheer cloth; his hair flowed like a river, beautiful and smooth, licking the edge of his heels as he made his way in waving gold and privilege to earn passage; breathing in disappointment, breathing out demands. "The one in charge… I want him. He must see to me." he'd demand, a sigh, honeyed and sweet and almost theatrical on his forked tongue. Whatever it was he was engaged in currently did not matter—he was more important. He should be. He waved his hand dismissively at every word that would suggest otherwise.

They had made a perch of his desk—turned it into a seat, their flank casually, unceremoniously leaning against it as his eyes wandered, examining the walls, all the little details as if anything and everything were news to him. He was small—felt small, here, among so many healthier, sturdier, taller man—but seldom did he allow himself to be intimidated, wearing his weakness with grace, poised, picking at his own claws as he waited; if he were to bow before every small fear, after all, he'd never leave the house. A flutter of pale lashes guided his eyes towards the greeting, black pupils shrinking to slits as he swiftly adjusted his posture like a habit, a hand moving to grip his hair, twist it like white rope. "…why did it take you so long? I told them to hurry…" he sounded resentful, like a child was resentful, abandoning decorum to sulk privately; his sibling is not here to yank him away and lecture him into behaving, and so he did not. Tutting instead, Baeksa shook his head. Nevermind... an exasperated sigh left him, his soft lips taking the shape of a petal. "I've been terribly dissatisfied," he tells him, kicking the air to adjust the tail of his gown. "All these men my family insists upon assigning to me keep breaking…" his fingers drift idly to the bundled fabric between his thighs, picking, plucking it idly; a faint twitch at the corner of his mouth, pausing only long enough for the gauzy veil of his lashes to lift back to him with a subtle glint of curiosity. He tilts his head, seeming to quietly take his time taking him in. "You don't look like you break easy..." his clawed fingers unfurl slowly, extending his way like an invitation. "Come..."

The office was not a large space, mostly a rented out shop on ground floor of the building converted into what it was today. Four years ago it was a scribe’s office and a bookstore, with a printing press and a meager library still existing within it in the office’s side chamber which connected to a small storage room and broom closet. It was more than enough for what the Order needed, which was to host clients, keep records and regular meetings between Order members and employees. It was clean, orderly and practical but not lavish, certainly not a place entirely befitting of a person of Baeksa’s status. Ji-hoon took some pride in it, especially since it was mostly his own handiwork, but having an important person like this suddenly occupy it made him a tad self-conscious if he had to admit.  Immediately he seemed to have left a bad impression, reprimanded instead of being greeted for taking a minute too long to come over. By now all was clear to Ji-hoon - this was not a person used to waiting. This was a person used to being listened to for every little thing. A rich person, a person of affluence and high standing. Slowly, Baeksa’s beauty began to matter less. Ji-hoon’s customer service smile widened into something more apologetic, perfectly genuine-looking but born out of deep bitterness, envy and personal resentment towards everyone acting mightier than thou, especially when it was directed at him.  He was about to offer a wide variety of flowery apologies that always seem to appease these sorts but he was not allowed the chance - his potential rich client had already moved on and was speaking again. A long moment of tense silence ensued as the young lord mentioned men who broke, then scrutinized Ji-hoon as if to check if the same could be done to him. He blinked confusedly at this angelic being perched on his desk that neither spoke or acted angelic at all, doing his utmost best not to feel like a dog when he was motioned to come closer.  “I am… right here, my lord.” He squeezed through the smile that had gotten a tad stiffer, confused about how much closer the other person wanted him. They weren’t standing on the opposite sides of a street or alike. Best to… move along before things get too awkward. “May I have your distinguished name and reason for visit? What sort of services does young lord require?” He made way for his desk, making sure to go the long way around to get behind and access his writing tools. 

The sharp end of the general's blade moves swiftly and with precision, gently cutting into the wooden figurine, hollowed out eyes and gaunt limbs, the pointed edge carving out the bits and lines of its hair to add detail and intricacy to piece; he's been out of the public eye for a minute now, since he returned home—meditating, isolated from the rest of the world as he recovered; it was a mistake to mingle too soon, when his mind and heart felt at war, he needed to find his center, his inner peace amidst the turmoil, the piece of him that could not be carved out by mere mortal hands. Solitude offered clarity, and a kind of solace nothing mortal could not hope to. For three days, after he comes home, he drinks only water—fasting, meditating, sleeping and waking and repeating, until his hands feel like his own again.

He leaves Húxīn by the doorway, laid to rest there to its own solitude, its resentment and fury simmering, contained by the temperament of the hand that yields it. There is a meeting he won't be attending tonight, and he's sure the magistrates breathe a sigh of relief for it—he cannot tempt his temperament, not yet, and so it is best he stayed away. When he feels well enough to stand, he walks off from his home with single-minded determination; he has made a habit of stopping by to visit the refugee children, whenever he can, his feet having memorized the rocky path by now.

The streets of Aurea feel familiar, perfectly imperfect, and he finds the small garden next to where the refugee children play; they crowd him when he comes and immediately guilt pierces at him for he knows he should do more—but children don't know any better, they fear empty bellies and boredom more than men. He pushes one by the forehead with a huff, "Enough of this..." he says, hiding his fondness. He tries to stop by whenever he returns home, and brings them some necessary things, and some unnecessary things—because he cannot rest well if he doesn't. He brings them fresh bread still warm from the bakery he passed along the way here, apples and pears the servants help gather from the orchard, hard cheese, honey cakes for the children. "The baker insisted." he always says, pretending he'd hold it above their heads for a moment before caving as the smallest one jumps to snatch it. For the coldest nights, he brings warm stew in large pots, porridge, hot buns.

Once they are satisfied, they mostly leave them be; they are uncomplicated, nothing like adults. He wonders if perhaps the world would be a better place if we stayed like that—innocent, uncomplicated. Taking only what we needed from each other. He sits down under a tree, and resumes his carving, always a different, familiar face—this one had hollow eyes and long limbs, hair that licked at its heels. It was meticulous work, to give it shape; he enjoyed the focus it demanded, reminding himself in the process his mind was still his own, and his hands still obeyed his will, and his will alone.

“It was honest work, all that! Honest, I tell you! What does it matter?” A boyish voice, too tender to be even close to sounding mature no matter how much it tried, disrupted the quietness of the garden with all the indignance of a rebelling preteen. Soon they came into view, the boy in dirty clothing with a smudged face and hair that had rarely seen a comb and a man holding him by the collar so he had no choice but to go where he wanted him to. Perhaps they could be mistaken for siblings with a considerable age gap between them but the older one was too well put together in contrast, definitely not of the street like the little rat he was carefully trying to subdue. 

“It matters. I told you a thousand times not to work the docks and still you run rampant there.” The older spoke patiently despite the fierceness of fury he had to face from the smaller one, who now pouted so hard his smudgy little face was turning red. In a fit of flailing limbs the boy finally managed to wrench himself from the man’s grasp- or rather was patiently let go now that it mattered not whether he was held back or not. It gave the man a moment to stoop down to his level with a crouch, bridging the height difference that way. “It’s hard work, Jude. Save your limbs while you’re young, unless you want crippling joint pain at thirty already. Besides, you can’t swim. What if you fall in?”

“But…!” The boy attempted to protest again but was cut off before he even began.

“I know you are the oldest and mother is not feeling well again, you don’t have to tell me. But there’s decent work to be had elsewhere, one that won’t make your mother don black. Did the medicine we bought last time run out? Why haven’t you told me?” 

Ji-hoon’s question was met with tense silence, the child’s eyes filling with enduring tears. “You’re… busy and… never around anymore…” 

Upon hearing this, Ji-hoon’s shoulders slacked and he let out a soft sigh. It was true - his business had taken him elsewhere lately, for days on end. Forcing a smile onto his lips, he reached out to tousle the mop of unruly hair, despite its state of dirty. “Isn’t Kylan still at the stall? Didn’t I say you could go to him whenever you need to?” 

It made the boy nod shyly, but hesitation was still very obviously there. Pride even, perhaps. Ji-hoon understood and moved to stand up again with a small grunt escaping his lips. “Never mind. I’ll go to the apothecary bright and early tomorrow for ya. Leave a supply that’ll last until I am back again. How’s that sound?” A smirk tugged at a corner of his lips, some longshore lingo slipping into his words. “Now go home. Don’t loiter until nightfall.” Before he could cross his arms like a strict parent would he was tackled, hugged around the middle briefly but strongly before the boy skedaddled, throwing a cheerful thanks and you’re the best over his shoulder. Ji-hoon shook his head, mildly amused as he watched the boy leave, only turning when his skinny figure had disappeared off into the distance. 

That was when he’d noticed that they’ve not been alone all along. At first he did not think much on it but then he’d done a double take. The thing about Ji-hoon was that once seen, he’d never forget a face. As a matter of fact, he never forgot anything ever. It was both a blessing and a curse, to be gifted by memory so impeccable it stopped even the smallest of details from ever abandoning you.

He’d gotten a glimpse of the Demon General once. From his days in the army, when battlefields were Ji-hoon’s frequent haunts until exhaustion or injury made the regiment he was assigned to head for camp. He’d fought under many banners, whichever needed more manpower at any given time but as luck would have it, it never ran so low as to get assigned to the Demon General’s. However, encounters had happened when forces needed to meet and join against a particularly brutal onslaught. Even if Ji-hoon could forget a face, this one was impossible to. 

“General.” He immediately addressed the man with a soldier’s salute, practiced to perfection to show discipline and respect to those ranking higher. Even retired, he dared not offend this particular higher-up, even though Ji-hoon’s obligation towards the army was dutifully done and over with. He stood there at attention until the other decides to dismiss him, as proper. He dared not do otherwise. The last thing he needed was to garner scorn from the Demon General of all people.

A rare day off from Kwon estate, the first out of likely not many considering how much care and attention his new charge needed. Ji-hoon sighed softly, even thinking about it caused a tiredness no hours of manual labor could ever achieve. Heaving a hundred more wheat grain bags over his shoulders as he did now would prove to be an easier and less arduous task. But he had no time to wander off in his mind. A single day off this weekend was all he had to catch up on other responsibilities outside of his current work - the responsibilities he had to his order, its offices and the little street-facing restaurant on the ground floor. A much needed inventory check and supply had to be done and everyone involved had their tasks distributed to them, picking up Ji-hoon’s slack while he is gone. Today he had vouched to make amends and take on the most tiresome responsibilities as best as he could physically achieve so others could take this Sunday to rest, at least in the afternoon if not for the whole day. With this batch of grain freshly purchased and sitting heavily in the burlap sack carried over Ji-hoon’s shoulder, he was on his way to the cart filled with goods he’d rented, happy to unload his burden even though it wasn’t overly heavy. He’d spent the entire morning running errands after all and now it was near mid-day, the sun high in the sky and scorching over the marketplace when there was no shade to hide under. A break was much needed as well as something cold to drink.  But alas, it was not destined. Ji-hoon’s shoulder was bumped into, throwing his posture just enough off balance for the sack of grain to slip off it and untie as it hit the ground, spilling the grains all over the dusty road. A short moment of tense silence happens before the other person began pulling out an arsenal of apologies, Ji-hoon quietly sighing in between them. It only took him a moment before he’d adjusted growing annoyance to an amiable smile. He’d long ago learned to curb any temper so much so that he wasn’t even sure if he even had one anymore. Now there was only the goal of not standing out, not offending anyone, not ruffling any feathers until such time came when he could show his true colors to those who deserved to see the darkest of them.  “Not to worry, not to worry! It happens! My grip on it was loose, I was careless– ah, sir, please don’t bother…” He began, crouching into the dirt himself to steal the attempt to gather the grain from the other, not wanting to inconvenience him. “No damage done, nothing broken, truly. Please, leave it to me.” His smile was reassuring, without so much as a trace of irritation, a warm ray of friendly sunshine despite the ordeal.

The tavern smells of ale and unwashed bodies, the fires stoked high enough that the heat is almost overwhelming in the small room. Beneath her veil, curls cling to the sides of her neck, but she does not lower it. With her hair hidden beneath the blue silk, her face seems moonlike in its hue and serenity. She eyes the bowl before her with faint interest, like a woman observing a bubbling brook. Once her calm observation is complete, she stirs the mysterious contents into a gooey cluster. Meat stew, the serving boy told her. Veal, venison, pork.

A clump surfaces from the mass, all sinew and no fat. Neither veal, venison, nor pork. She ladles a few pieces onto her spoon. Brings it closer to her nose. Sniffs it. Does not recoil. Eats it. Does not recoil. Her face seems a shade paler, perhaps, but that could be a trick of the light.

Chewing slowly, she tries to decipher the mystery contents while rumors drift to her ears by mere accident. Her asset is late, but she has never been one to waste a spare moment. Most concern idle gossip, the affairs of common life and loins. But one must sift through the silt to find gold. The woes of greedy landlords and runaway sons soon give way to tales of more insidious torments. Forsaken battering against Aurea's outskirts, turning bustling villages into silent yards of graves and plague. Death tolls that go unreported within the city. The unseen, unheeded and unremembered.

But not by the speakers.

Not by her.

Her eyes finally lift from the bowl, reflecting the candles, distorted, dappled light dancing across the surface of a frozen pond.

They find a silhouette.

Perhaps the person is a familiar face. Perhaps they are causing a disturbance. Or perhaps they simply seem as though they might possess a trove of information. Glance after glance follows until, finally, her lips tilt.

An invitation.

A job well done and a hefty purse had been slipped into Ji-hoon’s money pouch under the table, so as to have no one spy just how much he was carrying on his person at the moment. Not that many would find it very possible to relieve him of this new burden easily. If there was something Ji-hoon was certain of, it was his skill and ability in fighting and warding off attackers, pickpockets or other harmful elements threatening with physical violence for whatever reason. He could not be sure just how much of a reputation his order had gathered and maintained throughout the four years it had existed for but if some were still unaware of it and him as its face and founder then they were sure to find out should they dare an altercation with him.  He could not say that he’d approved of his client’s meeting place of choice, always preferring to do business in the order’s offices, but it mattered little in the end where service was exchanged for money upon being completed, as long as it was done so honestly and as previously agreed. Client having left ahead of him, Ji-hoon loitered around for a little while longer with his half drunk pint of dark ale - he had an hour or two of idle time since he’d finished up with his tasks early. That was when he’d felt eyes upon him. And out of all eyes in the room that could’ve landed on him, this pair belonged to Lady Caelestis. Of course he knew she was sitting in this tavern presently. From the moment he’d set foot inside, his ability had done its magic on reflex. Sharp eyes so dark they’d swallow all light had employed their perfect vision to get the entire room with a single scan, down to the very last detail. A picture of it was taken in his mind and it would remain engraved into his memory forever, like everything else Ji-hoon’s eyes had ever seen. Even twenty years from now he would be able to tell who was there, how many, what expressions they had, what they wore down to the color, any tears or stains and where they were. Everything was remembered, even things he did not understand or people he did not know. And he did know Lady Caelestis. Or at least he’d seen her at one of her many gatherings at her estate. He wasn’t one of the invitees of course. His standing was much too humble as it were to be granted an invitation. But he did follow a client in who was, and was thus briefly allowed access to make sure the person’s safety was guaranteed. Then he’d joined the rest of the help and any guards in the side rooms, awaiting further instructions when he was needed. He’d caught a glimpse of the lady of the house under her veil during that time. Just a passing glimpse, but that was more than enough for Ji-hoon to forever commit her to his memory.  And then their eyes met and Ji-hoon could no longer pretend that he hadn’t noticed her. Decorum dictated that he now approached to pay respects. He might've been disliked by his family and shunned aside, but he was still raised among the noble and well-established sort. And so he did, rising from his unassuming seat near the tavern bar to offer the lady a soldier’s bow. “Greetings, my lady. I hope this evening finds you well?” 

Nothing stirred nor moved in the bag, but it feels suspiciously heavier than it was before they got here—and then, a sliver of light cuts through as it is opened, and the darkness dissipates, pearlescent scales glimmering faintly; there he was, Baeksa, nestled too comfortably in a bundled piece of fabric it crawled into in its attempt to snoop and avoiding the scrutiny of his guards—the silk had gathered around his scaled body in folds, warm and cozy, and every attempt to crawl free had failed. He held onto the shape too long, and grew weary; magic would pulse faintly through the golden streaks decorating the little white serpent as it slept soundly, curled against the fabric, hoping desperately that whoever owned the bag possessed the rare virtue of leaving their belongings alone.

Staring down at the snake with bemusement, she considers her surroundings for a moment. She had stopped in a bench by the side of the road a few streets from the restaurant to snoop on the bags contents, so she is still on the richer side of the city. Valdís could just kill the snake and use its leather for a dagger holt, but something tells her that is not a particularly smart choice. 

“Hello little guy,” she ends up crooning, resting the bag on the bench and considering him for a minute. “I would like to keep you, but I don’t know if you would get along with my birdie. Maybe I should drop you off at the Hanging Gardens? There should be enough food around to get fat and lazy without worry.”

By now he was sure that he’d gone half mad. Three hours. Almost three hours he’d been searching for his handful of a charge who had a mind of their own so much so that the concept of danger eluded them. One would think that someone would take a hint simply from needing a personal bodyguard at all. But nay, the fact that they were too high profile to meander about unprotected did not hit home even when painted in full color. At one point Ji-hoon even contemplated creating a whole educational puppet show for Baeksa but decided otherwise. All the movement and colors would surely prove too distracting to the young master. They needed simple shapes, simple words, and even those did not give any guarantee.  Ji-hoon had never been afraid of hard work but this was just ridiculous. He’d practically ransacked the restaurant they briefly left Baeksa in, forcing his way even into its cellar, manhandling the big main chef there and dodging patrons who thought they would be so helpful if they managed to pin down the madman disturbing everyone’s meals. Ji-hoon really did not want to end up raising too much of a ruckus but in the end he simply had to show everyone that he was armed so they would let him go once he’d determined that the establishment was vacant of the young lord.  He’d searched the perimeter around the restaurant then, going in ever wider circles around it as he left no stone unturned. That was it. The end of his life. This is how he dies. Executed for losing a magister’s brother he was sworn to protect. Not the most tragic of epitaphs out there but each man’s own problem was most important. A few streets away and he’d hit a road stretching out for cart and carriage use. Unless the young master had become a roadkill in these few hours, there was nowhere else to look.  Disheveled and stunned, Ji-hoon kept looking about himself with the blank stare of a man already doomed beyond salvation. His dark gaze passed over a woman sitting hunched over a bag, talking to it. Talking to the bag. What was in the small bag to have a chat with? Ji-hoon’s eyes squinted suspiciously, regarding the woman from the distance he stood at. She looked… oddly familiar. If she looked familiar, he would be able to place the face to a name or an encounter at least. Why couldn’t he? The most probable reason, statistically, would be that the face changed. Drastically. And the most common cause of drastic change was time. Who did he know well but haven’t seen in an age? “... Val?” He attempted a shot in the dark.