海

Roule watches him, more anxious than he has been in some time. He’s waiting to hear that they’re the wrong stones, that Elias can’t help them, that something went wrong. He hadn’t told his men yet– he wouldn’t break a promise or a hope if he could help it. He’s ready to come away empty handed. Yet, Elias says none of his fears. The tension in his breath releases as the stone falls back into the bag with the rest. 

The small request registers, and he can’t help the wash of possessive warmth through him. He stands and takes his arm in his, takes the stones and tucks them into Elias’s shirt. It’s an unspoken of course. 

Roule helps him up, gently, and begins to walk with him. Each step measured, paced for the man besides him. He’s tried to stay his distance from the people of the hamlet, but of course it’s failed. He’s too quick to take on family. 

“Are your pains bad tonight, Elias?” A quiet murmur as they start to ascend the stairs. “Is there something I can do to ease them?”

“They are terrible, yes, but they are not things that ease well. I appreciate the kindness.”

Roule acts as a crutch to get him to his feet, and leads them. His pace is leisurely out of necessity. Some days he is able to leap the balcony at the top, and some days it is a struggle to make it up the well-worn stairs. Today it is a struggle, and there are far more foul days then there are fair ones lately.

He’s an old creature, and nonplussed about the passage of time and his mortality in it. Roule’s young, and he’s quite attached already. Elias fiddles with the stones in the bag, clicking them together as he walks. They produce a thick, heavy noise like over-sized marbles.

His room is the last one in the hall, and it looks like a man that used to be someone lived here. The door is never locked, and no one has ever been cognizant enough to let themselves in. There were neat trunks against the wall that were salt worn, braced against a ship anchor. There was no bed in the room, but there was a hanging cot anchored into the ceiling under the open window. What space didn’t look lived in was covered in shelves of curios. A life of adventure. Strange gems and old shipwright’s tools. A helmet with the face of a yokai painted on the facemask. Among it all, a large writing desk.

Above them, there was a globe of blue light like a hanging flame permanently fixed in place.

Elias crosses the room and offers his cot as a space to sit, sitting at his own desk and perching his cigarette in his lips to thumb the top of the desk for the latch. It pushes the top up, and below, there are dozens and dozens of vials, inks, and papers.

He takes a stack of thin, near transparent papers, several vials, and inks, pouring the stones out of their bag onto the surface. 

There were a few that immediately would not work. The condensed matter was hollow inside, and would not hold any sort of ornamentation. He separated the stones.

The building has its own rhythm of sounds. He adores it, secretly. A pulsing life sits here, among everyone. It feels safe. The chatter, the muted noises that most can’t hear behind closed doors, the colors, the smells, the smoke sitting heavy in the room he’s sharing with Elias– it’s all a comfort. 

Roule settles to the floor, back to the wall, with a small sigh. It’s especially a comfort compared to the harshness of the Weald. If it weren’t such a risk for the hamlet, he’d quickly bring his boys here. But there’s never enough food.

He pulls a small bag from his coat and offers it to the other. It clatters, muffled by the pouch. 

“Here, it’s what you asked for. The stones. You should be able to help us, yeah?”

By God he hopes so. 

The town was dying until the mercenaries came. The mercenaries came and along with it came trade and regularity that the less than a hundred inhabitants of the Hamlet could actually expect. The Madame’s been here for her entire life, and before her, there was another fair lady who ran this building. He had come a decade ago, give or take oddness. 

And the mercenaries came. With it came the trade and the influx of guests. The main ground floor, their personal smoke room and conversation floor was populated with all sorts tonight. They were entertaining each other with beautiful companions of all sorts. Elias sat among the pillows a few feet from the wall, a cigarette burning in one hand. He smelled the stones over the perfume and the mix of people. They rattle as they hit the ground.

Roule looks calm, and feels content. It’s contagious and feels gentle.

“Yes,” he says, slowly shifting over the last few feet with a few pops and protests from his body. He takes the bag of stones, the metal fingers of the prosthetic solving the contents out. He pulls one of them out, looks at it, and hums, “Yes. Will you accompany me upstairs to my room?”

Roule eyes him, skeptical. A way to help…? A stranger, helping him? A weald stag… not so hard to find. He rolls it over in his mind as he takes the roll back. 

An ease to his hunger… 

“You could do that…? How many ah… medicines could you make?” He tries not to hold his breath. It sounds like magics– and not only is that something he doesn’t trust, but it’s something that could help. He’d like to trust himself in town, in the brothel, even. If he had a stone… but, no. He can manage his own. If Elias could make even two… the twins are the youngest. 

He can’t help but be a little hopeful. 

Roule starts listening again when he hears Reynauld’s name. Elias seems to trust him, and he speaks with an easy sense of truth. Hm… maybe he can trust him. 

Things almost seem too good.

“Ah… too many names, here. Master von Bok… the heir? What sort ‘f occupations ‘s he asking for?”

"I do not know. I do not have the bezoars. Spare the meat if you are able. The town begins to thin despite the merriment. I will help you in this, if you remain a friend to us.”

If he doesn’t... The Hamlet’s a weakened place. There were still cannon shots through the church walls, and floorboards had still been uprooted. A creature like him fresh out of the corruption and walking around town. He doesn’t doubt Reynauld, and he doesn’t doubt Roule’s strength. It’s not difficult to imagine a pack of these creatures descending on the town to look for something to eat.

“Master von Bok is the heir of this land, and this Hamlet. The Stygian Estate belongs to him. His mother’s side of the family held this land, and now it is his. He is intent on recollecting the treasures of his forefather, but he is also one to care for the town for which he’s been surreptitiously decided its’ owner.”

Elias folded his hands and rocked back on the chair, as a ruckus rose up from down the road, “The Master offers jobs to recover ancient treasures, and combat the corruption. He may not have known what he was asking before he began, but now he does.”

The loud noise continued to build, and there was a whistle and round of applause. The conclusion of a puppet show. There were no children in the Hamlet, not anymore, and no children ran around to enjoy the festivities. 

Many of them– that there is. Perhaps it’s their own collective misery that’s trapped them here. Roule scoffs to himself at the thought. They all had been trapped in the same web– he, Dismas and Sadie. Certainly there was pain, there.

Old and noble…? Well, Elias certainly looks the part. Acts the part too, even. Roule laughs, soft and scruffy, at the assurance. The image in your head is not right, I assure you. Mh, well– how can it be if he’s not sure what to think of in the first place? 

He passes the smoke back a bit reluctantly. He could just keep it, see what the old man would do about that– but his want for snarls and raised hackles has subsided for the night. He’d rather not spoil this mood. 

“Mm, you’re a tragic sort too– fit right in,” he hums, leans back on the stairs. “Couldn’t say what I am– save hungry. Starving, always. Some curse or… warp from the darkness here. Some days are better than others. ‘N the worst end up with me as some sort of beast.”

Roule sighs. He’s not dealing with it as well as he’d like– but then, how is one supposed to deal with this sort of thing? 

“Reynuald offered some sort of respite here. Want to make sure he keeps his word before I bring the ones that count on me.”

He listens with patience until Roule explains his peace. So that’s it, isn’t it? Elias bats the end of the paper with a metal finger and shakes the ashes off, and it went back between his lips. Hunger as a torture? It’s one of the worst ways to die. He’s known of curses that drove water from the gut and drank victims to their deaths. It’s just shy of recognition. 

“Hm- a beast that does not understand itself,” he hands the cigarette back for keeping this time. Roule can have it, “If your gut allows, find a bezoar, a stone, in the gut of a weald stag. If you bring it to me, I may be able to ease the oddness that ails you.”

The Seal was shoring soon. He’d have the components he’d need. Curses were atrocious things, and there wasn’t much relief from them here. No. There was no escape for the soul once one traveled the road to this place. 

“Reynauld is bound by his word. He would never break it, or he would become as dust.”

He speaks with ease and confidence of someone who has known him for years.

The Isles across the sea? Roule lets himself hum in casual surprise. The people here… so strange. Not like he’s one to talk. He takes another pleased, hazy drag. 

“Mm… Britain. Couldn’ tell with the accent?”

He likes Elias. Not as a friend. But right now? As casual company? He’s quite pleasant. Perhaps he’d come back to this house of pleasure more often. He needs to get out of the crypts more anyways. The man’s interesting– the metal of his arm catches the light in an interesting way. It occupies his mind enough under the haze of the smoke. 

“So what are you, then? You’re not like me… You’re not like the other shifter here. ‘N you’re old. What are you doin’ here?”

"There are many of you drifting too close and being caught like flies in the web of it. Has time passed so long that your people are in an age of pain? Perhaps that is why there are many of you.”

His metal fingers tap-tap the arm of his chair, and he drills them into the wood. The smell of the smoke lingers in the air. It would be an hour or so of dulled pain for it. It’s enough to pull his body up to his room and rest.

“-Yes, I am an age old, hmm. And this smoke is of home. I am an old noble creature. Yours? You would call me a carp. The image in your head is not right, I assure you.”

He holds his hand out for the roll again. Roule is calmed and takes his invitation. It is a good sign. 

“Sickness buries us all, in the end,” he muses, “My home is corrupted. A similar disease to this land’s. I sailed away from corruption, but I can not go further, thus, I stayed to wade the twilight years in peace. It is not as peaceful here as I wish.”

He laughs at it, despite the melancholy. Roule was a strange creature and a fair listener.

He eyes the roll warily for a moment– like even though he’s been interested, perhaps it still stands to harm him. Inevitably, though, he takes it, takes a deep drag into his lungs. The warmth of the smoke satisfies him, and he sighs out with a hum. 

“Roule,” he offers. Though he could get used to the casual petname. “Roule Vane. Keep it to yourself, though. You ‘n that knight, ‘n the gravekeepers. ‘N yours?”

 The smoke is quick– and dulling. It’s higher quality than he’s used to, and he’s pleased for it. 

“You ‘n the Madame sound close.” It’s a gentle pry, asking without saying so. “Gate guard ‘n all. She trusts you.”

“Roule Vane,” he nods at him, “Of course I will.”

The knight and the gravekeepers know. It puts everything in him at ease. Reynauld is not quite like him, but they both cling to death in similar ways. He’s not sure if this one is completely dead- ah, but the knight? Oh his heart beats once every minute at the most- he’s more magic quickening whatever is left in him than a man.

 If Reynauld is aware of you, then I am content with you,” he says, drifting to sit back into the chair, offering the banister as  a seat.

“We are. I serve her as eyes and ears, and blade if she need it. In return for her hospitality, I am offered a position of autonomy in my choices. Though the persons in here all decide their own clientele- I have the most liberty.”

He folds his hands- one full flesh, one a metal set of fingers and an ornate palm.

The calmness of the other man eases his nerves, some. Takes the edge off, in a way. They’re not going to fight, even if it’d take away his restless energy of late. Mm, probably for the best. He can’t imagine Reynauld or the heir would take too kindly to it, and neither would understand the need in his bones for it. 

Roule sighs, watching the slow burn of the roll. The house sounds… appealing. He’s not sure he trusts himself there, though. 

“You’d have somethin’ like me in? Your Madame would? Doesn’t sound like a good idea, yeah? You don’t even know what I am.” He chuckles, cynical and warm. “Mm… but s’ppose I should extend my thanks, mh?”

He gives it a beat of silence, listens to the sound of Carnivale. 

“Where do you get that? The thing you’re smokin’?”

"Hm...” he ponders the question sincerely. Something like him? Probably not. He smells like death. Otherworldly? Just himself. And they were most certainly different, “No. Not exactly like you-” he says, offering the rest of the burning roll to him. The stranger’s got some sort of fire in his veins he’s not able to quell, it looked like. He’s not sure if he’s anxious or passionate.

“I am the only one here, as you said, with odd eyes. Though, my handsome stranger, I take clients that I choose. Unfortunately, I am the gate guard tonight, and I do not know your name.”

He’s mirthful about it. It’s amusing. Calm through the haze, he watches one of paper lanterns from down the road fly off by itself, and sail into the night.

Handsome? He eyes the “fine establishment” with a wary, tired look. Maybe he could use comfort like that, comfort of the flesh, but it requires being seen, being known by more people than he’s comfortable with. He’s only recently started leaving the graveyard– he’ll stick to the tavern, where most are too drunk, or end up too drunk, to remember his face. 

“S’ppose I won’t, then.” He answers with a shrug. It’s not hard to appease the man for now. There’s an energy between them– two animals sizing each other up. And so far he feels comfortably confident.

Roule glances to the sound of laughter– now that’s a comfort he hasn’t heard in a long while. Nothing so relaxed. He sighs, letting his shoulders relax, fingers itching for a smoke. 

“Not from around here, but ‘m not a Wolf. Virago’s child…? Hah, maybe, though they’ve never been kind to me.” He flashes somewhat of a grin to the other man. Still sizing him up.

The initiating trouble is diffused with a bit of quiet. He’s never seen him in the square before, and he’s certainly blessed with the look of a restless young creature. More smells. He smells grave dirt and forest mud- not a Wolf indeed- but seems to be sharing territory. The Wolves- he’s met a few. passing through anonymously. He’s refused all of them. The Madame insisted it despite the money, and he was... inclined to agree.

He laughs with the stranger’s smile though with a curt bow of his head.

“Forgive my manners, sojourner. You are welcome into the Madame’s abode. We offer companionship, drink, smoke, and conversation at leisurely pace. Our personalities are experienced in all manners of entertainment. It is particularly kind during the festivities. I am Elias, happy Carnivale to you, stranger.”

Figures that the man could figure him out, too. Roule huffs, unrolling his sleeves against the chill. 

"Haven't decided." 

 Likely not, so long as Reynauld keeps his word. Help each other, he said. They'll see.

He sighs in smoke, keeping eyes on him. There’s a lot of death around this one, it’s all over him. He’s got hands and teeth that could kill. It’s a bad day. He can’t swing a blade fast enough, he’s sure of it. Not today, but he can posture. 

“Please decide now. The Madame does not take polite to trouble in this fine establishment.”

He does a headcount of who is working, and who could run.

“Are you a Wolf? A Virago’s child? Forgive me, handsome, you look lost here.”

“These are two sides of the same coin, Lord von Bok,” he says, depositing the bottle in his hand with a gentle bow. It’s not well known that he is a mild physic- though he could never claim the title of doctor. He’s handy enough with salves and curatives to gently assuage most ills.

He rocks the chair back on its legs, keeping the long burning paper between his fingers (one of madame’s gifts) and cranes his head to look at the voice a little closer- he’s just outside the hanging lanterns light. There’s a warble in his throat of a laugh, and he rubs at his eyes- they do refract, don’t they? That’s a dangerous observation for anyone in these parts. 

“Mm,” he manages, pushing against the chair to stand on his feet. There’s a scrap of a... not a man- no it smelled like old rotten leaves and ozone there, “- Neither are you.”

He steps down one step, between the door and this... creature, tonguing the paper from one side of his mouth to the other.

“Heard a rumor that something lives in these woods, something… otherworldly.” 

“Are you /trying/ to get yourself killed?!”

“Your spellwork is shoddy at best.” 

“Enunciate! Don’t mumble!” 

“What sort of Craft do you do?” 

“You’re… you’re a witch.” 

“You’re going to get caught walking around like that.” 

“What a beautiful creature…” 

“Please do not drop things into my cauldron.” 

“They say that you’re a Fae.” 

“Your eyes… you’re not human, are you?” 

“What are you doing in a place like this?” 

“This isn’t your natural habitat…” 

“This is… impressive spellwork.” 

“Oh! What beautiful enchantments!” 

“Do you think you can make me one of these?” 

“I’m looking for someone whom people say can brew any cure.” 

“This place is cursed… I can feel it in my bones.” 

“Your magic is very oppressive.”

“Supposedly there’s a dragon who dwells here. Heard anything about that?” 

“Your wards and shields are pathetic.” 

“Don’t be ridiculous, they’re a fairytale.” 

“Magic doesn’t exist.” 

“It’s probably some rabid wolves or something, not some ‘mythical creature’.”

“Ghosts aren’t real, and this place isn’t haunted!” 

“Isn’t it about time you crafted your own focus? 

“I’ve never seen magic quite like this.” 

“Please take your wand away from my throat.” 

“Is this a cure, or a poison?” 

“I didn’t know this type of herb grew here.” 

“Do you think someone will be willing to sell me a crystal?” 

“What are you going to do? Read my palm? Tell me my fortune on a poker hand?”

“I haven’t seen a creature like that in years.” 

“Excuse me, but have you seen any __ around these parts?” 

“A __ you say? No, I don’t believe I have.” 

“You should check the vendor down the block if you’re looking for /that/ kind of thing.” 

“You do know that even possessing that is illegal here, yes?”