F A M I N E

“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.

“Three- I can make three that you can swallow. These will stay within your gut for two weeks. You may eat still, if you feel a need to. It shall dissolve slowly. And then I shall need more.”

Roule lets his mind wander as the walk up the stairs. The shared gait between them is enough to keep an easy, tactile rhythm, enough to occupy most of his mind. 

He closes the door behind them as they enter, makes sure Elias seems to settle alright with no more need of his help before he lets himself sit on the offered cot. The room is undeniably Elias’s. It speaks of a life far from this dismal place, and a familiar feeling of hopeless longing to be somewhere other than here works its way into him. It’s a pointless feeling, but it doesn’t mean it’s any easier to push away. 

Roule laces his fingers and watches the older man work. The stones sound across each other and the desk, and he again has to remind himself to be patient, to still himself, and to keep his hopes in check. 

He nearly laughs at the answer-- honest, surprised, and grateful laughter. He lets it spill quietly from his throat. Three. Three is enough. With hope for more, even. He lets his head rest down, breathing out an easy sigh. 

“Three. Thank you, Elias.” 

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?”

An admission that he truly couldn’t get up. His silks were creased with his stillness in one place and his hand ached as he held it up, waiting for assistance. 

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. 

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. 

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.

“You may find respite here, of course, if it interests you. There are also other districts and occupations for beasts. Master von Bok is always in need of assistance, as well.”

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.

“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.

“What of you?”

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? 

“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.

“I am from the Isles across the sea, and you?”

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. 

“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.

“It is mine. I make them with the Madame’s permission.”

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. 

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.”

He finally takes the rolled paper from his mouth and lets it smoke between his fingers.

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. 

“Reynauld-” he says, and they’re running. He can keep up- to a point, “We never got the chance-”

He could be making a mistake- and indeed that shadow of a doubt crossed his mind. So did everything else. The worst that could happen? It all fails and he’s swallowed in this forest with no one to call back. Another headstone for Mercutio. He trusted Regulus to collect his bones and intentions and do something afterwards that would make him proud.

‘You’re insane, Reynauld.’

It’s what drove him further into the dark, fearless and knowingly foolish- or… reckless with abandon. What’s there left to fear when death simply was an end result and not a detriment?

So he runs in the dark with Roule. Putting together what pieces he could like there was a timer on his already numbered days.

He’s impressed with the knight. Even with the armor he’s managing to move quickly and relatively quietly. Hm, Reynauld. Not bad. 

It only takes them a few minutes-- the witches have changed the paths, but he still knows home. He slows down before they approach, motions for the other to as well. Lifts up a hand, then shows two fingers. Safety precautions, even for them. 

The clearing they walk into has been made into something resembling a camp. There’s a handful of people scattered about-- a pair of them watch their approach with excited eyes, another from further off, careful. The others keep to themselves, for now. 

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.”

There were people around, but they pay them no mind. There are things to do, and music beginning to play. The Jester’s puppet show was beginning- there was laughter down the way.

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. 

“Twisted?”

She is backed up, some. The creature before her–she recognizes it as something of the same nature as the Abomination. Something that was made through magic, however, rather than science.

Her eyes narrow. This was something that could kill her. Something that could transform her. Somehow even worse than the creature, who could only do the former. She could not let herself be cursed.

“Are you a threat to my home?”

Her voice is low, commanding.

“I will destroy you if you take a step closer.”

It stays still. It doesn’t want to invoke the Light. It’s belly is pressed against the cool grass, but it’s tail still sweeps side to side. Intrigued. Wary. 

A threat. A threat-- no. And yes. Not now, at least. It’s a threat in the way many things are threats. But not now.

It chuckles, a low grating sound in it’s throat. It’s voice isn’t any more pleasant. 

Slowly, she started to lower her hand. "....what are you?"

She lowers her hand. Good-- good. It’s safer this way. Her weapon lingers at her side-- that’s dangerous. Not as quick as its teeth though. No. No. It’s teeth are quicker. 

It lays down, slow with eyes on the vestal. Its tail still sweeps, somewhere between interested and agitated. It hadn’t turned this time out of starvation-- a favorable situation for both of them. No, bandits had gotten too close to town. They were gone, now. A mess of bones for a farmer to find in his fields. 

A small heckling laugh sounds in its throat at the question. What is he? It? 

This one. This one he shouldn’t eat. 

The creature’s tail sweeps side to side, pensively. Clicks low in its throat. It can speak-- not to any lengthy extent-- but it doesn’t want to. Not with this one. 

She’s Light-touched. In direct opposition to the thing he’s become. And altogether too similar to the crusader. 

She’s dangerous. Dangerous to deal with. 

The spines and fur along its back bristle, and open jaws reveal sharp and long teeth. It rumbles low in warning, takes two steps back.