ensnared; encaged.

"i mean, as long as you are not hurting others, i see no reason for you to stop." neyvin remarked, tilting his head.

⅋. ⥽ TEMPTER OF THE FAITHFUL, APOSTATE OF THE LIGHT, EVEN SUCH EVIL A THING ONCE WAS MADE UPON THE ANVIL OF CREATION, AS ALL ELSE. what holy purpose once he held binds him no longer. there is freedom in rebellion, to stand at the precipice of the dark and say: my evils belong to me, i own them. yet for all the liberation he covets, he has yet to grasp it — he loathes that which, by nature, requires his subservience, for he, too, is a servant of fate's design, the might hand beneath which all falls.

THE WARLOCK MUSES, WHO DOESN'T WANT TO CONTROL FATE?

arms are crossed neatly behind his back, and the inquisitive tilt of his head jostles the ornamentation adorning him. he regards @shentacles, from whom unknown power radiates, and who's musings suggest a quandary well-known to him, and only then speaks, ❛ to control a thing is to wrangle it like some wild beast, ere it turns to bite. ❜ the dark spirit says by means of jest, with which his flame-lit eyes do gleam with coy amusement. ever-curious, they swipe over his hands, where rusted iron encases them, and that dark thing which looms over him now grows intrigued. ❛ it is not control but mastery you speak of, and that is an art of its own, which must bend to you as clay to be shaped. ❜

          " can  anything  ever  be  wholly  mastered? "

          it's  a  thoughtful  retaliation,  made  with  no  real  bite  to  it.   and  as  his  audience  rounds  him,   retreating  into  a  spot  of  vulnerability  placed  behind,   the  drow's  neck  twists  only  just  to  allow  their  eyes  to  meet.   lilacs  glint  with  the  chase.   " isn't  chasing  the  unattainable  one  of  life's  pleasures?   if  my  life's  direction  were  entirely  within  these  two  hands, "   he  flexes  his  fingers  about  metal  cages,   " i  fear  i'd  be  invited  to  become  sluggish.   likely  you'd  find  me  lounging  somewhere  upon  soft  cushions,   lovers  at  all  sides,   and  an  everlasting  cup  of  wine  to  my  lips. "   though,  damn,   does  that  sound  tempting.

          " having  to  work  on  my  destiny's  direction  motivates  me  not  to  kneel  to  hedonism  completely   —   one  cannot  risk  apathy  with  so  much  still  to  accomplish. "   well,  maybe  some  people  could  become  that  way...   but  it  isn't  in  shen's  personality,   no  matter  how  much  his  heart  pulls  him  one  way,   and  his  brain,   the  other.

No, no, he's not been raised to enjoy this, his mother sure to frown as he glows at a spat. But, really, even she can't begrudge him after witnessing this showing of that that scintillating wit. Gale would feel a blossoming of pride, head ducked just a sliver as Shen rears back with a caustic silence. He'd never seemed so...grave, so fashioned for a pulpit made for righteous terrors. Evidently, he's come to care for this wizard more than he'd let on -- and Gale, more generously, feels very much the same.

"Admittedly, it's difficult to tear my gaze from you when you go and command such gravity. And--" he looks about quietly "--a healthy audience, too. I might've thought you were a bard once upon a time listening to you bandy your words out there. Were I to ask, what are the approximate chances that you would sing me at night? Between you and me, my meditations before bed are a touch too quiet."

          except  here,   he  can't.   the  wizard  brings  up  his  deeply  buried  bardic  heart,   unaware  of  its  existence,   hidden  beneath  chafing  iron  and  dark  clothes.   still  it  beats.   still  his  hands  know  their  way  about  a  violin's  fingerboard,   and  his  mind  is  quick  with  lyrics.   “ it  mightn't  astound  you  too  much  to  say  that  once,   i  dreamt  of  becoming  a  bard,   having  seen  one  play  in  sshamath.   i  managed  to  acquire, ”   read:   ‘ steal ’,   “ a  violin  from  the  marketplaces  near  my  home  when  i  was  quite  young,   and  practiced  in  secret,   even  when  my  arms  and  hands  were  far  too  small  to  hold  it  correctly. ”   he  remembers  those  times,   hiding  away  in  labyrinthine  caverns,   bowstring  cast  aside  as  he'd  prioritise  memorising  finger  placements   (  the  part  he  could  perfect  in  silence  ).

          difficult  to  do,   now,   while  those  wretched  cages  interfere  so.   he  continues  to  try,   but  it  leaves  a  bitter  taste  in  his  mouth  that  his  hands  are  less  dexterous  than  they  were.   “ if  your  wish  is  that  i  sing  you  to  sleep,   i'm  certain  i  can  do  so. ”   he  doesn't  need  dexterity  for  that.

Theo had always cared and felt too much, these days he considered it a weakness. He'd tried to be cruel and cold but it felt wrong, no matter how much kick back and bite he got from those around him. Being alone and keeping to himself had been easier for him to steer away from the hurt. He knew all too much about caring too much. But if he could be a little kindness in an already dark world then that was a win in his book - even at the sacrifice of his own happiness.

          shen  laughs  cynically.   “ well,   the  healers  point  still  stands,   anyway. ”

          tipping  his  head  to  the  side,   he  glances  suspiciously  towards  theo.   “ mm,   that's  a  nice  try.   if  you  show  yourself  to  have  any  sort  of  caring  side,   people  begin  to  expect  things  from  you   —   patience,   and  sympathy,   and  something  resembling  a  conscience.   it's  more  than  i  can  be  bothered  to  put  up  with. ”

Hells, what time is it? he's good at losing track of time, working for hours on end only to look up and see the sun rising. It's not that bad this time but it must be late, late enough for Shen to have got himself into this much of a mess. " - and I thought you could handle your liquor. " He smiles and those fingertips against his cheek are gentle, almost too gentle, a touch he's not used to. But he reminds himself that Shen is drunk and he most definitely isn't.

" I was just finishing. " It's a lie but he can finish up, it'll take him a matter of minutes and he can continue what he's doing in the morning. Aksel stands to his feet, only to crouch just enough to slip his arms under Shen pulling him up off the ground into his arms. " You are not sleeping on the floor. "

          “ have  you  always  been  so  chivalrous? ”   the  words  are  barely  comprehensible  through  the  slur,   eyes  half-lidded  by  the  time  they  reach  the  bed.   and  as  he's  set  down,   fingers  tangle  themselves  into  the  fighter's  shirt,   dinging  in  a  way  that  seems  incongruous  to  shen's  usual  demeanour.

          he's  never  struggled  so  much  with  independence  before.   being  alone  is  a  path  he  often  chooses  for  himself   —   generally  he'd  ensure  his  bed  is  populated  when  he's  in  a  state  to  enjoy  it,   but  has  few  qualms  about  leaving  to  trance  solo.   now,   however,   those  metal-clad  hands  delay  in  letting  go  of  aksel.

How is Mystra treating you, Dekarios?

Ah. Failure, Gale knows, is about as damning as a thing that a wizard can wear. They're a ruthless sort, of course, and have always -- and very zealously -- been very quick to bandy some unfortunate gossip. Their chatter swarms the halls, the tales of someone's shame as common as spell, and with the gravity and magnitude of his own failing? Gale frowns. Naturally, even the majesty of Waterdeep couldn't pen his shame.

He now stands there quietly, a sort of -- warm, deep crackling taking to his bones. Shen's a knot at his a brow and an unfriendly, twisted line at his firmly clenched jaw. He hadn't expected it, to be honest, for this friend to start bristling and championing his name. Evidently, that wizard hadn't either as they clamor past indignantly in a stunning shade of rage. Gale hardly has the words as he would glance Shen's way, but perhaps Shen needn't his gratitude regardless. Flanked by the sun in Baldur's Gate, he is -- well, impressive as always.

          that  said,   he  needn't  plan  out  his  defensive  speech.   it  comes  out  beautifully.   like  a  song  pre-written,   or  poetry  amply  rehearsed,   he  overpowers,   he  interrupts,   he  takes  a  stand  as  though  at  a  lectern  with  a  wicked  quick  wit  and  a  lavish  vocabulary   ( not  always  put  to  use  in  moments  such  as  these,   depending  on  his  intended  route  to  humiliate  his  opposition ).   and  once  the  original  speaker  has  bustled  past  them  both,   reddened  at  the  tops  of  their  ears   —   burnt  with  shame,   anger,   and  blistering  words  from  shen's  lips   —   he  feels…   dissatisfied.   a  battle  too  cheaply  fought  and  easily  won.

          “ oh,   you  know  me, ”   he  turns  to  the  archmage,   sliding  a  smile  back  onto  his  features.   “ i  simply  can't  resist  the  limelight   —   and  it  benefits  all  for  me  to  stand  in  it.   i  shine,   don't  you  think? ”

i might need some help here! @shentacles / as said by blackwall

"  Tryin’!  "  he  bellows  back,  shoving  his  foe  away  from  him  with  a  grunt  of  effort.  And  then,  gods,  but  there’s  a  crack  of  divinity,  bright  and  searing,  as  he  fights  his  way  through  like  a  force.  Reckless,  physical,  all  daring  abandon  and  little  care  for  his  own  hide.  But  one  thing  he’s  good  at:  attracting  attention,  and  gods  does  he.  Like  a  beacon,  spitting  taunts  and  curses,  words  foul  and  coarse  given  with  a  punch-it-out-of-me  grin,  and  he’s  good  at  reclaiming  space.  

Which  is,  of  course,  what  he  does:  make  space  for  the  warlock  to  work,  make  the  goblins  all  more  wary  about  coming  close  to  a  bloodied  sword  held  by  a  bull  of  a  warrior AND facing a spell-slinger.  He  doesn’t  get  out  of  it  unscathed,  of  course  he  doesn’t  — he’s  bleeding,  bruised  aplenty,  but  his  adrenaline’s  up  and  he’s  still  full  of  fight  by  the  time  they  last  few  turn  tail. 

          shen  can  admire  a  person  who's  good  with  their  words   —   and  these  aren't  pretty  ones  by  any  stretch,   but  they  serve  a  purpose  here  better  than  any  outpouring  of  poetry  ever  could.   it's  a  language  they  understand;   moreover,   making  the  taunting  stop  seems  a  far  more  enticing  prospect  than  ganging  up  on  a  lone  spell-caster. 

          if  only  they'd  had  more  than  one  brain  cell  shared  between  them.

          with  the  fight  re-balanced  and  their  enemies'  attentions  refocused  on  the  correct  target,   the  two  make  quick  work  of  picking  of  the  majority  of  the  crowd  and  waving  goodbye  to  the  final  fleeing  stragglers.   and  with  his  role  involving  far  less  careering  around  the  battlefield  than  paerin's,   the  drow  easily  finds  the  breath  to  answer  the  question.   “ just  about, ”   he's  brushing  down  his  clothes  and  kicking  errant  gore  from  his  boot  with  a  grimace.   “ thought  i'd  be  a  goner  when  they  spotted  me  on  my  own   —   would  that  spell-casting  were  as  quick  as  waving  a  sword  around,   or  as  threatening  a  sight. ”

          but  now  lilac  eyes  travel  to  his  companion,   and  they  narrow.   “ how  about  yourself?   did  they  manage  to  land  many  blows? ”   not  that  he  believes  himself  to  be  the  one  to  heal  injuries;   he  knows  the  other  to  be  more  competent  a  healer  than  himself,   with  his  brine-rusted  hands  and  chilling  eldritch  magic.   he  can  do  a  little  in  a  moment  of  desperation,   but  it  isn't  pleasant.