Sir Pentious

"Them being a bunch of hypocrites does not surprise me in the least," Alastor nearly snapped, his ire for the angels making another brief rise before he bit it back once more. He did not wish to end this conversation on a sour note any more than it already likely would be, simply by nature of them being unable to see each other once again.

But at least this communication channel was one small consolation.

Glancing back up at Pen as he showed off his books, Alastor's expression softened slightly to see that at least he was not being idle. Alastor had accused him of being as such, yes, but that had been mostly out of anger than anything else. Now, he could see that it wasn't the case.

The question of the eggs too kept him from being unnecessarily bitter.

"...The ones that remain are safe. Frank and Fred and Fitzgerald. The girls, too." As they had not been involved, from what Alastor could recall. Though they continued to be off, doing their own thing, presumably. Alastor had certainly not heard from them in the aftermath. "Though I'll admit, I can't say I know exactly what I'm doing with them on any given day. They ask about you, but... I do not much know what to tell them." He'd given what small tasks he thought they might be capable of... but it was not much. And he knew that at least Frank had been made aware of his own bitterness for what he'd assumed to be Pentious' death.

It was only now that he was reminded that there were many other eggs that must have not survived. And while he'd never been as attached to them as Pen had been... to lose them still did not settle in his belly well.

"Replacements?" Alastor asked, lifting his head once again to stare at the other.

"Of course. Because they believe us all to be replaceable, surely." Anything to vindicate his own hatred for them, Alastor would latch onto.

He sighed, folding his arms across his chest as a self-soothe to keep himself from growing too agitated. The more angry he would become, the less he would be able to maintain the clarity of the image for the other.

"...I do not know what I can do from this end. The angels have trust in Charlie, I suppose, but certainly not in me. Not a one has said two words to me - though I do catch the small one eyeing me from time to time." The one that had wrenched him free from the shark's maw. That alone was something he'd not wanted to openly acknowledge.

Pentious had to blink rather rapidly to ward off the emotions that threatened to take over the more he considered his eggs.

"I am sure you are doing your utmost, dear. And they can be resourceful, so they will certainly be fine. Thank you for taking care of them. Let them know I miss them."

The tears were easily warded off by vehemently nodding towards Alastor's disbelief. Indeed! Although Pentious couldn't pretend that he hadn't been soothed by something small and cuddly to hold, he was still very bitter about the fact that the angels felt that their small offering would fix anything.

"You must mean Emily. As... unassuming as she might be, she is actually one of the seraphim; the highest rank of angels. For now, like Charlie on that side, she acts as the bridge between Heaven and Hell."

Pentious knew what he was about to say next would likely aggravate Alastor, so he paused for a moment to consider how to make the message the least unappealing to his feisty companion.

"...I think you should try to build a friendly rapport with her. She can be very persuasive towards the other seraphim. If she finds you trustworthy, she will be more likely to put her best foot forward in our case to be reunited."

He smiled apologetically.

"She is very easy to please. You're good at being polite and charming. I doubt she will know when you are lying about it."

In that regard, Emily was more socially clueless than himself. It must have been a part of her sheltered upbringing. She could hardly see evil around herself, because she had never experienced it. If Alastor played his cards right, she could take a liking to him and work even harder to drop the veil between the realms.

Pen notices the keen eyes on him, and averts his own from a bout of shyness. Alastor is much easier on the eyes than himself, he reasons, and feels it unusual to be looked upon so keenly.

Nevertheless, he keeps a hold of Alastor's hand as he leads him to the side door. He opens it to reveal a room partially obscured by darkness, which soon melts away as he strikes fire to the nearest chandelier and its beeswax candles.

The mirrors scattered on opposing walls help the candle to illuminate the entire room, which is a pristine, white bathing chamber with stone and gold decor. A cabinet on the side holds dozens of towels and colourful glass bottles holding bath salts, soaps and oils. The tiles on the floor lead towards a large tub, big enough for a grown man to submerge in. It is close to a cylinder-shaped cauldron, which holds hot water and coals inside its oven near the floor. A copper tube lowers from the cauldron to the side of the bath, ready to lead the water there without the hassle of a bucket.

Pen gestures towards a low wooden stool next to the tub, and starts to rummage the cabinets for sponges and soap. Used to the intricate room, he then swiftly steps back to the tub, turns the cauldron faucet and fills a small pail with warm water for the initial wash.

"Here, take a seat. We can clean up, and I can prepare you a bath. I already had a long one earlier."

Almost as soon as he steps into the bath room, Alastor feels out of place. The place is spotless once it's illuminated, much like a painting made to be perfect rather than a true, lived in and used space. The floor is cool beneath his bare feet, and though his hand remains in Pen's until it is released, he still feels himself a bit awkward and gangly when met with such graceful and near perfect imagery that decorates the room proper.

He glances at himself in the mirror for a few lingering moments, dark-skinned and swarthy in comparison to Simon's much paler complexion.

It is no wonder that some, such as Pen's grandmother, are so compelled to keep these homes free of his ilk. How drastically he contrasts with the environment... But he keeps those thoughts to himself, lest he bring the atmosphere between them into something dour, turning his eyes instead to the tub and blinking absently behind his hastily placed glasses as Pen gestures for him to sit.

"You prepare me a bath?" Alastor asks, though he does as he's told, stepping over to the stool to sit, albeit feeling somewhat odd about it.

"I can already see your parents aghast at the very thought."

It's a bit of snide commentary, but the young Hartfelt cannot fully help it. It's a bit in his blood to be scathing - and he presumes Simon understands.

Simon laughs as quietly as he can manage. "If you can see my parents do that at the idea of a bath, do tell what you imagine they would do if they knew what we did beforehand."

Probably die at the spot. As would Pen himself. He was too old to get a spanking or get his hair pulled, but getting murdered was probably not off the books. His attention is pulled back to the cabinet, and he pauses before he can bring the towels and sponge over.

"Indeed. Those are all scented oils and salts for the bath. That's my dark secret. They smell nice, not me."

The young lord is encouraged by Alastor's curiosity, and he grabs as many different glass bottles as he can to bring them over and show to his best friend.

"Here, you can choose which one you like the most, and I'll add them to the water. Jasmine and vanilla are my favourites. Oh, and cardamom, of course."

Pen takes the moment to give a whiff to the bottles himself, and wets a natural, ocean-harvested sponge in the warm, steaming water of the pail. He checks that the large tub is filling before he kneels behind Alastor, in that manner that his parents would disapprove completely.

Though the question of kits might have earned Precious a bit of an odd look from both clan cats, Morningstar seemed to take it in stride. While neither quite seemed to understand what the point of taking turns would be, Stagtooth was quick to chalk it up to kittypet oddness, more than anything else.

"Mating stays within the clan. Having kits with cats from other clans is against the warrior code - and half-clan kits are... historically not very welcome, though every clan handles it a bit differently." The pale cat seemed a bit disconcerted by that, but otherwise continued onward. "We don't... give permissions or take turns. I'm not quite sure what that means. Kits are a blessing to the clan. They strengthen us by giving us more warriors to hunt and fight. More cats to bolster our numbers and ensure that we are strong and full-fed."

Stagtooth gave a small snuff, as though waiting to be acknowledged, to which Morningstar gave a brief sigh and a sideways glance to the ginger tom.

"But Fireclan has always been more... open to rogues and loners - if they are willing to prove their loyalty to the clan above themselves. It keeps us from relying too heavily on the same bloodlines over and over. Other cats, like Airclan, may tout pure bloodedness as greater than all else, but... That's always seemed too narrow minded to me."

"You are more kind hearted than the other leaders, admittedly," Stagtooth spoke wryly, to which Morningstar seemed to bristle and hiss.

"Not so kind as to not claw your ears if you get too big for your paws."

But the ginger tom seemed undeterred, offering a toothy grin instead and a small huff of a laugh. They had a knack for getting under each other's fur.

Precious' fur bristled at Morningstar's sharp remark towards Stagtooth, but he allowed it to flatten once more as he realised it was nothing more than some friendly poking. At least, that is what he hoped.

He felt equally uncertain when Morningstart slowed to strut beside him, and he lowered his head a bit to appear more submissive near the smaller cat.

"Well, I don't... really know where they came from," Precious admitted, assuming such a response may have been a bit unsatisfactory.

"One moon ago they appeared in my nest. I didn't recognise their scent. My twolegs maybe brought them in, but I don't know where they could have gotten them. They were on my pillow- my soft bedding - and only newborn. Their eyes were closed and their ears were pressed down... And they weren't very warm. I wasn't even sure if they were alive at first. That's when I realised they didn't have a mother."

The memory was forever etched in Sir Precious' heart. He could recall the unfamiliar scent of the three kittens and how small they were compared to himself. They made the most pitiful noises, and somehow that had told Precious exactly what to do.

"I warmed them up with my body and cleaned them. And my twolegs would help them feed on milk."

It was touch-and-go, but eventually Precious had grown more confident with the kits, and they had grown stronger, surviving past the most tumultuous days.

"Regardless of where they came from, I know they were given to me to be my kits. I knew I'd have to be their mother and father."

And it was a duty Precious took more seriously than he had ever taken one before. It gave meaning to his easy days, and he thrived with three kits to love and cherish. It felt like something he had always been meant to do.

Relieved that the other man did not linger around his injury, Alastor permitted himself to relax at least a small amount, leaning against one of the arms of the seat as he tried to will away the ache of his foot. He watched as Pen brought up the ladder and produced a small cooking area instead, a brow raised.

He probably should not be surprised. The man seemed more brain than brawn.

The thought of food made his belly briefly stir with interest, but he swallowed back any desire to ask after the other's provisions, listening instead to the answer he provided. On holiday. What a terrible choice for a vacation, Alastor thought. And a terrible coincidence, at that.

"Ren-Faire?" Alastor repeated, releasing a small, disbelieving huff of a laugh, though there was no genuine mirth in it. "No, that's not exactly the sort of place I frequent." His idea of free time before it'd all gone up in flames was an evening out at a bar - or spending time scribbling down notes for his own radio show in between weekends hunting for game in the woods.

"Local enough," he decided to answer. "My gun and I were familiar with one another before this, yes." Though in what capacity, Alastor was loathe to say. He wanted to maintain the illusion of being deadly and mysterious. It gave others more reason to be wary around him - and to not get too attached.

"But I'm not a survivor nut, if that's what you are assuming. This caught me off guard as much as anyone. Otherwise, I would have felt much more urgency to do something like stockpile before all of the stores ran empty."

At least, he thought, he'd adapted well enough. He'd always been a bit of a loner - and now, he knew well enough that relying on himself had not been such a transition.

"That's smart thinking," Pen praised, letting the fire be for the moment. He stood back up to fetch a camping kettle, filled with more of the precious, preserved water. He dangled it by its holder over the stove, utilising a hook he had fastened over the doorway.

"I couldn't even do a little preparation. Once I entered the fairgrounds, I was stuck there. Thinking about it always puts me off everything. In ways, it was such a lucky place to be when electricity became scarce and people got sick. All the fire pits, horses, weapons, iron smithies, medieval food preservatives, and people familiar enough with them. An apocalypse lottery win, really."

Pen scoffed to himself again. It stung almost too much to know that all it took were a few smug, power-hungry brutes to ruin it.

" It could have been a perfect settlement. And then they went and... fucked it all up."

The man went further back in the aircraft to see his food stash. It was blissfully hefty, considering the circumstances. Along what Pen had managed to take from the settlement, the aeroplane had its own stash of airline goods, and the unfortunate family, whom Pentious presumed the vehicle had belonged to, had stockpiled some goods in their still-present luggage. Some of it had to be thrown away for not being a preservative, but Pendleton was not yet in any danger of starving.

But everything he had was precious, and thus for a drink, he did not opt for any of the airline instant coffee or hot cocoa packets, but a box of foraged leaves, nettles, pine needles and berries he had fashioned into homemade tea. He first thought to add the mixture to two cups, but then considered his visitor's paranoia, and decided to place the whole box on the table so Hartfelt could see there was nothing suspicious about it.

As a sort of piece offering he would give once the water was done boiling, he did grab and put a honey nut protein bar, as well as a chocolate one, in his pocket.

As luxurious as it would ever get.

Pen placed the cups and the box of tea down and took a seat across the other man. He crossed his hands together on top of the wooden surface, and reminisced about the first months after the fall. It hadn't been too long ago- it hadn't even been a year since internet stopped being a thing. But it still felt like their current reality had gone on forever.

"What? You don't like me being demanding?" Alastor jokes in turn, but he situates himself enough to fully take in the sight of Pen removing his own clothes, and then Alastor's in turn. Admittedly, he stares at Simon's pale skin; the curve of his hips, uncertain as to why he's not quite noticed all of his full, adult features until now. Perhaps it's just with the new context that he does.

The young Hartfelt follows the other's gaze over towards the door, not quite understanding what could possibly be on the other side. He's been in the estate before... but it's been some years. Since becoming even a teenage boy, he's not been permitted inside, the halls guarded by servant and old crones both.

To be here now is a miracle, really, harbored only because of how it is a secret.

When Pen stands, Alastor's eyes drift downwards once again - a bit blatant in his fixed gaze before he is distracted by the offering of his glasses which he takes, sliding back over his nose so that he can see properly.

That does not help the staring.

"Hm? Oh."

The hand. Yes. Tidied. Of course.

Extending his hand again, he allows himself to be pulled up to his feet, walking a bit brazenly naked along the cool floor in the direction of the door. It's not the first time they have been fully nude together, but now it feels much more intentional than simply happenstance.

Pen notices the keen eyes on him, and averts his own from a bout of shyness. Alastor is much easier on the eyes than himself, he reasons, and feels it unusual to be looked upon so keenly.

Nevertheless, he keeps a hold of Alastor's hand as he leads him to the side door. He opens it to reveal a room partially obscured by darkness, which soon melts away as he strikes fire to the nearest chandelier and its beeswax candles.

The mirrors scattered on opposing walls help the candle to illuminate the entire room, which is a pristine, white bathing chamber with stone and gold decor. A cabinet on the side holds dozens of towels and colourful glass bottles holding bath salts, soaps and oils. The tiles on the floor lead towards a large tub, big enough for a grown man to submerge in. It is close to a cylinder-shaped cauldron, which holds hot water and coals inside its oven near the floor. A copper tube lowers from the cauldron to the side of the bath, ready to lead the water there without the hassle of a bucket.

Pen gestures towards a low wooden stool next to the tub, and starts to rummage the cabinets for sponges and soap. Used to the intricate room, he then swiftly steps back to the tub, turns the cauldron faucet and fills a small pail with warm water for the initial wash.

"Here, take a seat. We can clean up, and I can prepare you a bath. I already had a long one earlier."

It was not an unfair thing to ask, and while Stagtooth thought he might know the answer, he still permitted Morningstar to provide the response, knowing that the leader would have a better insight than a former rogue.

"By default, most cats will become warriors. There are some exceptions. The blind, the deaf, the lame... Typically, we may move them straight into the elder's den to look after them. We don't abandon our own, but there are... certain things that will keep a cat from being an effective fighter or hunter. They find other ways to serve the clan. By telling stories, sharing wisdom with kits and apprentices... Keeping us strong in that way."

A large felled tree rose up in their path - and before he continued, Morningstar bunched his hind legs together and leapt over it, his shorter stature not keeping him from doing so, and landing skillfully on the other side. Stagtooth gave Precious a small nudge to do the same, and would watch the kittypet to ensure that he managed before the ginger tom leaped over himself.

"Medicine cats are typically chosen by Starclan or they show early interest in herbs and dreams. They give us insight to our warrior ancestors... and so they have to have a special connection. They don't stop training under their mentors, even when they earn their full names. Not until their mentor joins Starclan themselves. But not just anyone can be a medicine cat. It's a very demanding job."

Stagtooth glanced towards Precious as they continued on.

"Dazzleheart told me that he's been rolling in herbs ever since he was a kit. I imagine there's usually a good sign of a medicine cat to-be."

Morningstar nodded.

"Leaders are chosen. A warrior who has mentored an apprentice at least once can become deputy - and when a leader loses their last life, the deputy becomes the leader. A deputy can step down... due to age, illness, or they might simply die. Then a new deputy can be chosen. But that's how the succession typically goes."

The small pale cat breathed out what seemed like a rather heavy sigh.

The leap only made Precious nervous because of the expectant eyes on him, and the kittypet managed the jump without much trouble. He landed on the other side of the tree and resumed his steps between the warrior cats after giving a slight shake to his fur.

"And how about the clan families?" He asked. It was obvious by the looks of the clan members and the addition of Stagtooth that not all of them were related to each other. "Do you find partners and mate for life? Do you give permissions and take turn having kits, or does it happen as uhm... as nature intends?"

Perhaps there was a bit of morbid curiosity involved. Presh's mother would tell him terrifying tales about feral cats. Cats who lived in the wilderness in unwell, disease-ridden groups and bred to an unprecedented degree. Sick cats, misshapen kittens, dirty, and helpless. And so many.

Which is why, Mother Countess had said, it was important that only a few kittypets could be allowed to give birth to kits. To avoid the same fate as the feral groups. Most adult kittypets would go to the vet and have the part that made kits cut out. It was an important ceremony also because it made cats more fitting for their important task as companions, and stifled unwanted behaviours.

Precious had always been rather mellow and well-behaved, and so he had not been to the vet to be cut, not yet at least. So he could maybe have more kits, if his twolegs let him. If they thought him worthy enough to do so.

Alastor truly had no real hatred for Shok.wav - the animal was simply following orders. He did not like the shark, but his ill will was not directed towards it. To hear that Pentious had known about the creature did not surprise him either. If what Alastor had heard about he and Baxter had been correct, then anything the smaller of the two had a hand in, it was likely that Pen had some knowledge of.

It was neither here nor there.

But he'd believed Pentious to be... upset about his unwillingness at the end to intervene in his own demise. Instead, it seemed as though he could relate. That in and of itself was surprising, turning his eyes back up to the screen.

Well. He supposed he couldn't fault Pen for that either, especially as he began to share the thoughts that Alastor could only share in kind. His emotional turbulence made the screen crackle and waver, but he tried to suppress the influence as best as he could. It was involuntary, for the most part, and he was unable to keep it clean entirely.

"...You left me with a gaggle of eggs to look after, you know," Alastor said after a few moments of lingering silence. Of course, he missed Pentious as well. But to say it aloud was difficult even still. Old resistances to vulnerabilities, especially after keeping himself so closed in within the tower, were hard to overcome.

"If nothing else, they should be permitting you to come back so that you don't leave your responsibility to them unfulfilled."

If not for Alastor, then perhaps the seraphim might take mercy on the little creatures who had much less control over their environment than the radio demon.

"Indeed! I thought that family separation, as it were, would be something that Heaven is against," Pentious huffed in exasperation. Surely such severe grounds were base for a swift reunion?

Reminded of his fervent studies from before the call, Pentious lifted and showed the pile of books he had retrieved from the archives.

"I have done extensive research on the history of Heaven, hoping to discover either an alternative portal or a legal precedent to my situation. I haven't had any luck so far, but I am certain I am bound to find a law or a loophole to our advantage eventually. I won't stop until I'm back with you and the eggs."

Pen lifted his fist in a show of determination. His desire to be reunited with Alastor and their minions would certainly fuel more hours of study to come.

"How are they doing, the eggs? Fitz and Frank and Fred. They haven't forgotten me, have they? Have they been polite and eating well? Can you bring them next time you call? I've missed them so terribly, too. The rest of them- they-"

Pen suddenly paused.

"...They did not come with me."

It felt unfair that they hadn't, though it wasn't unexpected. They had never been humans. And if the perished eggs had ever had souls, they were not ones recognised by anyone in the heavenly realm.

"The angels tried to pacify me with some rudimentary replacements, can you imagine?"

A villa? That was much fancier a term than Alastor was accustomed to, trying and failing to envision it while he marinated the thought over in his mind. It was not the most terrible of ideas, but his hesitation simply came from his resistance to change, if nothing else, not wanting to dislodge what they'd been able to build with one another for the sake of 'trying something new'. Especially if there was a risk of it failing.

But Pentious evidently had his number, his ears lifting as the other began to humorously lament his fate if left to his own devices instead of bringing Alastor along with him. It was eye-roll worthy, and the radio demon did just that, though there was no real disdain for the scenario given to him.

"So this is a threat, I see," Alastor answered wryly, resting his head back down against the other with a small scoff.

"Okay. Let's say I humor the concept. What would we need to do? I may be well-versed in a great many things -" Always an excuse to toot his own horn, as it were. "-but Hell real estate is not exactly my area of expertise. Is that even how it works down here?" When he'd first claimed his own house, it had simply been an empty lot - and with some time and effort (and a lot of throttling of sinners under his employ), the small shotgun-style home had been built upon it, his brief reign over the territory making it rather easy to establish such a place.

"A threat? I have not a single clue what you mean, dear," Pentious replied smugly, evidently pleased with himself and Alastor's careful curiosity. But he quieted

"Hm... Most of my former dwellings I've rented. With the exception of the house I mentioned, and my ship, of course," Pentious admitted. "But I know people sell estates and houses just like they do on Earth, too."

Using his old turf would probably be most convenient, but Pentious had not a single idea whether the house or the turf itself still stood. And Miss Cherri Bomb knew of its location. A holiday would not be rejuvenating if she decided to invade what she thought was rightfully hers.

"I think repurposing an existing house would probably be the easiest. Buying or otherwise making a deal for it. One in a well-established neighbourhood that won't immediately burn down at its Overlord's next temper tantrum."

Cannibal Town came to mind. It had stood the test of time for decades and was probably as quaint as the Pentagram's neighbourhoods would get.

But Nana lived there. The proximity to her was unacceptable.

"Madame Carmine's turf is very secure... but not very homely."

The whole city proper could not be described as anything peaceful, with the overpopulation of Sinners and cramped environments. Maybe there were places easily overlooked somewhere nearby?

At least they seemed to be on the same page about that much, Alastor thought. It would make it much less bothersome for him to cut and run once he was able to walk again. Though as the other continued to observe his foot closely, Hartfelt began to wonder if it would be longer than anticipated before he could get back on his feet, so to speak. Having to rely on this Pen for much longer was a daunting idea, considering he'd never been in such a position before.

But he gave a small snort of derision at the other man's evident optimism. Or former optimism, anyway.

"The way that society functions as a whole and has always functioned? That's a wildly naive assumption to make." One that he knew most normal people held when things had all gone to shit - but he'd always been skeptical. When the first reports had come of the illness and the subsequent fallout, Alastor had known that it would be many, many years before the world was able to recover.

He had only been able to prove that belief time and time again, any time he'd come across some semblance of a lingering civilization to observe from afar. Problems were never-ending, and it simply made sense to steer clear.

The cool water against his foot made him hiss, slightly, startled by the shift in temperature.

"Watch it," he snipped, but he did not pull his foot away, at least - only glared down at Pen with a petulant look.

"I don't need a cast. It just needs a few days is all." And that alone was hard to admit, wrinkling his nose with suspicion at the mention of painkillers.

Alastor shook his head.

"I'd rather not. If I'm going to be trapped up here with you, I'm not interested in whatever pills you've got for me." Openly suspicious, Alastor needed to have full clarity - and if this man was as inventive as his environment (and the traps in the woods) seemed to allude to, Hartfelt was not about to permit himself to fall victim to tampering of pull capsules.

"I'll be fine."

But even as he said it, he could not help but wince as he shifted lower in the seat, trying to get more comfortable.

Alastor was stubborn. Clearly.

Pen startled at the other's hiss, and then slowly nodded. All he could have done for the foot was done, and he backed off to wash his hands with what was left of his bottle.

"Let me know if the pain gets worse," he said, and then turned towards the doorway of the aeroplane.

Maybe Hartfelt did not want whatever he had to offer, but Pendleton was in dire need of a cuppa.

He rolled up the ladder, set it aside and replaced it with a small rocket stove he had fashioned out of large tin cans and pebbles. Facing its tiny "chimney" towards the outdoors, he filled the stove with small sticks and dry grass before igniting them with a flint.

"I was on a holiday when everything went tits up."

Pen felt bitter and sad about it every time he thought about it. Although he had no way to prove it, he was certain that England had gone about the full onslaught of the walking dead much more sensibly than the States. He was terribly homesick, and knew that returning would be nearly impossible unless he somehow managed to travel to the East Coast and find a ship capable of making the journey.

Or if the aircraft they now sat in magically decided to fix itself and start flying.

The fire caught on, and Pen blew on it gently to help it grow.

"I came for the International Ren-Faire. Ever hear about it? It goes on for the whole week. You know, costumes, games, handcrafts and such things. Though we only had three days before someone... turned. It was too much to wish for that people wouldn't show up if they had any symptoms of the flu."

Clearly Covid had not taught humanity anything.