#dabbledincrochet

@dabbledincrochet

“Only once,” she admits. “And it... it was strange, it was.” Heartbreaking, in a way. She wonders if  Randal ever told her. About her husband. About how she had seen him, how he had said that he loved her, but that he wanted her to be happy in her life, even without him. About how forever could wait.

(@dabbledincrochet) Madeleine remains standing at the abbey's door for a few moments after it had closed, smiling with her arms crossed. Her evening had gone...well. Extraordinarily well, in fact. She'd been worried at the outset, but was now full of food, wine, general contentment, and a wonderful sort of thrilled giddiness.

She turns, steps out, and considers the graveyard for a brief moment, before breaking off and walking towards the outside of town. She wouldn't need to actually divest people of their posthumous splendor for a while, not yet. Maybe pull a few jokes over on Toustain (Almost certainly, in fact) in the meantime.

No, for now she still had in mind her idea, earlier, for a bit of fun trouble. She'd heard the sanitarium had laudanum, and one never knew when one would need a little pick-me-up, above and beyond what might be rationed for. Maybe poke around other things a bit, too, see what she could find.

She heads down the hill from the church, hanging to her right to orbit around the sanitarium on her left. She sings as she walks, enjoying the crispness of the air and the shadows cast from the new moon, the sounds and smells of grass and dirt underneath her boots. She could afford to take a detour, a bit, and enjoy the dark and the woods before indulging in a spat of light burglary. Maybe she’d be able to find a pretty pond.

“Quand je menai mes chevaux boire Ilaire, ilaire, itou, ilaire Ilaire, oh ma Nanette Quand je menai mes chevaux boire J’entendis le coucou chanter,

The simple fact of the matter was this: they. Had. Lost.

They should have just quit while they still had their lives. But he refused. He just kept trudging along, shrugging off any suggestions to turn back.

He was a stubborn little shit, that much was true. Despite being probably one of the youngest members of the ragtag group of misfits they had around the Hamlet, he acted like he had experienced everything. The truth was he hadn’t. The man’s mind had snapped like a twig during their stay in the Weald. He refused help. He refused to let any member of their party comfort him.

But now he and the... Grave Robber, maybe, were the only ones awake. He refused to sleep. Not when there were still guts to pound and blood to spill. The man was reduced to putting his head in his lap, his back to the fire, and snarling out verses he had been forced to memorize as a young boy. Just feel the flame. Breathe in. No, don’t breathe, the air is diseased!

His lungs screamed at him. Infection was in the air. He shook his head and turned to face the fire, and his only conscious companion. His eye twitched as he stared at her. He knew nothing about her. Hardly spoken a word to her since their little expedition had started. Despite being at the Hamlet for a considerable amount of time, he had hardly met her before now.

The Heir wasn’t discriminatory when it came to recruiting help.

News had come to him in a flier, detailing a job that was equal parts repossession and extermination on a far off property, a skilled craft wasn’t necessary, but it had specified that survival and self-preservation was vital. Also that the carriage ride was free of charge.

News had come to him when he took to sleeping under a bridge, clearly he didn’t have anything to lose...That was months ago, how foolish of him to assume that. The job pushed his physical and mental capabilities to their absolute limits, as brigands and demons alike found it fit to assault both. His... condition made him tougher than most, but he liked to attribute a fair amount of his survival to how quickly he learned. They held no official rank here, so far removed from the pecking orders of society whose only purpose served individuals who relished in holding authority over others. They were all subservient to the Heir, each with their own talents to share.

Still, when they took to declaring him Master Abomination, he figured his experience thus far had counted for something. He held some form of pride in that...

“That mutant isn’t fit to be a master of the sewers!” 

Sigh

Perhaps, he was too quick to assume he’d garner respect for it.

A fresh recruit stomped over to where he stood, awaiting the notices on the board for the work the Heir would need done throughout the week. Some expeditions they handpicked the auxiliaries they wished to use, but other times, they allowed the mercenaries to work among themselves who would claim the lower-priority ones. As such, it made the made the main street of the hamlet busy with adventurers from every trade and varying experience.

But.... not to sound judgmental... Nesdin would be surprised if it came to light that this adventurer had been in the Hamlet for more than a week. His plate was polished and he couldn’t spy any dents or scratches to show that it had been used, to add, his blade seemed to be more fit for decoration than actual battle. He quickly surmised that he was noble made knight, pursuing some childish notion of adventure and prestige.

“I’m.... sorry?” 

“I know that brand, trash. And how a degenerate like you can lord a so called title of master just because you’ve been here a bit longer is beyond me!”

He tried to make his way past him, but the young man was surprisingly good at restraining his advance by word alone. Nesdin found himself kept captive as he continued to rant on and on about his place in the Order, his adherence to the Code of the Flame, as well as his general disdain for him and all people like him.

@dabbledincrochet

It’d been a while. A month, maybe a month and a half, the winter still blasting through the Hamlet, but the smallest, most stubborn green shoots have started to make their appearance. And like a small, stubborn green shoot, she’s emerged from the Abbey in order to visit a friend. A friend who hadn’t visited her, not in a while. Not even with shovel in hand and bent over a grave, attempting to “ruin” her night.

After a quick check with the innkeeper, she walks up the well-trodden wooden stairs to the varied hallways, lit with candles encased in glass. She adjusts her fingers on the basket handle, feeling a slight nervousness flutter in her throat. The vestal swallows it down. It was just Crevecoeur. There was no need to be worried about seeing her. But it had been so long, and... Crev didn’t like the Abbey, but...

((Oooooh damn! I wonder who sent this? Either way it’s awesome to know people are paying attention to my threads!! :3))