#darkestheir

“ i’m terrified of becoming the monster I sought to destroy. ”

Braund’s arms were folded over his chest as he listened, a thumb tracing the neat stitches keeping one of his recent injuries closed. He shook his head, silently exasperated but forcing himself to show patience.

" ow, ow, careful. my face aches like I've been hit by the stagecoach. " his face is swollen where he's been hit, and he's favoring his arm a bit. there's still the inky stains of magic around his mouth.

“Ah.. Light-..”

He motions behind him, gesturing with his hand, “Dismas, I am not rested enough to heal all of it- can you get the bandages from my things for this? T’is in my room- You did so well fighting-... We were waiting to attend you if needed.”

He frowns, placing his hands on either side of his face and pressing his fingers into the nasal bone. It’s broken to hell and he’s bleeding. There’s still sticky black sludge pouring from his lips. Tardif had gone with a promise to actually train him. The foyer was empty enough to not have any damage to anything but the man himself.

it wasn’t for the coin.

at least not primarily. when word passed of a noble taking up governing their humble, backwater township, ashlyn waited for the inevitable punchline. it never did land, the outrageous yarn continuing to be spun about their alleged connection to the previous heir, their efforts to rebuild and restore the territory and... well- 

the fact that he had very few scruples about hiring known criminals. 

which shouldn’t matter, not when ashlyn made a fair bit of coin poaching game and fleecing whatever denizen was desperate enough for proper meat in this wretched hellscape. even considering the dwindling population of healthy animals, she had made enough money to pay for a stagecoach and leave this hamlet behind her. but then the stories spoke of the war the heir was waging with the cultists, the beast men... the bandits. 

 the raging fires, the frantic screams, the gleam of sharp teeth that only reflected her own wry smile. the blood on her hands. her hands. HER —

her hand took tight hold of the door handle, squeezing it with an unnecessary bit of force before opening and walking past the termite bitten frame. “Ser-” she wanted to believe that there was more to it than fragile sense of mortality, the possibility of a bounty on her head and how the move to ally herself to a man of wealth and influence was nothing more than pragmatic. the fact that her ‘working’ relationship with the bandits was already shattered so she may as well ally herself with their newfound adversaries. benefits that were better off unspoken, really.

“They told me to see you about getting sorted for the... job?” 

The door slammed behind them shut as they took the time to stride up to Regulus. A wrapped finger jabbed into the heir’s lapel. 

“Yer walkin’ into the fuckin’ jaws of a lion as ya march us through the fuckin’ den. You got Quincey destroyed.”

It was growled out as the hand that was jabbing at his chest was dropped. Every nerve was coiled tightly and the only thing that kept them from sprung was the chance to continue to yell at the man.

“People die, shit happens! All the goddamn time!! But shit like this don’t happen when you fuck around blind as hell to the evil powers that keeps us trapped here!”

She gives him a hard look as she picks another piece of glass out of his cheek. The smack with a wine bottle has addled his head as much as it’s ripped up his face. Might scar and ruin his genteel looks. 

His attitude is making it hard for her to care. 

“You’ll do wise to remember I have a name, heir,” she grunts, tabbing away fresh blood so she can see in the gashes better. The large chunks are gone; now she has to tediously check for tiny flecks. 

To Boudica, strong Boudica that feared neither pain nor death, the woman half her size was the only thing that made her truly, truly pale.

Boudica stood at the open door of the transept, and she flinched when that single voice cut through the silence.

“A plan,” she called out, over the hush of the crowd packed into the abbey like rats to ship, “Yes, you do need a plan, Lord von Bok. What shall you do?”

“ am I alright -- what kind of question. . . ”

his head is pounding, like he’s been put in a box and rattled around. . .which, to be fair, he has. the stagecoach is upside down, unfortunately enough, and he’s certain a suitcase has smashed him in the shoulder with how bad it aches.

hm. it had been aching before. his back hurt before he even set foot into the carriage, though he thinks it might be the long trek here.

“ help me up. I think I’m stuck under something. ”

He offers a bracer and a heavy gloved hand with all of it’s concealed welts. The crash scattered every thought he had and stuck him through a peculiar kind of panic. Regulus looks worse because neither him nor Dismas could see through armor. Regulus gets treatment first. 

“Hope that it be just weight and not cracked bone- Yes ser,” he says, and sets his blade outside a in the pile of rubble they managed to dig up (it used to be a small soft cliff before they ran straight into it) to feel the coach's remains out. The husk of a carriage had bowed in and pinned Regulus down, scraps of baggage and personal effects scattered outside the broken door (there wasn’t much- he didn’t come with anything... and he’s not sure Dismas had much either but the coat on his back).

Reynauld kneels to offer a steady hand to help, tosses a look at Dismas behind him, just a turn of the head.

012. an urgent letter || Send some for letters

---

Open before you read the final letter that is your inheritance

To Regulus von Bok,

By now, you will have realized we are gone. Aye, we have been preparing for this trip for weeks, and by the time you read this, it will be a day’s past since we have left. I ask that you read this letter in it’s fullness. 

Dear Regulus; I am proud of you, and I am proud to serve you. When we arrived along the old road, we arrived to a town that was waiting to die. It had already dug the graves for each of its people. Together, with you and the people, we rebuilt these buildings, we laid the cobble for the pathways, and we found purpose. I see the glimmers of hope in the faces of the townsfolk, and I must tell you that you helped bring them to pass. Look about you. We have children in the Hamlet now. We have citizens working. We have a second chance with what we have built together.

I thank you for all you’ve given me. Through this old road, I am healing. 

When you came here, it was with a hole left from your family. Dismas and I hope that you will find peace in having built your own around you. We wish to see you live happily, and perhaps love happily too. 

Which is why, I am sorry, and I hope you will forgive me, but we will take this final journey to make certain of that. Your ancestor was not as you are. He did not look at this world and find happiness in. He hated this world, and found solace burning what he could of it. These nightmares of yours, and this pain? It is all his doing.

Burn the last bit of his hatred and toss the letter in the fire so we can erase the last of his darkness, and take solace in a manner befitting the kindness of your friends.

After this is over, the only question we will have left is one that is not an eldritch pondering. It is merely “What do we do next?”

And what we do next is a choice we make ourselves. 

We are the flame.

~ Reynauld d’Avignon