#misaentropy

basim laughs, so quietly that sigurd's eyes widen with offense.

"and that frustrates you."

it's a hot night, even in the bureau that sits by the bosphorus. sigurd's cheeks bear the flush of sunburn and ayran, and by the start of the evening he had already discarded most of his princely pelts. he would find them, neatly piled, on his bed—in the room reserved for him at the bureau. the place itself is near empty, except for a couple of nervous novices that don't seem to know what to make of the viking's presence. the rafiq, an older assassin with a scarred face, seems lax about it. he's been trying to communicate with sigurd all evening, and refilled his drink when all other attempts failed. he's a man who has had his fair share of strange allies, and is not accustomed to questioning his superiors.

but throughout the evening, candles have burned almost to the hilt, the plates have been cleared and jugs with water, wine and turkic ayran are empty. a couple of novices requested an heron feather. basim studied them carefully as they disappeared into the street. come morning, they will return with a bloody feather, inshallah. or they will not return at all. he does not spare them more than a thought.

on the rooftop of the bureau, where sigurd sought relief from the heat inside, a cool breeze blows. he asked about the feather—in a strained but not quite drunken greek, almost in practice, he asked about many things; his head tilted back, chest heaving with full, content breaths. some answers he gets. basim speaks slowly, half greek and half norse, and the words come to him although he cannot tell if the effort to look for them is a conscious one. and the viking does not try to look unimpressed. at least as long as basim indulges him.

some answers he does not get. he's tense about it, and dangerous as a high-strung horse. basim speaks soothingly, as to pacify one.

"ease, prince. you are among friends." he studies sigurd's reaction as it washes over the horizon of his pale eyes like daybreak. common sense and suspicion have nested there, with the high of alcohol gently fading, but also the thrill of the challenge. like a wary cat, lured with food so delicious that it makes it worth the risk.

and the food is knowledge. he's the one.

"i will not tell you everything, but i will not lie to you." the language of norsemen slips from basim like water. "is that an acceptable arrangement, sigurd?"

blanket is tugged tightly around her shoulders as she quietly makes the trek to the familiar arches of karlach's tent in a failing attempt to ward off the chill, a quiet cough announcing her arrival. ❛ so, been a few hours, ❜ a hand extends, fingers splayed out in an open invitation for touch, ❛ everything still feeling alright? if not, we can head back & talk to dammon first thing in the morning, see what he can do. ❜

for now,  he will give the doctor a taste of what makes  him  a worthy match.  he approaches her at the bar wearing a smirk sharper than a rapier’s blade,  dedicating his sole focus to her  (  attention was a part of love,  he would explain.  it is essential to provide a lady with it,  so she will think she is the only person in the world that matters to you.  )    ❝  i don’t mean to embarrass you,  but i have to say i’m  quite  a fan.   ❞   a twinkle in his eyes completes the picture,  mirth just dancing within brown hues.   ❝  how to train your spouse  was a revelation   –   i had no idea  my  spouse was trying to train me into shape.  ❞   it’s a joke,  but only because he hasn’t had a spouse in a little over a hundred years.    he’s sure cindy might have tried her method if she’d had access to it.  

❝  your memory was a comfort in dark times.  ❞   @misaentropy​ murmurs in response.    it has ciri’s eyes flicker upwards,    draw her slightly closer.

in the low, flickering light, the hooded woman appears shapeless. a shadow, haunting the hold, who one day simply appeared, and whose true purpose d has yet to understand. for he would not come to receive her embrace, would not gift his life to the undead, and would not hear her seductions. but rogier did. and that was, perhaps, worse.

worse yet is the sight of it. the sound of it. in this now rather empty hold, the pair's murmurs and whispers can be heard even by those who want nothing more than to close their ears to them. it twists his heart beyond recognition, bringing forth such vile hatred within himself that he frightens himself with the intensity of it. he wonders at times if she knows. if she delights in it. most of all he wonders if she could ever see in rogier what he once saw. no, darian believes wholeheartedly, she does nothing but use him.

their distaste for each other is wholly unspoken. not one word has he graced her with, turning instead away whenever they pass each other, as if to avoid her gaze lest it bewitch him.

when the witch breaks their shared silence, it stops him in his tracks on the way back from hewg's anvil to the roundtable. still he does not look at her. it would be some concession, he thinks, to lift even his masked face and meet her eyes. contempt, bitter and vile, rises like a flash flood in his chest. it is colder than anger, does not call his hand to violence in what feels like an insult, like a deliberate breaching of their boundary of silence.

for a long moment, darian considers not answering at all. he simply stands, his back half turned, and hears her voice echo in his mind.

"i have nothing to say to you," he finally responds, and then continues so quietly he hopes hewg does not hear, does not wish to be seen speaking with her at all, "you know very well what it is that saddens me."

there's a second acquaintance he's become familiar with in more than name and rumor now, every bit as intense as the reputation that precedes her. He catches Yennefer enjoying the sun partially, at least, considering she's sat in the shade of the vineyard's most robust oak.

❛ Quite easy to get used to the peace here, isn't it? One can only hope nothing lurks under its surface for the next little while. ❜

it surprises him, if only momentarily, to be caught in the act with such ease but then again, Regis would have expected no less from a woman such as @misaentropy. She's perceptive, and must continue to be so if she is to hold her position. Court and the nobility that lives within it are, as he's often heard it put, a nest of vipers, and though that seems of likely of Beauclair, appearances are always deceitful things. A mere month and a half, as well as limited exposure to the city's upper spheres in spite of the Duchess' grace and good will, are certainly insufficient to shed light on what truly occurs beneath the colorful, wine - addled surface.

that's what Regis is trying to fight against, he and the entire company. Beauclair is but an extended lull in their travels and despite the comforts that the city offers, it is still a lake one is better off not staring into for too long lest it draw one into its depths with such force, the only means of escape would be to drown. [ Despite his near - infinite patience, when parted from Geralt, Regis still hopes to see him appear and declare their journey renewed. This is the impatience that Anarietta catches him in. ]

❛ Apologies, Your Grace, ❜ he says with a brief smile as their walk resumes. ❛ Part of my mind is clearly elsewhere today, but rest assured that it speaks not for the attention I am ever happy to focus on you. ❜

the Duchess calls him gallant; it's not the first time and it certainly won't be the last, for she has taken to associating him with that descriptor. Regis' smile widens, just so. For someone like him, those small mercies are the most celebrated.

when Anarietta abandons the interior of the palace for the outside gardens, Regis' attention returns to her entirely. One more sip of Toussaint, for what is there to enjoy here but tradition and wine?