Robin is a stalker

[Robin Stark]

718 Zi’da 44

Robin hauled gold. He’d begged it out of the earth. Hard rocks lined with precious sunlight and dandelion yellow. Completely unrefined because he didn’t believe in human-touch, because then, to him, the gold was worthless. He strolled through the plaza, through crowds staring and -- one very unfortunate man who’d tried to reach for one of the smaller stones -- he ignored them all.

There was only one man he needed to see to-trial. It’d taken him a while, longer than he would admit, to find him, to find the specific ‘absence’ he left on the earth. And what he wouldn’t admit, under absolutely no circumstances, was that he ended up having to bribe a translator to ask after contract-only Abrogators.

And so here he was, knowing Mads was only a few feet away from turning the corner, to where he was standing with his gold.

And he hoped, to the real and fake gods, that it was surprise enough.

“Robin, hello.” He waved a hand in easy greeting. It was infuriating how he managed to take everything in stride. Pausing, he turned so that he faced Robin squarely, brow raised, as he stared at Robin’s full hands. “What is all of… that?”

Robin wondered if it was possible to be dead inside. “Gold,” he said, nodding down to the pile in his arms.

“Oh. Gold.”

Maybe Mads had made a deal, magic for emotion. Magic for expression, for everything inside him except whatever kept his body breathing and warm -- well, not even warm. “Surprise enough?”

“A defier brings me bits and pieces of the earth.” Mads’ lips turned an appropriately amused smile. “What do you think, Robin?”

“I don’t know,” his smile stretched wider, “That’s why I brought them. To see what you think.” He let the rocks and metal fall to the ground. Robin chewed on his tongue, watching as the earth swallowed back what it gave. “So what would make your life easier?”

“That game is passed.” He waved a hand, shaking his head and voice carefully laced with a light easiness that Robin knew better than to take at face value. “Nor did I ask for something that would make my life easier.”

“No, you asked for a surprise,” he said, the last word all the more sharper from days of thought.

“Yes,” Mads replied, bright eyes locked on his own. “I did.”

Robin groaned as he threw himself dramatically against the wall closest to him. The bricks bent and contorted around his body. “So no metal. No miracle rains,” even though a small part of him wanted to do that later, if only because he wanted to see how the creep might react. “Nothing a defiar would normally do,” he said, “Nothing a defiar...wouldn’t...normally...do,” he echoed, each break taking him longer than the next.

He’d lived his entirety with the elements. They were all he knew -- all he expected other people to know.

“Is this you now discovering what ‘surprise’ means?” More light, airy laughter that never once reached those eyes. “Is Common not your first language?”

[Robin Stark]

“Defiars destroy and build and…,” he counted off his fingers, eyes looking up and his expression thoughtful. “Huh,” he tapped the third finger, “not the most versatile, I guess.” He sighed, pushing himself deeper into the Robin-shaped hole in the wall. The brown stone was cool against his skin.

He could hear the gentle whispers of diamond below him. Crystalline in their memory, all fire and Under magic. Below them, he felt the slow molasses of lava. Deep and baritone and burning as it dripped down further and further.

And the shield wanted none of it. “So no treasure because it isn’t surprising,” and if he had any talent, it was dropping his voice so low and sharp everything sounded like an insult. He stared at the man with nothing inside. Maybe that was the point, he thought, to make him play Mads' favor-pawn until he died, bringing useless things to the man who could never be surprised.

Mads only shrugged.

“How do you spend your days here, M-a-ds,” the name sounded rough and long on his foreign tongue. “How do you live in eternal service to the Crippled God?”

It wasn’t like the immortals were any better. They were all sick fucks, the real gods and the fake, and Robin was tired of their shit. They demanded and complained and branded their followers like sheep. Silly people doing silly things for abstract concepts forced into an almost human shape.

Those bright eyes grew distant for a trill before he replied. “I find curious things, and I watch them.” He remained at the mouth of the alley, gaze now settled on the half consumed defier. “As for the Wounded God, it is best you mind your tongue if you wish to keep it.” Threatening though the words were, there was nothing but a deliberate innocence in his tone. “What is that phrase? There are eyeballs inside of walls?”

“Yes, you mentioned that before,” or another threat about being mindful of their precious divinity.

Mads only shrugged.

He sighed louder, dramatically, the walls vibrating with his sound. “The walls have eyes, you mean?” A spy would make this surprising, at the least. Mads could be a spy. A good spy, probably. No telling what he got up to, the freak.

“Is that it?” Mathias nodded, head bobbing contemplatively. “At any rate, know that though the pilha, the Heaps, may not understand you, there are plenty who do.”

“What will they do? Burn me?” He heard they did that. Dragoons setting fire on the masses because they could. A small part of him respected that.

“More likely they remove your teeth and tongue, I think.” Not a hind of humor was in his voice then, merely the simple lilt of a shared fact.

“I think mine grow back,” he said, his tone carrying into a question. Robin had been hurt worse, but he’d never tried regrowing anything -- not that he planned to, if he could help it. “Would that surprise you?”

“No, but we could still test it out.”

[Robin Stark]

“No thanks,” he said, staring out from the brick. “It would still hurt and, unfortunately, I’m not a masochist.”

“Shame.” Mads let out a soft sigh, timed just a trill off from what would have been natural. “Then I imagine if you continue your heretical rhetoric, it will only be a matter of time before you find out. There are far more dangerous men and women with far greater faith than I roaming this city.”

Robin nodded in silent agreement.

“If that is all...?” Mads swept a vague wave of his hand toward the ground where the gold had disappeared into.

“Maybe I’ll convert,” he blurted suddenly, head sticking out of the hole he’d made. If not surprising, it was at least something.

Raising a brow, Mads offered a simple, “Maybe you will.” before he waved a hand and turned to continue down the way he’d been heading before.

And Robin only watched, stuck in a wall, wondering if the Wounded Gods took requests.

718 Zi’da 46

Above the streets, just high enough on the edge of a low hanging roof, the air was just a little bit fresher. The typical scents of humanity - sweat, dirt, and rot of body and soul - hung low, beaten back by the greater fragrance of sky. It was very nearly a world all unto its own, and when Mathias was forced to wait for certain volatile necromancers to blunder their drunken way across his path, he preferred to wait in the in-between.

The vantage point of the rooftops was, of course, a convenient advantage as well.

Thralls, the typically fleshy puppets of those heavy-ethered men and women who found more companionship among the dead than most, were expected to be as shadows: out of sight and out of mind. Some were entirely grotesque - decaying bodies, desiccated limbs, stench - but many, if not most, were at least somewhat taken care of. They tended to smell of embalming fluids, and they were often merely shambling pieces of old jerked meat.

This marginally improved state from the layman’s typical expectation of the undead was hardly enough to purchase them acceptance among the Quacian people.

He was aware some of the more powerful necromancers were able to imitate - to an extent - a living body, and these were not nearly so troublesome, but this was not the case with Balbina Matos.

She liked the rot.

And Calixta Guerra did not.
It wasn’t the first time he’d been hired to deal with the bleary eyed, silver haired woman woman he was expecting. She was around his own age, about five years his elder, but her spark had drawn most of the color from her hair and eyes. Had she not been so fond of Lair and the many treats it offered her, some might even have described her beautiful. As it stood, she was “fuckable” at best.

Mathias had no real opinion on the matter either way.

[Mads]

His bright eyes watched the passing faces below him, very few looking up to notice - and of those, none bothering to pay him any mind. No one had the time, after all. If one did not one, one did not live. It was, in large part, what kept the greater population of the broken city form truly organizing. That, and the Dragoons had been far more present, searching out those who deviated from bowed head and listless eyes expected of the pilha.

He himself had already been stopped twice already. Of course he had given the Dragoons what they’d asked for: a young man with dark hair and pouting lips, adored by the elements, had been the one to murder all those people whom the greater populace had attributed to the grand name of the King’s knights. Some had taken him more seriously than others, but thus far it seemed Robin had evaded capture.

After all, it was guaranteed the defiar wouldn’t go down without taking a sizeable portion of the city with him.

He leaned back, the heels of his hands digging into the stone shingles behind him, as he continued to survey the loose throng of ever-moving bodys below. Robin had tried twice already to “surprise” him; he’d also failed twice, but that was to be expected. The man was powerful, but he didn’t strike him as particularly bright. That, and he’d asked for an impossible task; at least, impossible as long as his spark was healthy.

There was little expectation to be held when it came to Robin and his little quest, but it had provided him with an interesting break here and there. Enough to the point that he found himself staring at the back of a dark haired head with a bit more intensity than before. That particular head looked awfully familiar.

Robin spent the trial passing through buildings. It was easier here, in the older part of the city, where the walls wanted to fall apart. Bricks and stones cracked with age, breaking already before he even had to say a word. He stumbled through ruin after ruin, barely bothering to hide the gaping holes he left behind.

He slipped inside the crowd after he got bored with their hovels and shacks. Robin smiled, delighted at his ingenuity, eyes to his side as he mimicked the person closest to him. She was an older woman, silver hair and a mouth wrinkled around the edges. She wore a formless dress and walked with a hunch - and so, Robin did as well. He was careful to bend over just so, careful to match his every step to hers, careful even to match her frown with one of his own.

He enjoyed this for all of trills before she slapped him.

She screamed something at him, an insult or a curse, and he acted -- overacted -- hurt, holding his cheek and pretending to cry and moan before he slipped under the shadow of the closest building.

A part of him wondered if he would die in Quacia. He’d been freer here than Etzos, under the ever watchful eye of Vuda. And in Ne’haer, where he’d live in a stone hut on a cliffside, there hadn’t been anyone to answer to; this city was different and its people less willing to take his shit than most.

He breathed in the wall enclosed around him and he slinked out through the other side and into a different crowd.

Sometimes his thoughts drifted to Mads, the strange little man with the impossible task. Robin had already tried gold and flowers, and failing that, he’d sacrificed a lamb to play doctor with their god. None had been taken kindly, or even with remote interest. He realized there was very little tying him to Mads’ request and it was probably the smarter thing to move and try another city for a season.

But of course, as Mads well knew, Robin would never be know for his intelligence.

He was much more interested in what was fun.

And for now, Mads and his challenge were at least that.

And then Robin turned around, as suddenly as the rock aimed for his head erupted into a small explosion of dust. He smiled, catching Mads’ form behind the dirt cloud, and allowed himself to be shouldered aside into a small alley -- and from there, while by no means was it graceful, Robin pushed himself on to a small wall, and then on to the roof.

The metal shingles echoed oddly to him -- Robin visibly winced as he loudly balanced across the houses, roof by roof, until he found himself close enough to speak to Mads.

“What the fuck.”

“I wanted to see what would happen.” He smiled politely, not rising from his seat this time, legs still dangling. “Hello, Robin.”

“For future reference,” he awkwardly tried to sit, ignoring as best he could the warped metallic voice around him, “Most things will explode if you throw them at me. Or they end up in someone else,” and then he muttered, “Metal also makes me uncomfortable,” like they were still playing the game Mads won all those trials ago.

“It does?” Blinking once, Mads picked up a loose shingle and, without a shred of hesitation, chucked it at Robin’s face.

The metal redirected itself mid-air, a sudden blast of aiming at a street-side cart. It clinked onto the cobbled street harmlessly. “Usually, but I guess my aim isn’t ten for ten.”

“The wind does not aim for you?”

“It aims where it wants to,” he shrugged, “I aim when I want to; we work it out.”

“Huh.” Mads nodded, turning his attention back to the street, not a single suggestion given that he expected any sort of retaliation in return for his curiosity. “Do you have something for me this trial, or is this meeting merely happenstance?”

“What would surprise you more: mere coincidence or that I’d tracked you down, only to have nothing to give?” Yes, it would never be said Robin was clever.

“Neither?”

“That’s fair,” he said, ripping a metal shingle out of the roof, “I heard Abrogates are cheap hires for the local mercenary groups. Is that what you do?”

“Cheap?” Mads raised a brow. “I have always assumed such services were somewhat exclusive given how uncommon it is to be contacted by them.”

“Mhmmm,” the sound was condescending at best, “Which do you think they’d pay more for? Shields or swords?”

“Hm.” A short pause of thought preceded a empty, “I have no idea.”

“I think swords,” he said with all the confidence of a toddler on a sugar high.

“Do you.” It wasn’t a question.

“Yes,” he looked at him with a sudden seriousness, “But then again, I heard Abrogates fetch a pretty penny in the noble market. They’re more the type for shields, aren’t they?”

“The nobility likes to fancy themselves as powerful in all aspects.” It wasn’t as direct as “yes” or “no”, but it was acutely accurate. “What they lack they tend to purchase with coin.”

“Ah, yes, loose wallets the lot of them,” He nodded along well past the point of simple agreement, “But, for argument’s sake, would you think they are more likely to hold and protect their assets or do you deal with more of the conquest type?”

“I am an abrogant, Robin.” His head turned, bright eyes staring blankly, as if that was an answer to the question asked.

“And a shield can’t double as a sword?” He started to tap his metal against the roof, an annoying noise with no discernable pattern, “You just block and mute and protect? That’s all? I couldn’t claim to be more than my magic, not now, not where I am. What about you?”

But Mads’ attention had focused on a familiar face in the crowd. “Ah, there she is.” Robin’s question lay forgotten to the side as he slipped off of the edge of the roof, plummeting through the air as his ether swirled around him, breaking his fall and allowing him to easily step forward, as if he had not just fallen a story and a half in height. He waved a hand over his shoulder, speaking at exactly the same volume he had before, no doubt that the wind would carry the words to the ears they were intended for. “Until next time, Robin.”

Robin sat on the roof as Mads deftly jumped into the crowd below. He easily navigated the crowd, no doubt thanks to his magic. He reminded him the cats Felicia used to keep, careful and graceful and predatory. He was an Abrogate, his magic an impressive shield, but that didn’t mean he would never be a sword.

He stayed, lying down on the cold metal, staring up. The sky above him was so blue and the sun was so bright they even showed through when he closed his eyes. The crowd continued below, the same steady pace, like nothing happened.

[Cervantez]

Robin is a stalker

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Points awarded: 15 {for Both Robin & Mads}

Knowledge:
Acrobatics: Balancing on a roof
Acrobatics: Jumping from roof to roof
Acrobatics: Not Falling to Your Death
Acrobatics: Jumping on a wall
Intimidation: Wide Smiles
Intimidation: Referencing Past Events
Intimidation: Too Much Confidence
Discipline: Dealing with a Crowd

Fame: N/A

Notes: This was another good look into the interaction between the two. I still find it odd how its written, both characters being portrayed by both players, but in any case, this was a nice read, nothing out of the ordinary or extraordinary. Enjoy ya points gentlemen!

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