718 Vhalar 50...
The gentle glow of the bloodlights filled the streets with the steady, almost pulsing glow of red and orange. To those who were accustomed to such a sight, it might have been described as eerie, but to those who had lived behind the ancient burn lines of the city’s outer limits for their entire lives, it was little more than another quiet, warm Quacian evening.
Plenty had yet to release the ant-like force of Heaps it gathered each morning, still bustling were its fields below the city’s streets, which left the alleys nearly barren and the main strips dotted by those few, fortunate figures who had the privilege of time to spare - and those of the opposite side of life’s lucky coin, left mangled or otherwise unable to find work in any other form than simple survival.
For each weary smile, for every quiet whisper and murmur, there was a story to be told, many of them much the same as the last. Poor and bitter. Bitter and poor. So many of the Heaps had very little else but the desire for more and utter frustration of knowing it would never become theirs.
Mads was not one of them.
His footsteps were quiet but light, eyes searching the faces of those he passed with a bright curiosity. There was no effort on his part to hide the fact he was looking for someone, and neither was there effort from any other to provide the illusion they didn’t realize such a thing (nor did any give any indication of such other than dour frowns and glares).
“Blonde hair, blue eyes, and… ‘breezy’ locks?” Mads muttered the words to himself, wondering if the final descriptor would make any more sense to his ears outside the calm surface of his mind’s quiet, empty lake. “What is a ‘breezy’ lock?”
“‘Breezy’ as in you’re looking for a defiar,” Robin answered, a scowl twisting onto his lips. His clothes were ragged, torn at the edges and color-dulled from sand and sun. Dirt clung at this fingertips, stuck under nails and anywhere it could stay.
Without missing a beat nor looking to see who it was who’d thought to answer to what otherwise would have been a rhetorical question, Mads responded, tone even and soft but not without a tinge of exasperation. “Yes, clearly, but what exactly do ‘breezy locks’ even look like?” Almost as an after-thought, Mads’ bright grey gaze settled upon the raggedy young man, nothing but vague curiosity in his eyes. Realizing the other man had spoken to him in Common, he repeated himself, albeit a bit more clumsily. “Defiuhr. Yis. I know.”
They made quite the pair of opposites. Mads was clean - impeccably so - and while his own clothes were little more than a collection of greys upon greys, they were well tailored and kept. Shorter, blonder, and much less annoyed, though they strode side by side, one would have been loathe to think of them as passing companions - so very at odds they seemed to be with one another by simple appearance alone.
“Who gave you that description?” Robin demanded, brushing off a clump of dust that had collected over his left shoulder.
“Who indeed.” With a fluid flourish of his hand, Mads withdrew a small scrap of papyrus, upon which had been scrawled directions in a language Robin had no hope of deciphering. There was no Common translation offered, the gesture seemingly informative enough.
“It doesn’t matter, I guess,” he sighed, side-eyeing the shorter blonde as he pushed his way forward. The city -- all cities, but especially this one -- was an accident waiting to happen. “You don’t speak Common, fine, whatever. Nobody ever does.” He paused only to brush his hand over a few stone bricks, each one screaming louder than the next. Collapse collapse collapse. It wouldn’t take much, not here, not after centuries of holding up the weight of world and -- “It’s fine. I know where to go. It’s just going to take some convincing.”
Blinking, maybe surprised, maybe catching something in his eye, Mads fumbled out a clumsy, “I can speaking Common.”
“And you speak it so eloquently,” Robin rolled his eyes, taking a pouch of gold coins from his belt. He’d spent the morning prying answers out of the earth; the other four were maintaining their collective silence. Something, or someone, had really pissed them off. He opened the leather pouch, turning it inside out, and the gold poured back into the dusty soil with what sounded like relief.
“Le quentyee?” Never once did Mads’ pace slow, nor did the conversation seem to keep his eyes from continuing to wander the few faces they passed. He tucked the paper into his pocket, as Robin pulled the purse from his waist. His attention was drawn back to the man at his side as the coins began to thud quietly against the dusty earth, one after the other; curiosity danced across his features as he - and everyone else around them - eyed the bloody glint of the bloodlight’s aura flashing off of the falling coins.
“Shut up --”
Mads’ head cocked a bit to the left in question, right brow raised, but he remained silent as he assumed he was bid.
“No, not you,” Robin reached down to the earth, pushing his palms against the dry dirt. His ether boiled, bubbling inside his stomach, spilling out from his outstretched fingertips into the earth. He felt the Under bend and buckle, irritated. He hummed a single note, matching the earth’s song to his own, the melody still and solid. The earth ate away at his spell, demanding more and more, hungry, greedy, and becoming awake. It stirred under Mads, curious, smelling magic. “Show us where to go,” he asked, feeding more and more magic, spending everything until the price was paid.
Mads stopped beside him, something in his eyes suggesting he was more aware of what Robin was doing than, perhaps, he might should have been.
A sharp crack sounded; the earth burped up a ridge, a path, winding through the streets, between the ancient buildings, and out past the great fortress walls. “Follow me,” Robin said, walking after the ground. The winds had picked up, suddenly, a small breeze twisting dust and dead leaves between their legs.
“Fortuitous.” The blonde whispered, trailing behind the deifer. Robin wasn’t the one he was searching for, but it was rather convenient he was willing to help him locate the one with the “breezy locks”. The thought never dawned on Mads such an unbelievable series of events might end in a trap; he was merely glad for the assistance in what otherwise would have been a very long, very exhausting investigation.
“Does anybody in this fucking city speak Common?” Robin growled, more annoyed with every muddled word that came out of the pouty blonde’s mouth. The wind caught on his souring mood, blowing harder, sailing up past their ears. Dry, dry, dry. Even the weather here was miserable.
“...speak Common? I speaking.” Clearly his comprehension was a bit lacking.
“Yes, you do. Good job. What else can you do? Magic?” Robin said, hoping for a ‘yes, I am a mage, these are my spells, I can be useful’. Not many people, especially non-mages, went hunting for defiars.
Blinking a few times as he, apparently, translated Robin’s question, Mads held up his thumb, stuck in into his mouth, and pulled it out with a sharp pop. “Can do that.”
“Right. Care to explain?” Mads only stared back blankly. He wouldn’t infantilize blondy, he wasn’t Zipper. Also, Robin wasn’t socially equipped to handle the nuances of cross-cultural small-talk and neither did he care enough to address the language barrier -- aside from loudly complaining about the stranger’s accent. “Or give your name? I’m Robin. Seeker acolyte.”
“Seekyr?” Eyebrows rose at that. He spoke first in Vahanic, the fluid, whispery language a mirror the wind’s own. “I would not have imagined the Seekers to be involved.” His limited vocabulary restricted him from much else in the way of translation aide from offering the name requested. “Mads. I- mine? Name iz Mads.” It was polite to shake hands, as Graciana had taught him so many arcs ago, but moving as they were, he opted for the proper, “It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance.” in his mother tongue instead.
“Mads,” Robin offered the stranger a quick smile as Mads did the same - matching his expression with an almost eerie trill of delay.
“Robyn.”
Robin didn’t notice; he’d spent the whole of his life surrounded by psychopaths and their idiosyncrasies. A human mirror, if a delayed one, was only something else to add to the ever-growing list of people who might end up slitting his throat while he slept. “You can fight? Swords or magic?”
Again, such personal questions. Relevant as they were, though Robin caught the glimmer of understanding the clear grey eyes of the other young man, he was offered a noncommittal shrug and an uncomprehending, “Okay.”
Robin sighed at the lack of response and the blonde’s lips curled a playful curve, eyes twinkling and step light. Mads was understanding him, or at least he seemed to, despite the lack of explanation. “Why are you looking for the defiar? You know I’m going to kill them, right?”
There wasn’t any indication of surprise in the shorter man’s face as his smile faded some, gaze focused ahead on the little pebbles emerging from the ground ahead of them like little mushroom caps. “And why would you wish to see one of your own dead, I wonder?” The smile returned as he shook his head, switching to his clumsy Common with the same ease and confidence he spoke Vahanic - without any of the competency. “I no stopping you, Seekyr Robyn.” While intent had a way of getting muddied in a foreign tongue, it seemed clear enough that Mads meant what he said - as much as Robin could tell, at any rate.
“So you want ‘em dead, same as me?” Mads hadn’t yet admitted to anything, no rhyme or reason for wanting the defiar dead or alive. His face was carefully clear of anything besides apathy. “You aren’t a Seeker, are you?” He asked, eyes narrowing in obvious suspicion; his own face wasn’t as practiced at hiding his thoughts. The wind sharpened between them, whirling around on borrowed sentience. Ether left him with every breath, feeding each gust with the promise of a tempest.
The question that he didn’t ask: Could Mads stop him?
He smelled the ether before he felt the wind, but Mads didn’t react to the not-so-subtle show of aggression. After all, he had no qualms with the defier beside him - not yet. “Want? I wanting finding ‘breezy-locks’.” The comment would have sounded incredibly dismissive if he had shown any hint of expression in his face at all. Instead he merely continued to stare curiously, eyes tracing the various pink and tender trails left behind from some previous battle that ran across the other man’s features like angry brushstrokes over an otherwise peaceful - albeit annoyed - landscape. “And no. I no am Speekyr.”
As he spoke, his own ether began to drift lazily around him, carefully constructing layer upon layer of invisible, etheral armor, only hardening into place as he stopped talking to offer a polite smile that didn’t reach his bright, overly-inquisitive eyes. “We finding ‘breezy-locks’, Robyn doing what Robyn wanting.” The invitation was as warm and friendly as if he were inviting the other man to sit down and set to a feast prepared especially for him, though the disconnect between his voice and casually polite expression would have been a bit unnerving to someone who wasn’t so accustomed to the rather extreme end of the socially competent spectrum.
Neither seemed particularly geared towards conversation, even without the language barrier. So Robin counted himself lucky when they found the body -- it gave them something to talk about, at the very least.
“Lightning,” Robin said, crouching down and pointing at the red-purple lines that dragged over his -- definitely his -- skin. The wind shivered, spinning away from him and the body. Robin pushed the body over, picking at the dead stranger’s pockets and pulling out a small pouch of gold and a blunt knife. “This isn’t them. No defiar dies by lightning,” he kicked it for good measure, waiting to see if there was any movement. The earth still stretched towards the horizon, waiting for him to follow.
“You can’t do anything with the body?” He asked, putting the pouch and knife into his own pack. “Knife might come in handy and I’ll need the gold if I deal with the earth again. Their being difficult today, obviously,” He said like Mads knew, like everyone knew how mercurial the elements were and why today, of all days, they were being especially trying. “I had someone tell me once she loved a man who could bring back the dead. You can’t do that, can you? Magic the unfortunate idiot back from whatever godswamp he landed in? The backup wouldn’t be unwanted.”
The gentle glow of the bloodlights filled the streets with the steady, almost pulsing glow of red and orange. To those who were accustomed to such a sight, it might have been described as eerie, but to those who had lived behind the ancient burn lines of the city’s outer limits for their entire lives, it was little more than another quiet, warm Quacian evening.
Plenty had yet to release the ant-like force of Heaps it gathered each morning, still bustling were its fields below the city’s streets, which left the alleys nearly barren and the main strips dotted by those few, fortunate figures who had the privilege of time to spare - and those of the opposite side of life’s lucky coin, left mangled or otherwise unable to find work in any other form than simple survival.
For each weary smile, for every quiet whisper and murmur, there was a story to be told, many of them much the same as the last. Poor and bitter. Bitter and poor. So many of the Heaps had very little else but the desire for more and utter frustration of knowing it would never become theirs.
Mads was not one of them.
His footsteps were quiet but light, eyes searching the faces of those he passed with a bright curiosity. There was no effort on his part to hide the fact he was looking for someone, and neither was there effort from any other to provide the illusion they didn’t realize such a thing (nor did any give any indication of such other than dour frowns and glares).
“Blonde hair, blue eyes, and… ‘breezy’ locks?” Mads muttered the words to himself, wondering if the final descriptor would make any more sense to his ears outside the calm surface of his mind’s quiet, empty lake. “What is a ‘breezy’ lock?”
“‘Breezy’ as in you’re looking for a defiar,” Robin answered, a scowl twisting onto his lips. His clothes were ragged, torn at the edges and color-dulled from sand and sun. Dirt clung at this fingertips, stuck under nails and anywhere it could stay.
Without missing a beat nor looking to see who it was who’d thought to answer to what otherwise would have been a rhetorical question, Mads responded, tone even and soft but not without a tinge of exasperation. “Yes, clearly, but what exactly do ‘breezy locks’ even look like?” Almost as an after-thought, Mads’ bright grey gaze settled upon the raggedy young man, nothing but vague curiosity in his eyes. Realizing the other man had spoken to him in Common, he repeated himself, albeit a bit more clumsily. “Defiuhr. Yis. I know.”
They made quite the pair of opposites. Mads was clean - impeccably so - and while his own clothes were little more than a collection of greys upon greys, they were well tailored and kept. Shorter, blonder, and much less annoyed, though they strode side by side, one would have been loathe to think of them as passing companions - so very at odds they seemed to be with one another by simple appearance alone.
“Who gave you that description?” Robin demanded, brushing off a clump of dust that had collected over his left shoulder.
“Who indeed.” With a fluid flourish of his hand, Mads withdrew a small scrap of papyrus, upon which had been scrawled directions in a language Robin had no hope of deciphering. There was no Common translation offered, the gesture seemingly informative enough.
“It doesn’t matter, I guess,” he sighed, side-eyeing the shorter blonde as he pushed his way forward. The city -- all cities, but especially this one -- was an accident waiting to happen. “You don’t speak Common, fine, whatever. Nobody ever does.” He paused only to brush his hand over a few stone bricks, each one screaming louder than the next. Collapse collapse collapse. It wouldn’t take much, not here, not after centuries of holding up the weight of world and -- “It’s fine. I know where to go. It’s just going to take some convincing.”
Blinking, maybe surprised, maybe catching something in his eye, Mads fumbled out a clumsy, “I can speaking Common.”
“And you speak it so eloquently,” Robin rolled his eyes, taking a pouch of gold coins from his belt. He’d spent the morning prying answers out of the earth; the other four were maintaining their collective silence. Something, or someone, had really pissed them off. He opened the leather pouch, turning it inside out, and the gold poured back into the dusty soil with what sounded like relief.
“Le quentyee?” Never once did Mads’ pace slow, nor did the conversation seem to keep his eyes from continuing to wander the few faces they passed. He tucked the paper into his pocket, as Robin pulled the purse from his waist. His attention was drawn back to the man at his side as the coins began to thud quietly against the dusty earth, one after the other; curiosity danced across his features as he - and everyone else around them - eyed the bloody glint of the bloodlight’s aura flashing off of the falling coins.
“Shut up --”
Mads’ head cocked a bit to the left in question, right brow raised, but he remained silent as he assumed he was bid.
“No, not you,” Robin reached down to the earth, pushing his palms against the dry dirt. His ether boiled, bubbling inside his stomach, spilling out from his outstretched fingertips into the earth. He felt the Under bend and buckle, irritated. He hummed a single note, matching the earth’s song to his own, the melody still and solid. The earth ate away at his spell, demanding more and more, hungry, greedy, and becoming awake. It stirred under Mads, curious, smelling magic. “Show us where to go,” he asked, feeding more and more magic, spending everything until the price was paid.
Mads stopped beside him, something in his eyes suggesting he was more aware of what Robin was doing than, perhaps, he might should have been.
A sharp crack sounded; the earth burped up a ridge, a path, winding through the streets, between the ancient buildings, and out past the great fortress walls. “Follow me,” Robin said, walking after the ground. The winds had picked up, suddenly, a small breeze twisting dust and dead leaves between their legs.
“Fortuitous.” The blonde whispered, trailing behind the deifer. Robin wasn’t the one he was searching for, but it was rather convenient he was willing to help him locate the one with the “breezy locks”. The thought never dawned on Mads such an unbelievable series of events might end in a trap; he was merely glad for the assistance in what otherwise would have been a very long, very exhausting investigation.
“Does anybody in this fucking city speak Common?” Robin growled, more annoyed with every muddled word that came out of the pouty blonde’s mouth. The wind caught on his souring mood, blowing harder, sailing up past their ears. Dry, dry, dry. Even the weather here was miserable.
“...speak Common? I speaking.” Clearly his comprehension was a bit lacking.
“Yes, you do. Good job. What else can you do? Magic?” Robin said, hoping for a ‘yes, I am a mage, these are my spells, I can be useful’. Not many people, especially non-mages, went hunting for defiars.
Blinking a few times as he, apparently, translated Robin’s question, Mads held up his thumb, stuck in into his mouth, and pulled it out with a sharp pop. “Can do that.”
“Right. Care to explain?” Mads only stared back blankly. He wouldn’t infantilize blondy, he wasn’t Zipper. Also, Robin wasn’t socially equipped to handle the nuances of cross-cultural small-talk and neither did he care enough to address the language barrier -- aside from loudly complaining about the stranger’s accent. “Or give your name? I’m Robin. Seeker acolyte.”
“Seekyr?” Eyebrows rose at that. He spoke first in Vahanic, the fluid, whispery language a mirror the wind’s own. “I would not have imagined the Seekers to be involved.” His limited vocabulary restricted him from much else in the way of translation aide from offering the name requested. “Mads. I- mine? Name iz Mads.” It was polite to shake hands, as Graciana had taught him so many arcs ago, but moving as they were, he opted for the proper, “It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance.” in his mother tongue instead.
“Mads,” Robin offered the stranger a quick smile as Mads did the same - matching his expression with an almost eerie trill of delay.
“Robyn.”
Robin didn’t notice; he’d spent the whole of his life surrounded by psychopaths and their idiosyncrasies. A human mirror, if a delayed one, was only something else to add to the ever-growing list of people who might end up slitting his throat while he slept. “You can fight? Swords or magic?”
Again, such personal questions. Relevant as they were, though Robin caught the glimmer of understanding the clear grey eyes of the other young man, he was offered a noncommittal shrug and an uncomprehending, “Okay.”
Robin sighed at the lack of response and the blonde’s lips curled a playful curve, eyes twinkling and step light. Mads was understanding him, or at least he seemed to, despite the lack of explanation. “Why are you looking for the defiar? You know I’m going to kill them, right?”
There wasn’t any indication of surprise in the shorter man’s face as his smile faded some, gaze focused ahead on the little pebbles emerging from the ground ahead of them like little mushroom caps. “And why would you wish to see one of your own dead, I wonder?” The smile returned as he shook his head, switching to his clumsy Common with the same ease and confidence he spoke Vahanic - without any of the competency. “I no stopping you, Seekyr Robyn.” While intent had a way of getting muddied in a foreign tongue, it seemed clear enough that Mads meant what he said - as much as Robin could tell, at any rate.
“So you want ‘em dead, same as me?” Mads hadn’t yet admitted to anything, no rhyme or reason for wanting the defiar dead or alive. His face was carefully clear of anything besides apathy. “You aren’t a Seeker, are you?” He asked, eyes narrowing in obvious suspicion; his own face wasn’t as practiced at hiding his thoughts. The wind sharpened between them, whirling around on borrowed sentience. Ether left him with every breath, feeding each gust with the promise of a tempest.
The question that he didn’t ask: Could Mads stop him?
He smelled the ether before he felt the wind, but Mads didn’t react to the not-so-subtle show of aggression. After all, he had no qualms with the defier beside him - not yet. “Want? I wanting finding ‘breezy-locks’.” The comment would have sounded incredibly dismissive if he had shown any hint of expression in his face at all. Instead he merely continued to stare curiously, eyes tracing the various pink and tender trails left behind from some previous battle that ran across the other man’s features like angry brushstrokes over an otherwise peaceful - albeit annoyed - landscape. “And no. I no am Speekyr.”
As he spoke, his own ether began to drift lazily around him, carefully constructing layer upon layer of invisible, etheral armor, only hardening into place as he stopped talking to offer a polite smile that didn’t reach his bright, overly-inquisitive eyes. “We finding ‘breezy-locks’, Robyn doing what Robyn wanting.” The invitation was as warm and friendly as if he were inviting the other man to sit down and set to a feast prepared especially for him, though the disconnect between his voice and casually polite expression would have been a bit unnerving to someone who wasn’t so accustomed to the rather extreme end of the socially competent spectrum.
Neither seemed particularly geared towards conversation, even without the language barrier. So Robin counted himself lucky when they found the body -- it gave them something to talk about, at the very least.
“Lightning,” Robin said, crouching down and pointing at the red-purple lines that dragged over his -- definitely his -- skin. The wind shivered, spinning away from him and the body. Robin pushed the body over, picking at the dead stranger’s pockets and pulling out a small pouch of gold and a blunt knife. “This isn’t them. No defiar dies by lightning,” he kicked it for good measure, waiting to see if there was any movement. The earth still stretched towards the horizon, waiting for him to follow.
“You can’t do anything with the body?” He asked, putting the pouch and knife into his own pack. “Knife might come in handy and I’ll need the gold if I deal with the earth again. Their being difficult today, obviously,” He said like Mads knew, like everyone knew how mercurial the elements were and why today, of all days, they were being especially trying. “I had someone tell me once she loved a man who could bring back the dead. You can’t do that, can you? Magic the unfortunate idiot back from whatever godswamp he landed in? The backup wouldn’t be unwanted.”
