given name .. Mathias "Mads" Moreno
race .. human
date of birth .. 698 Ymiden 4
languages spoken .. Vahanic, Common, and Ith'esson
race .. human
date of birth .. 698 Ymiden 4
languages spoken .. Vahanic, Common, and Ith'esson
175cm | toned | grey eyes | blonde curly hair | intense gaze | soft-spoken
There is a liveliness about him, more than the quiet tense of his muscles or flicker of his gaze; energy is ever around him, a tingle in the air. He moves with confidence tempered by humility; his steps are soft but back straight and, his gaze, when engaged, is steady. Modest of dress and size, his bright eyes and protruding ears are his more defining features; while not unattractive, should one meet his gaze for too long, there is a vague uneasiness that often creeps into those who linger in his presence, an instinctual anxiousness more often found in the hearts of prey come across predator - though once realized and actively searched for is difficult and unlikely to find again.
observant | direct | curious | peculiar | disconcerting | dismissive
Some people wear a mask to entertain, others to hide. There are those who do so fearfully, anxiously, and those who don a false face with malicious and pernicious intent. Yet whatever the reason, nearly all such things can be accomplished by the same should the mask be worn long enough; so it is with Mads. Where once baldfaced inquisitiveness would land him in dangerously heretical positions, he now easily wears the veneer of the faithful. There is little contempt in his guise, no room for it aside from his understanding that what he does is done out of necessity - to avoid the unpleasantries of unwarranted attention. Who he is beneath the pleasant smile, the distant, half-warmth that smoulders like autumn starlight, is anyone's guess; though most don't ever venture to make one.
Preferring to diffuse rather than escalate, he speaks quietly but not without presence. There is nothing timid about him, nor is there anything particularly aggressive; when he chooses to engage in a conversation, he is neither easily ignored nor commanding of others' attention. Those who look closely will find he does the same in turn, almost constantly. The whirring whirling sparks of thought that dance in an ever-swirling storm behind his otherwise placid gaze are noticeable when his gaze is caught unaware. Such musings revolve nearly entirely around supposed outcomes to each action available to take; ever fascinated by both cause and effect.
Preferring to diffuse rather than escalate, he speaks quietly but not without presence. There is nothing timid about him, nor is there anything particularly aggressive; when he chooses to engage in a conversation, he is neither easily ignored nor commanding of others' attention. Those who look closely will find he does the same in turn, almost constantly. The whirring whirling sparks of thought that dance in an ever-swirling storm behind his otherwise placid gaze are noticeable when his gaze is caught unaware. Such musings revolve nearly entirely around supposed outcomes to each action available to take; ever fascinated by both cause and effect.
| skill | points | knowledge | proficiency |
| abrogation | (195/250) | 47 | master |
| detection | (151/250) | 33 | master |
| discipline | (151/250) | 37 | master |
| endurance | (151/250) | 35 | master |
| stealth | (151/250) | 34 | master |
| dreamwalking | (70/100) | 8 | n/a |
| acrobatics | (76/250) | 31 | expert |
| meditation | (76/100) | 26 | expert |
| tactics | (76/250) | 32 | expert |
| unarmed combat | (76/250) | 28 | expert |
| intelligence | (26/250) | 23 | competent |
| linguistics | (26/250) | 14 | competent |
| medicine | (0/250) | 2 | unskilled |
| strength | (0/250) | 5 | unskilled |
| SKILL | (X/250) | X | unskilled |
abrogation
[SP] muting
[SP] barrier
[SP] reactive empathy
[SP] reactive defiance
[SP+] sensing active magic
[SP+] flipping a field
[SP+] the process of learning to defend against new magic
[SP+] no ether, no shields
[AS] push it
breaking a fall with a barrier
maintaining focus on a field with meditative counting
maintaining focus on a field while bracing against magical attacks
higher level replicated shields are strong even when thin
the feel of the abrogation spark
donning replicating armor while moving
perfection over precipitancy
creating ether copies of one’s self
replicated armor doesn’t defend against abberation’s spheres
sometimes fields are more trouble than they’re worth
aberration sphere counter-spell
otherwise painful strikes can be avoided with replicative armor
replicative armor can shatter layer by layer
more ether, more coverage
creating a barrier while maintaining a field
maintaining a field for a prolonged period of time
replicated armor is effective at defending against mundane projectiles
creating a curved barrier
a field is more than protection; it is control over everything within
replicative vision occlusion
creating a shield
defending against a etherist's ether missile
shielding oneself against a fall
manipulating shields' positions
backlash
personal mutation "prepotency"
shackles have difficulty with air defiers
shields as platforms
backlash added to replicated armour is an effective omnidirectional counter-defense
counter-corrosion
mute
shackle
reactive defiance
counter-transformation
becomers are weakest during transformation
becomers forms do not require an adjustment period
totems are required for transformations and should be destroyed to prevent shifts
acrobatics
ducking under an aberrant’s sphere
regaining one's balance
sidestep
arms out to maintain balance
balancing on a ledge
crouching to center one's weight
dodging via small shifts to the left and right
focusing on a target in order to anticipate how to avoid it
keep still to better maintain balance on a shifting surface
tuck and roll
ducking under a roundhouse punch
wriggling free from a hold
stretching to reach your toes
stretching helps with muscle soreness
dead-drop
hopping backwards
keeping one’s balance while treading through vomit
pivoting to face someone behind one’s self while moving
shifting weight from foot to foot
spinning dodge
stay focused or get hit
turning in unison
adrenaline helps with manipulation of one’s own body
keeping one’s balance while walking through sand
maintaining one’s balance while being buffeted by a sandstorm
following the movement of someone one is in physical contact with
timing one’s movements to a beat
catching food mid-fall
landing with bent knees
perching on the edge of a building
walking backward
attunement
can suppress other domains’ mutations
blades
knife - stab don't slash
knife - stabbing grip
knife - throwing weight into a cut
knife - diagonal stab
knife - effective against flesh
detection
[AS] the size of a room by sound
don’t immediately jump to conclusions
determining if one can understand a foreign language
wounds inflicted by a fracker
examining a wound for tampering
the sound of a staff striking flesh
the nature of a weapon by how quickly it shreds through replicative armor
reading simple emotions
searching for indications of lying
determining humanoid outlines in low-light
recognizing familial resemblance
the scent of a purifier
finding a location based on specific details
noticing a shift in emotion
comparing a known interior and exterior to estimate total height of a tower
matching names to places seen before by context
recognizing concern
the appearance of clearly superior stonemasonry
searching for footprints
noticing irregularities in mundane details
listening for oncoming enemies in lieu of sight
the feeling of a blade scraping bone
finding recurring patterns in the environment
recognizing a partial replication of a face of someone known
searching for subtle reactions after the application of social stimuli
picking out someone’s desires based off of speech content and focus
reading weariness in another's expression
noticing another's scars
realizing deviations in social expectations
discipline
[SP] keeping one's thoughts to one's self
respond to questions, regardless of whether you want to or not
willingly continuing to participate in an exercise that is uncomfortable
sitting through a performance one does not want to sit through
saying what is best for one's well being but not what is on one's mind
nodding instead of saying what you want to say
willing one’s self to do as one is told to reap the benefit of complacency
splitting focus
weighing costs and benefits to help convince one’s self something one doesn’t wish to do is actually beneficial
gritting one’s teeth to help hold one’s tongue
refraining from saying what is one’s mind in spite of emotionally clouded judgement
believed facts can help to assuage angry outbursts
avoiding engaging in delusion
forcing oneself to employ new tactics rather than cling to those that have proved useless
continuing to search for someone when all prior searches have proved fruitless
persisting with a conversation in spite of it seeming pointless
speaking with confidence in spite of a lack of it
pushing through mistakes to complete a self-given assignment
focus on a goal
following instructions
allowing one you trust to tear off your skin
not flinching
expressing emotions to make a point even when it isn't natural to do so
not giving away one is aware one is being followed
needing orders only once
allowing oneself to defer to someone else in power
the appraising gazes of nobility
not letting one’s personal ideologies get in the way of professionalism
knowing when to release a mute rather than maintain it out of pride
allowing an annoyance to go free
refraining from making an instinctive comment
choosing to avoid a touchy subject
calmly waiting for a reply
remaining calm in the face of abuse
letting a companion handle danger alone
acting when the moment is right
not biting someone's tongue in your mouth
dreamwalking
lucid dreaming
trespassing
walking
crossing over fully can result in physical injury in the dreamscape
branding
crossing
branding
crossing
brand: Quacia - Graciana's study
brand: Llyr Llewelyn
endurance
casting a barrier under duress
being knocked to the ground
running while weary
pushing oneself past one's limit
hitting the ground flat
continuing to search in low light
fighting in spite of growing fatigue
adrenaline helps to keep one sharp
being knocked to the ground
running while weary
pushing oneself past one's limit
vomiting
walking over difficult terrain
walking for most of the day
sitting on the ground
using a scythe to cut grass
stamping down the ground
knowing one's etheric limits
fighting late at night
stubbing a toe on a rock
running for a long time
pain in the legs from running
trying to keep heavy breathing quiet
running at night
steady running can be as tiring as a sprint
following the orders of unbearable superiors
dancing
bumping into another dancer
eating rich food
taking a break
sopping wet
standing nearly naked in the face of the elements
waiting for someone to find the answer to a question one already answered
slapped in the face
accepting an uncomfortable connection of mouths
losing companions one by one
carrying someone who is dying
not resting for many trials
intelligence
asking around for information
mulling over facts
friendly faces make for good contacts
following up on a lead
allowing others to make assumptions to better gather information from them
don't push too hard when trying to get information
local stories are worth mussing through the fiction to find the fact
when gathering information pay attention to the reactions of those providing it and react accordingly
useful assets can be worth recovery
allowing one's self to be followed in the hope of gaining information about the one doing the trailing
giving half-answers while receiving full-truths
games can be used to gather information
when faced with someone stronger, it is better to observe them to better understand their strengths and weaknesses
the give and take of information
gather assets under the guise of being an asset
contact: the Quacian dreamer
linguistics
imitating a dialect
Common
Common greetings
Common pleasantries
Common farewells
Common agreement statements
Common has rules
Common breaks most of its rules
studying via repetition of transcription
spelling a word out loud
languages can be obnoxiously arbitrary
Ith'esson is a rough language
Ith'esson is an aggresive language
Ith'esson is a poetic language
medicine
wrapping a cloth bandage
bijaqs bleed silver
meditation
[SP+] retreating into a mental landscape
close your eyes
steady your breathing
listen to the silence
maintain a point of focus
use your natural competitive nature to force yourself to focus
fight to remain calm
seeking focus in spite of stench
seeking focus in spite of wanting to vomit
seeking focus in spite of physical pain
seeking focus in spite of noises around oneself
accepting discomforts as part of one's self
the feeling of panic
finding calm in a steady rhythm
focusing on the world around and within you
steadying yourself with slow breathing
allowing yourself to focus only on your senses
meditating in the rain
keeping focused while a monkey screams at you
meditating to the sound of chimes
meditating barefoot to feel the earth on your skin
maintaining your inner focus in spite of disharmony around out
abrogants require meditation to hone their craft
the meaning of life
the unknown can elicit meditative contemplation
exploring personal relation to death
stealth
[AS] relying on other senses
[AS] try not to stub any toes
stepping quietly
covering up discovery with normalicy
whispering
allowing the ambient noise to conceal one's tailing of another
hiding behind a wall
speak quietly
carefully setting a teacup down without making noise
try to match one's level of sound with the ambience
grass makes noise when one passes through it
abrogant shields are difficult to see and, effectively, invisible while stationary making for good surprise defences
moving slowly to keep from making too much noise
conducting a fight as quietly as possible to avoid drawing unwanted attention from nearby enemies
communicating with gestures
running in silence
intentionally leading someone away from crowded areas before confronting
allowing one's self to seem unaware to invite a wanted outcome
using magic to subtly interfere in a fight
blending into a crowd by chatting and making small-talk
quiet is an acceptable substitute for silent
opening a door quietly
cleaning quietly
walking quietly in a fracture
speaking to someone without looking
listening to a conversation without giving any indication of eavesdropping
use gestures to silently give orders
hide behind corners
mouthing words
creeping past a creature at rest
using a hand to cover another's mouth to subdue sound
indicating direction with a nod
matching one's own footsteps to the sounds of a dragged body
tactics
don’t rush head first into a fight with an unknown magic
backing off and reassessing
stay focused on the objective
when outnumbered, runaway away
protection at a cost is worth more than death without
charging forward when retreat is no longer possible
strike for weak points if possible
stay focused on the objective
when outnumbered, runaway away
protection at a cost is worth more than death without
if you don't have a weapon, take one from someone who does
more resources allow for more more powerful uses of magic
shifting strategies to deal with newly discovered enemy abilities
those with close range weapons are best in front
those with long range weapons should stay in back
observe and react accordingly
being physically removed from a fight makes preemptively blocking attacks much easier
doing the same thing over and over again doesn't make a bad plan more effective
use an opponent's strength against it
coordinate with allies
give signals to communicate intent with allies
barbed weapons make it difficult to pull them out
when defending, focus on what can be defended and don't overextend
anticipate quick attacks rather than react
when shielding a competent fighter, strive to defend what they cannot rather than what one can
don't get backed into a wall without a plan to break free
asking questions to give an answer
allowing someone to make mistakes to improve themselves
dragging someone to safety who might not otherwise follow
study an opponent
wait for an opening
utilize and enemy's habits and patterns against it
strength
knowing when something is too heavy to carry
acting as a crutch for someone
dragging a body
lowering a body to the ground
walking with the shared weight of another body
unarmed combat
[AS] squeeze out the scream
[AS] clumsy is still effective
shielded headbutt
keep your distance to avoid getting punched
left hook
following up a block with an attack
sometimes a weapon is needed
gaging an opponent's stance
ineffective if too far from one's opponent
hit something until it dies
sidestep
backpedalling
roundhouse
use a kick to knock someone backwards
tackle
backwards headbutt
smashing a skull with the heel of one’s boot
shackled opponents are easier to attack
without magical assistance fists and feet are ineffective weapons against defiance
nose flick
wrist grab
neck punch
oiled bodies help escape grapples
follow up a miss with another attack
roundhouse kick
roundhouse punch
headbutt while restrained on a bed
miscellaneous knowledge
races - humans
history - Quacia
locations - Quacia
layout - Quacia
laws - Quacia
customs and festivities - Quacia
[SP] muting
[SP] barrier
[SP] reactive empathy
[SP] reactive defiance
[SP+] sensing active magic
[SP+] flipping a field
[SP+] the process of learning to defend against new magic
[SP+] no ether, no shields
[AS] push it
breaking a fall with a barrier
maintaining focus on a field with meditative counting
maintaining focus on a field while bracing against magical attacks
higher level replicated shields are strong even when thin
the feel of the abrogation spark
donning replicating armor while moving
perfection over precipitancy
creating ether copies of one’s self
replicated armor doesn’t defend against abberation’s spheres
sometimes fields are more trouble than they’re worth
aberration sphere counter-spell
otherwise painful strikes can be avoided with replicative armor
replicative armor can shatter layer by layer
more ether, more coverage
creating a barrier while maintaining a field
maintaining a field for a prolonged period of time
replicated armor is effective at defending against mundane projectiles
creating a curved barrier
a field is more than protection; it is control over everything within
replicative vision occlusion
creating a shield
defending against a etherist's ether missile
shielding oneself against a fall
manipulating shields' positions
backlash
personal mutation "prepotency"
shackles have difficulty with air defiers
shields as platforms
backlash added to replicated armour is an effective omnidirectional counter-defense
counter-corrosion
mute
shackle
reactive defiance
counter-transformation
becomers are weakest during transformation
becomers forms do not require an adjustment period
totems are required for transformations and should be destroyed to prevent shifts
acrobatics
ducking under an aberrant’s sphere
regaining one's balance
sidestep
arms out to maintain balance
balancing on a ledge
crouching to center one's weight
dodging via small shifts to the left and right
focusing on a target in order to anticipate how to avoid it
keep still to better maintain balance on a shifting surface
tuck and roll
ducking under a roundhouse punch
wriggling free from a hold
stretching to reach your toes
stretching helps with muscle soreness
dead-drop
hopping backwards
keeping one’s balance while treading through vomit
pivoting to face someone behind one’s self while moving
shifting weight from foot to foot
spinning dodge
stay focused or get hit
turning in unison
adrenaline helps with manipulation of one’s own body
keeping one’s balance while walking through sand
maintaining one’s balance while being buffeted by a sandstorm
following the movement of someone one is in physical contact with
timing one’s movements to a beat
catching food mid-fall
landing with bent knees
perching on the edge of a building
walking backward
attunement
can suppress other domains’ mutations
blades
knife - stab don't slash
knife - stabbing grip
knife - throwing weight into a cut
knife - diagonal stab
knife - effective against flesh
detection
[AS] the size of a room by sound
don’t immediately jump to conclusions
determining if one can understand a foreign language
wounds inflicted by a fracker
examining a wound for tampering
the sound of a staff striking flesh
the nature of a weapon by how quickly it shreds through replicative armor
reading simple emotions
searching for indications of lying
determining humanoid outlines in low-light
recognizing familial resemblance
the scent of a purifier
finding a location based on specific details
noticing a shift in emotion
comparing a known interior and exterior to estimate total height of a tower
matching names to places seen before by context
recognizing concern
the appearance of clearly superior stonemasonry
searching for footprints
noticing irregularities in mundane details
listening for oncoming enemies in lieu of sight
the feeling of a blade scraping bone
finding recurring patterns in the environment
recognizing a partial replication of a face of someone known
searching for subtle reactions after the application of social stimuli
picking out someone’s desires based off of speech content and focus
reading weariness in another's expression
noticing another's scars
realizing deviations in social expectations
discipline
[SP] keeping one's thoughts to one's self
respond to questions, regardless of whether you want to or not
willingly continuing to participate in an exercise that is uncomfortable
sitting through a performance one does not want to sit through
saying what is best for one's well being but not what is on one's mind
nodding instead of saying what you want to say
willing one’s self to do as one is told to reap the benefit of complacency
splitting focus
weighing costs and benefits to help convince one’s self something one doesn’t wish to do is actually beneficial
gritting one’s teeth to help hold one’s tongue
refraining from saying what is one’s mind in spite of emotionally clouded judgement
believed facts can help to assuage angry outbursts
avoiding engaging in delusion
forcing oneself to employ new tactics rather than cling to those that have proved useless
continuing to search for someone when all prior searches have proved fruitless
persisting with a conversation in spite of it seeming pointless
speaking with confidence in spite of a lack of it
pushing through mistakes to complete a self-given assignment
focus on a goal
following instructions
allowing one you trust to tear off your skin
not flinching
expressing emotions to make a point even when it isn't natural to do so
not giving away one is aware one is being followed
needing orders only once
allowing oneself to defer to someone else in power
the appraising gazes of nobility
not letting one’s personal ideologies get in the way of professionalism
knowing when to release a mute rather than maintain it out of pride
allowing an annoyance to go free
refraining from making an instinctive comment
choosing to avoid a touchy subject
calmly waiting for a reply
remaining calm in the face of abuse
letting a companion handle danger alone
acting when the moment is right
not biting someone's tongue in your mouth
dreamwalking
lucid dreaming
trespassing
walking
crossing over fully can result in physical injury in the dreamscape
branding
crossing
branding
crossing
brand: Quacia - Graciana's study
brand: Llyr Llewelyn
endurance
casting a barrier under duress
being knocked to the ground
running while weary
pushing oneself past one's limit
hitting the ground flat
continuing to search in low light
fighting in spite of growing fatigue
adrenaline helps to keep one sharp
being knocked to the ground
running while weary
pushing oneself past one's limit
vomiting
walking over difficult terrain
walking for most of the day
sitting on the ground
using a scythe to cut grass
stamping down the ground
knowing one's etheric limits
fighting late at night
stubbing a toe on a rock
running for a long time
pain in the legs from running
trying to keep heavy breathing quiet
running at night
steady running can be as tiring as a sprint
following the orders of unbearable superiors
dancing
bumping into another dancer
eating rich food
taking a break
sopping wet
standing nearly naked in the face of the elements
waiting for someone to find the answer to a question one already answered
slapped in the face
accepting an uncomfortable connection of mouths
losing companions one by one
carrying someone who is dying
not resting for many trials
intelligence
asking around for information
mulling over facts
friendly faces make for good contacts
following up on a lead
allowing others to make assumptions to better gather information from them
don't push too hard when trying to get information
local stories are worth mussing through the fiction to find the fact
when gathering information pay attention to the reactions of those providing it and react accordingly
useful assets can be worth recovery
allowing one's self to be followed in the hope of gaining information about the one doing the trailing
giving half-answers while receiving full-truths
games can be used to gather information
when faced with someone stronger, it is better to observe them to better understand their strengths and weaknesses
the give and take of information
gather assets under the guise of being an asset
contact: the Quacian dreamer
linguistics
imitating a dialect
Common
Common greetings
Common pleasantries
Common farewells
Common agreement statements
Common has rules
Common breaks most of its rules
studying via repetition of transcription
spelling a word out loud
languages can be obnoxiously arbitrary
Ith'esson is a rough language
Ith'esson is an aggresive language
Ith'esson is a poetic language
medicine
wrapping a cloth bandage
bijaqs bleed silver
meditation
[SP+] retreating into a mental landscape
close your eyes
steady your breathing
listen to the silence
maintain a point of focus
use your natural competitive nature to force yourself to focus
fight to remain calm
seeking focus in spite of stench
seeking focus in spite of wanting to vomit
seeking focus in spite of physical pain
seeking focus in spite of noises around oneself
accepting discomforts as part of one's self
the feeling of panic
finding calm in a steady rhythm
focusing on the world around and within you
steadying yourself with slow breathing
allowing yourself to focus only on your senses
meditating in the rain
keeping focused while a monkey screams at you
meditating to the sound of chimes
meditating barefoot to feel the earth on your skin
maintaining your inner focus in spite of disharmony around out
abrogants require meditation to hone their craft
the meaning of life
the unknown can elicit meditative contemplation
exploring personal relation to death
stealth
[AS] relying on other senses
[AS] try not to stub any toes
stepping quietly
covering up discovery with normalicy
whispering
allowing the ambient noise to conceal one's tailing of another
hiding behind a wall
speak quietly
carefully setting a teacup down without making noise
try to match one's level of sound with the ambience
grass makes noise when one passes through it
abrogant shields are difficult to see and, effectively, invisible while stationary making for good surprise defences
moving slowly to keep from making too much noise
conducting a fight as quietly as possible to avoid drawing unwanted attention from nearby enemies
communicating with gestures
running in silence
intentionally leading someone away from crowded areas before confronting
allowing one's self to seem unaware to invite a wanted outcome
using magic to subtly interfere in a fight
blending into a crowd by chatting and making small-talk
quiet is an acceptable substitute for silent
opening a door quietly
cleaning quietly
walking quietly in a fracture
speaking to someone without looking
listening to a conversation without giving any indication of eavesdropping
use gestures to silently give orders
hide behind corners
mouthing words
creeping past a creature at rest
using a hand to cover another's mouth to subdue sound
indicating direction with a nod
matching one's own footsteps to the sounds of a dragged body
tactics
don’t rush head first into a fight with an unknown magic
backing off and reassessing
stay focused on the objective
when outnumbered, runaway away
protection at a cost is worth more than death without
charging forward when retreat is no longer possible
strike for weak points if possible
stay focused on the objective
when outnumbered, runaway away
protection at a cost is worth more than death without
if you don't have a weapon, take one from someone who does
more resources allow for more more powerful uses of magic
shifting strategies to deal with newly discovered enemy abilities
those with close range weapons are best in front
those with long range weapons should stay in back
observe and react accordingly
being physically removed from a fight makes preemptively blocking attacks much easier
doing the same thing over and over again doesn't make a bad plan more effective
use an opponent's strength against it
coordinate with allies
give signals to communicate intent with allies
barbed weapons make it difficult to pull them out
when defending, focus on what can be defended and don't overextend
anticipate quick attacks rather than react
when shielding a competent fighter, strive to defend what they cannot rather than what one can
don't get backed into a wall without a plan to break free
asking questions to give an answer
allowing someone to make mistakes to improve themselves
dragging someone to safety who might not otherwise follow
study an opponent
wait for an opening
utilize and enemy's habits and patterns against it
strength
knowing when something is too heavy to carry
acting as a crutch for someone
dragging a body
lowering a body to the ground
walking with the shared weight of another body
unarmed combat
[AS] squeeze out the scream
[AS] clumsy is still effective
shielded headbutt
keep your distance to avoid getting punched
left hook
following up a block with an attack
sometimes a weapon is needed
gaging an opponent's stance
ineffective if too far from one's opponent
hit something until it dies
sidestep
backpedalling
roundhouse
use a kick to knock someone backwards
tackle
backwards headbutt
smashing a skull with the heel of one’s boot
shackled opponents are easier to attack
without magical assistance fists and feet are ineffective weapons against defiance
nose flick
wrist grab
neck punch
oiled bodies help escape grapples
follow up a miss with another attack
roundhouse kick
roundhouse punch
headbutt while restrained on a bed
miscellaneous knowledge
races - humans
history - Quacia
locations - Quacia
layout - Quacia
laws - Quacia
customs and festivities - Quacia
a room in Graciana's small manor house [approved by Tyrant]
set of standard clothing
soap
comb
razor
toothbrush
toothpaste
waterskin
set of eating utensils x2
tinderbox
carved bone ring [SP]
emetyte well
set of standard clothing
soap
comb
razor
toothbrush
toothpaste
waterskin
set of eating utensils x2
tinderbox
carved bone ring [SP]
emetyte well
tier five
| item | tier | points |
| Starting Package | .. | 100 GN |
| Vhalar Wages | 672 GN 3 SN | .. |
| Grandfathered | tier 5 | 66 |
| ITEM | DEBIT | CREDIT |
| item | renown |
| being human | 10 |
| assistant to a truly kickass old lady | 5 |
| part of a search party | 10 |
| not a creepborne | 10 |
| didn't die | 10 |
| For some reason | 10 |
| For another reason | 10 |
| no reason given | 5 |
| stunning a few villagers by walking through flames | 5 |
| ITEM | AMOUNTAWARDED |
| item | points |
| ITEM | AMOUNTAWARDED |
total dreams .. 45
past | present | future
"He's four, Sabine. Stop being so-"
"Exactly my point, Marcelo."
The dark haired man ran a hand through his hair, exasperation poorly concealed. "It's just a bird. It was probably already dead before-"
"He was tearing it apart, Marcelo. Disassembling it." Horror and fear mixed into an unsavory, acrid smoke that seeped out through the pale, blonde woman's eyes and ears and from between her lips. "Something is- is wrong with our son."
Not a beat passed before the resounding sound of hard bone thinly veiled in skin cracked against the soft flesh of a cheek. "There is nothing wrong with him, woman." Soft whimpers followed in the blow's wake; slowly, sky-bright grey eyes rose to meet the dark earthy hue of her husband's. "He's a child. They're all prone to strange things before they've learned the right of it."
Delicate fingers absently traced over where she'd been struck, the ivory skin already a ruddy scarlet. "I... perhaps you're- you're right, Marcelo. I just- it's just-"
"Enough." Weariness far outweighed the subtle undercurrent of anger. "I'll go fetch him and we'll bury the thing. It'll be a... a lesson in death, I suppose."
"Yes... yes that would be best. Good. I'll- I'll tend to supper."
Stepping out into the half-light of the setting sun, Marcelo was met with the gruesome sight of a small boy's bloody grin, hands sticky and stained, eyes not only unrepentant but nearly joyful. "Papa!"
Suppressing a shiver, he pulled a worn handkerchief from his back pocket; kneeling down, he began to wipe the boy’s face, his free hand gently entangling fingers in the mess of soft, blonde curls to hold his son's head steady. "You've made quite a mess, little one."
"Birds have a lot of blood." The boy grimaced under the ministrations of his father, the rough fabric scratching at his soft skin.
"So I see." While the most the cloth had done was to smear the gore about, his child appeared a bit more presentable at the very least. "Hands." They were extended without protest, though the same sky-bright grey eyes as his mother's wandered upwards into the gentle pinks and purples of the cloud cover.
"Why can birds fly? But we can't?"
"Is that why you did... what you did, Mathias?" Cleaning the boy's hands proved to be more difficult than his face, rusty coagulation stuck firmly beneath the small nails and sticky residue already steeped into the little wrinkles of his skin. "Because birds can fly, and we can't?
"No." Bright eyes continued to stare upward, the little boy's tone hardly indicative of a juvenile lie. "I wanted to see... how they do it. How they flap and go up, instead of stay here." He tried to pull his hands away to demonstrate but, upon realizing his father wasn't going to let go of his wrist, instead hopped up and down in place, his feet hardly leaving the stone street beneath him.
"You know, you gave your mother a fright."
"Why?"
Another sigh. "It's not... what you did to that bird, it's not... nice, Mathias."
There was a slight pause, Mathias' gaze settling on the concerned and enervated frown his father worse so often. "...why?"
"The dead shouldn't be... disturbed."
"It wasn't dead."
The cleaning stopped abruptly. "What?"
"It wasn't dead." There wasn't even a flicker of remorse in his voice or gaze as Mathias stared up at his father, though his confusion over what the issue was at all was evident in his small, furrowed brow. "Mama killed it."
"Then what..."
"I wanted to know how they do it, Papa. If it's dead, how can I know?" He giggled at the end as if it were the most obvious thing.
Marcelo felt a sharp twinge in his chest. When he spoke, he did so slowly, carefully, even as he felt the heat of his blood flush through his cheeks. "What did you do exactly, Mathias?"
Clear that his father was now clearly distressed, Mathias' good humor faded to be replaced with an uncertain, vaguely apologetic worry. "I..."
"Yes?"
"I caught it and- and opened it up to see-"
"How?"
"How?" His brow furrowed again. "Um... I had a basket..."
"No not- how could you- how could you do it?" Exasperation found itself replaced with ire. "What is- what is wrong with you?"
"...Papa?"
A hand was raised, but the boy didn't flinch - unaccustomed to what the gesture was meant to imply. Before it could fall, Sabine called out from their window that supper had been prepared and to hurry back if they could. There was the briefest of moments during which Marcelo's eyes were a window into a war of rage and compassion, but in a blink, his hand returned to his side, handkerchief loosely held in his other. Another sigh passed between his lips, though this was far more weary, far more empty than any before it. "Show me where its body is. We're going to give it a burial."
Quietly, aware of the somber shift in atmosphere though unsure of how it came about, Mathias nodded slowly, little brow still furrowed as his thoughts whirred violently within his head to make sense of what he'd been told, what they were supposed to do, what had just happened. "Papa, why-"
"Walk in silence, Mathias. Think about what you've done."
His father's tone was a familiar one: that which he employed when there were to be no more questions, no more words at all. There was nothing playful about it, and Mathias settled into reticence, doing as he was bid. Yet for all the time it took to find the broken, bloodied bits and pieces of the bird who's head had been crush beneath the heel of boot far larger and weightier than his own; for all the time it took to delve down into the littered earth, excavating a space large enough for all the lifeless fragments of what had once been a living creature; for all the time it took for them to trudge back to their home in that same oppressive silence that carried on through dinner and into his bath and bedtime; Mathias couldn't understand what it was he'd done wrong, why his parents were so upset with him.
Had he been able to do so, to realize then what "humanity" meant for so many, his life would have been quite different. He might have grown up to be a young man aspiring to become a Dragoon. He might have found a man or woman to share his life with, bear children, grow old. He might have become the man his father had always hoped for him, the man his mother had always dreamed he'd be.
He might have, he might have, he might have.
But what he might have done was not what he did at all.
"We've got to get rid of him. My skin crawls every time he looks and at me and his laugh... his laugh is-"
"Sabine. You must calm down. He's our son. Your son, he-"
"He's no child of mine!" Hysteria might have been an apt description had her fears not been so founded in their placement.
"Then what would you have me do, Sabine?" An uncharacteristic helplessness pervaded Marcelo's voice as he slumped into his chair. "Cast him out? Orphan my son?"
There was no hesitation in her voice, ragged and worn. "Yes." After a short silence, Sabine drew a slow, steadying breath through her nose, hands running through her hair in a vain attempt to help manage the mussed tresses that so accurately displayed her disheveled state of mind over the matter. "I found that damned cat Vanda has been searching for." Marcelo's eyes shut as if cutting off his own sight removed him from the world at large. "Ask me where I found it, Marcelo." He remained as he was, his head shaking just the slightest shift from side to side. "Ask me."
"Where did you find it." It wasn't a question, and there was not even the vaguest of hints he didn't already know the answer.
"Under his bed. And only because I tripped over one of his shoes." An odd calm had settled over her, and she spoke almost conversationally - had it not been for the frantic way she picked at the skin on her knuckles, she might have almost passed for normal. "And a knife, of course. Of course! It was wrapped up in canvas, a perfect little parcel."
"Sabine..."
"The beatings do nothing, Marcelo. He's fundamentally broken. He's a monster, and he's going to cut into us next, I can feel it. I know it."
An arc ago, he would have met such an accusation with a fiery rebuttal, but after the countless birds and rats and now that wretched, precious cat... he was so very tired. "...then I'll make arrangements."
The response was so wholly unexpected, Sabine didn't seem to realize she'd already won. "He was asking me about the Wounded God the other day, asking why we cut were we cut and not the neck. He said the faster the Wounded God gets blood, perhaps the faster-" She blinked, her husband's words finally finding purchase. "You-you're serious?" Her eyes which had dulled over the past arc under the ever-present shroud of mounting anxiety that had at some point melted into fear shimmered a hopeful gleam. "I'll be- we'll be free? At last?
Another sigh, added to the countless others before that had all lead up to his final decision. "Yes. We'll be... free."
"Mama? Papa?" Mathias' voice drifted in through the open window. He'd returned earlier than usual, though what it was he did with his time, neither wished to know. He was a common face about the area, and while some whispered it wasn't right to let a five arc old wander about so far from his parents' purview, both Sabine and even Marcelo had held the faintest of hopes - hopes tinged with self-loathing - that the child might simply disappear. That he, without fail, reappeared each evening with his bright smile and friendly demeanor that felt so impossibly real and fake, a simultaneous paradox, served only to paint them all the more wretched in their own minds.
"We-we're here, darling. Come inside, we have-"
Marcelo rose out of his chair, a hand gently placed upon her wrist. He spoke softly, tone warning. "No. It's better we say nothing."
"...we haven't finished supper yet, but if you'd like to help, I'd be glad for it."
"I can?" Excitement filled his voice - an excitement neither Marcelo nor Sabine could determine as genuine or false.
"Of course! Clean yourself up and help me wash the mushrooms." She smiled through her own misgiving. At one point she had loved her son more than anything in the world, but love was such a strange beast. It could twist and warp beneath the sulphuric heat of fear, yet it continued to cling, a cloying chain about one's heart. As she watched the curly blonde head of hair bob up and down to the rhythm of hands being dunked into the wash basin, she glanced toward her husband, wondering if the man felt the same as she: torn entirely to pieces yet...
Marcelo merely stared straight ahead, slumping back into his chair and looking for all the world the image of a man who'd lost everything he'd once held dear.
Mathias didn't understand what was happening when the man came to take him away. His father refused to look him in the eye when he asked, as he was guided out of the house, vice-like grip about his wrist a firm reminder he would go wherever the man planned to take him. Some children, upon the realization that they were being given away, might have felt betrayed, abandoned, angry. He simply felt confused. He asked, several times throughout the long, trudging journey through broken streets, where it was they were going, what the man's name might be, when he was going to go home... All questions were met with the exact same indifferent response: silence.
He knew when it was they arrived without feeling the need to verify through questions - questions he was certain would have the same answers and before even had he asked them. Nothing in Quacia, save a small, select few grandiose fixtures that defined the city almost more than the people who populated it, was quite deserving of the word "stately", but the building before him was very nearly so. While his wide eyes drank in the scene before him, his attention was caught and held by a woman who stood waiting calmly, silhouetted by sunlight that poured through windows unseen and cascaded out through the front door. She was tall and elegant, money evident from her dress to her grooming to the manner in which she stood, expectantly waiting for the two of them to reach a distance over which she might speak comfortably.
"My, he is a handsome little thing, is he not, Donato?"
The man grunted, pulling Mathias forward before shrugging his shoulders. "I don't bed kids, so I dunno." He paused and added a "Madam." at the end.
"Ah, well." There was a brief flash of something like disgust dipped in pity before her lips turned a soft smile that made little effort to reach her calm grey eyes. "That will be all, I think, Donato. Thank you for fetching him for me." There was another grunt as Mathias felt his now reddened wrist finally released before Donato turned to leave without any further hesitation.
"Hello." Wide eyes matched the woman's in color as he stared up at her, his blonde curls shifting slightly as his chin tilted upward. "Can I ask you a question?"
"'May I ask you a question', dear."
Mathias blinked blankly at the correction, patiently waiting for the answer.
"Yes. You may ask me a question."
"Who are you?" It would have been perfectly acceptable to have sounded suspicious in his circumstances, but there was little more than a genuine curiosity behind his words.
"I am..." She paused, surveying him with pursed lips and a thoughtful, gentle furrow of her brow. "Well, my name is Madam Graciana Moreno."
"Okay."
"One should say 'It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance.' when another gives one her name." The correction wasn't condescending so much as academically informative.
"Oh. It's a pleasure to make your 'qauintence."
"'It is', dear, and it is not 'quaintence' rather 'acquaintance'."
Mathias blinked blankly once more, but from Madam Graciana's expression, he knew well enough she expected him to try again. "It is a pleasure to make your uhquaintance."
The Madam pursed her lips and let out a soft sigh through her nose, but allowed herself to smile once she was finished, albeit with some reservation. "We shall... endeavor to improve with small strides, I suppose."
"Okay."
"Now you should introduce yourself." With an expectant raise of her brows, she waited once more.
Mathias, quick enough as he was, responded without hesitation. "I'm Mathias, but my friends call me Mads."
"Friends?" Genuine surprise broke through the Madam's carefully constructed expression of matronly warmth. Her eyes narrowed just slightly, uncertainty a whisper beneath her next words. "You... have friends, Mathias?"
"No, you should say 'It is a pleasure to make your 'quain- uhquaintance.'" He stared up, his expression a mirrored replication of the expectancy the Madam had worn only moments before, and she blinked several more times in surprise before quickly metering out a rushed reply.
"Erm- yes. It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Mathias. Now," A frown settled upon her features as she regarded him. "You have friends?"
"Nope." Little hands found their way into his pockets as his small shoulders rose and fell. "All the other kids don't like me." If he was disappointed about the fact, his voice didn't suggest it.
What tension had crept into the woman's shoulder seemed to settle. "Oh! Oh, I see-" The relief in her voice was quickly replaced with a cooing concern. "And why is that, Mathias? Why do they not like you?"
"'cause I killed their pets." The answer was as casual as if he'd given her the time of day. "They think I did it."
The Madam's lips curved a soft, thoughtful smile. "And did you, Mathias? Kill those animals?" For a moment his brow furrowed, clearly uncertain as to whether he should lie or not, but the Madam extended out her hand toward him, stooping lower so that their faces were level with one another. "Mathias, I promise you I will be your friend as long as you promise to always tell me the truth."
He stared back at her for a beat or two, wide grey eyes contemplative. "But my friends call me Mads."
"Mads it is then." Though the informal moniker seemed to cause her a physical discomfort she smiled in spite of herself, a reflection of the boy's own expression. "Did you kill those animals?"
"Yep!" Neither of them ceased smiling, something he was entirely unaccustomed to when the subjected of animals and death were brought up in the same breath. He glanced down at the extended hand, his smile just slightly tinged with confusion.
"This, Mads, is a handshake. Friends shake hands when they make deals, it... it is a sign of mutual understanding. A physical reiteration of a promise."
"Ariteration?" He blinked a couple times but stared curiously as the Madam reached out to take his right hand in hers.
"Now we shake."
Mathias - Mads - stared at their clasped hands for a long while in silence, until he finally settled his gaze upon his new friend's face. "Are you my mama now?"
"No, Mads." Her voice was warm and gentle, alluring like the scent of honey lolling along a lazy summer's breeze. She tenderly guided him into the house, wordlessly requesting he remove his shoes as they stepped over the threshold to stand upon an ornately woven rug. "I am, and always will be: your friend."
Bright eyes stared analytically down at the carefully carved slice of meat that serenely cooled itself upon his plate. The aroma of the flesh, heated and seared but not so much that the pleasant, copper tang was lost, bade him whet his appetite, but in the two arcs he had spent under the supervision of his friend and teacher Madame Graciana Moreno, he'd fast learned she expected him to wait until she was seated as well - and for the woman to take the first bite at that. He didn't mind waiting; it made the moment his teeth bit into the various morsels she crafted for them all the more exhilarating. Though no amount of self-imposed restrictions could keep his growing stomach from gurgling in protest.
"Oh, hush now, you silly stomach!" Graciana chuckled as she swept by, her long, elegant fingers playfully tousling the boy's golden curls as she passed. "You really should learn to be more like Mads. Look at how calmly he is waiting for me. The model of a proper young man." She grinned wide, a jovial glimmer in her eyes as she settled into her seat. The upholstered fabric of the chair let out a near silent sigh, and as she drew up the silver fork and knife, Mads did the same. "Now, Mads, if you will."
Nodding slowly, he set his utensils to work, carefully slicing through the meat, testing its resistance, eying the quality of the flesh itself. "...shank?" Before Graciana could say anything, the boy shook his head, absorbed in his task. "No... it's- it is," He sheepishly grinned at the approving nod given him his quick correction. "Neck?"
"Neck." Her face immediately found a neutral mask; her eyes regarded him with an unreadable regard. Mads blinked and forced his hands to stay where they were in spite of the sudden urge to scratch at the tip of his nose. "You are... correct!" A small sigh of both relief and triumph escaped him as they both broke out into shared grins. "Now, let us dine before the poor thing cools."
As the clinking of silver against china filled the dining room, Mads let his gaze wander. It wasn't polite to speak during a meal, but there was nothing wrong with enjoying the comfortable atmosphere - and familiar company - in contented silence. While it was not large in any sense, there was room enough - with windows as well - that the space felt open and inviting. While the carved, wooden table was large enough to seat several more, he and Graciana had taken to sitting kitty-corner the other at the table's southern end. That left the other free to display Graciana's latest works, careful figurines carved and sculpted from bone and ivory - delicate and beautiful.
The windows were framed by drawn, verdant drapes, their hems just barely brushing along the smoothed, worn wooden floor. Light filtered in unimpeded, illuminating the cabinet that sat against the wall and two his left which housed the more intricate and diminutive pieces Graciana kept for herself. Some she'd carved, others she'd collected. It was what she referred to as her "cabinet of curiosities" - and curious they were indeed. While it - and the basement - were the only things he wasn't allowed to interact with, the cabinet at least was readily available to be admired; so long as he didn't actually touch anything in, on, or around it, Graciana was more than happy to allow him to study the varied, eclectic contents from afar. There was one piece he liked in particular, one Graciana had done herself: a figure of a man stooped over, chipped and cracked - her rendering of the Wounded God.
Both she and he let blood when it was asked of them. Mads didn't quite understand the religiosity of it, but he'd always been fascinated with blood. He quite enjoyed their trips to the temples, and thus he had grown to foster a sort of relationship with the silence of the Wounded God. So many bled for him, without question. He often wondered to what end it all might come, but such were questions even the greatest among the Theocratum could answer only in vague, gestural strokes of their tongues, a verbal portraiture in true fauvist expressionism. There was no certainty - only faith; it was upon faith along the people bled, and to Mads, it was a magic in and of itself.
When the meal was finished, their forks and knives settled, Graciana's lips began to purse, the beginning of words just starting to depart from her mind and out into the open air between them, there came a rapping at the door. Blinking in surprise, clearly not expecting a caller so early in the day, she rose wordlessly, gesturing that Mads remain seated. There was no air of urgency about it - it was merely polite to sit and digest one's meal after ingesting it. The exception, of course, came when more pressing matters were to be attended to, such as opening the door for a visitor.
Or, as it happened to be upon that particular trial, Cristiano Vargas - a middle-aged, worrisome man who was burdened with the unfortunate task of requesting the services of those magical practitioners who were not directly affiliated with any particular group or faction. Most of whom did not appreciate Cristiano's presence, let alone his petitions. After all, there was a general understanding between the few who did not align themselves with the Theocratum or the Seekers or the Dukes and the rest of the city that such ties were not drawn specifically to avoid providing assistance of any kind. Graciana was, by far, one of the more gracious independents - it helped her particular domains were hardly what one might consider aggressive - and yet she often proved to be one of Cristiano's last resorts. Whether it was merely coincidence or the man did so intentionally was hardly a concern of hers.
Mads, obedient up to the point of curiosity, compromised with Graciana's prior command and quietly slipped down from his seat - resolving not the leave the room, a partial adherence to her request-, creeping quietly over the sturdy boards of the floor to peak around the corner of the archway that faced the front door. He'd missed the beginning of the exchange, focused as he'd been in making as little noise as he could manage, but his wide, curious eyes carefully studied Cristiano's dark, sweat beaded brow and frantic, near blubbering, breathless words.
"T-they've tried containing him, but-but he's flayed two already and I- we thought we should get some help from a... from you. I-if it pleases, Madam."
Though her back was turned to him, Mads didn't need to see her face to know the expression it made: slight frown, bright eyes calculating, brow raised a hair higher on her left than right. "I suppose breath would be wasted to chastise you and yours for pursuing an aberrant without proper precautions." Cristiano made a sort of squeak and grunt, still panting from the distance he'd no doubt covered in half the time it should have taken. "Very well." Without missing a beat, she turned, staring directly into the eyes of the young spy as if she'd known he was there all along. "Mads, darling, I apologize but, as I am certain you have determined for yourself, my services have been requested." The more she spoke, the more nervous and restless Cristiano became - it seemed only one of them considered the matter an urgent one.
Mads was not that one. "Will you be returning late?" His voice was smooth and unassuming, an impressive change from where he'd started arcs ago.
Graciana smiled, a knowing glint to her gaze. "The significance of this particular trial has yet to slip my aging mind, darling. Clean up breakfast, finish your essays, and prepare for your revision. I will try my utmost best not to tarry."
The thought crossed his mind that he should, perhaps, be disappointed with such a reply and set of carefully listed commands, but Mads brushed it away with a nod of his head and polite smile offered their caller, who had now broken out once more in a sweat - this time one of impatience and poorly contained insistence. "As you say, Madam."
As the trial progressed and blank papers slowly filled with ink, Mads found himself - as was so common when it came to the fascinating worlds that literature provided him - lost in his own thoughts. While time moved no faster nor slower than it ever did, night had long since descended upon him before the boy even realized how late it had gotten. Struggling to sit proper after having half burrowed his way into a worn but still perfectly presentable lounge chair that faced the study's large paned window, he squinted out into the gathering darkness, the dull glow of the boodlights carefully and artfully placed throughout the study making it difficult to see anything but his own reflection in the glass. At some point, he'd dozed off, and when he glanced back down at the book in his lap, he couldn't quite recall where it was he'd stopped reading - or if he'd read any of it at all.
Once he managed to extricate himself from his seat, he lightly padded his way to the bookshelf, a near sculpture of stone that had been built into the wall of the home, providing a plethora of artfully placed nooks and crannies wherein one could store books or trinkets of similar dimension. Though he wasn't certain of the exact time, his rumbling stomach suggested it was, at the very least, late enough in the evening that taking supper wouldn't be an absurdity - yet he remained where he was, staring thoughtfully at the weathered, leather-bound spine of one of the books in front of him.
For the most part, their food was kept in the basement; there were only two things he wasn't allowed to do: touch anything in or on the cabinet of curiosities and go into the basement.
His stomach grumbled again, expressing its impatient need to be filled with something other than empty thought.
Finally deciding upon a frown, he turned from the book and settled back into the armchair, this time staring out of the window once more, focusing on the ruddy glow of the streets beyond. Graciana had assured him she'd return as soon as she was able. Hungry or not, he resolved himself to wait. After all, there as so very little she ever truly demanded of him. A little bit of hunger wasn't going to be enough to sway his better judgment.
But a lot of hunger?
Several breaks passed with no change but a deepening of the darkness - and of the growing pit in his stomach. Ever since the first time he'd stepped foot in the house, Graciana had never left him alone for longer than a trial - of the kind from sun's rise to set. He was hungry, and it was clear his provider wasn't nearby. Though he understood perfectly well such a situation didn't excuse him from breaking one of the only two rules she'd set down for him, he decided that whatever punishment - be it one based in disappointment or in a more physical sense - was well deserved; he would accept it accordingly - once he'd eaten something, of course.
Gradually, he wandered his way into the kitchen, the sunset hue of the bloodlights casting odd and intricate shadows onto the floor and walls. Pausing, considering his choices, he hesitated for just a moment before he pressed his shoulder against the sliding stone door. It moved without much resistance, far smoother a glide than he'd been expecting, and revealed a rush of cool, wintery air that swept past him like a specter finally freed of its prison. Shivering in unconscious response, Mads curled his toes in his socks and peered down into the darkness.
Ordinarily, Graciana would have simply plucked one of the bloodlights from its perch and brought it down with her, but he felt the odd sense that if he took one of the lights down with it, somehow, it would make the breaking of the taboo all the worse. If he couldn't see anything, he might even accurately say he wasn't even entirely certain what was in the basement. Surely such ignorance would count in his favor to some extent. His stomach groaned again, loud enough that he could hear the noise tumble awkwardly down the smooth stone steps, disappearing into was seemed for all the world to be an endless descent into the bowls of the world.
And endless descent wherein somewhere food was stored.
Food outweighed uncertainty - along with most other things to boot. With steady, probing steps, more so out of concern for his well-being than fear of the inky darkness that most Quacians were as at home in as the daylight, he worked his way down. His fingers trailed along the wall, their tips numbed from the chill. Slowly, he counted each step in a quiet, thoughtful whisper. The sound of his own voice a muffled metronome to mark his unwavering descent.
"...thirty-four,
He felt a sharp, jarring pain shoot up through his foot as his toe smashed itself into the ground where - had there been a step as he'd assumed - there should have been nothing but air. Limping off of the last step, steadying himself on the wall to his left, and letting the chill of the air help to dull the throbbing pain in his toe, Mads glanced curiously around him through his involuntary grimace. The action itself was done more out of habit than anything else; dark as it was, he couldn't see anything but the faint outline of the first handful of steps that seemed to hang in a vast expanse of black nothing, so poorly illuminated by what light was able to filter in through the open door.
It was much colder at the bottom than the top, and Mads wrapped one of his arms around the middle of his stomach in a vain attempt to stave off some of the chill. Shuffling forward, his left arm extended and fingers reaching blindly for a shelf or chest or box, he gradually made his way across the floor, his socked feet sending little, soft echoes about the space. Though he was no expert, it sounded fairly small, though how small he couldn't tell. It didn't take long for him to reach the other wall, with no interruption in between, and he frowned, the small twinge of irritation rearing its twitchy head. "I just want some-"
Moving with a bit more speed and far less caution, his words were cut short as his foot caught against something protruding out from the wall, sending him to the ground in a mess of knees and elbows. Within the next moment, he'd managed to right himself onto his knees, blindly investigating whatever it was he'd tripped over. As his hands gripped the smooth mass before him, he found that the texture - while could - was alarmingly familiar. It was most certainly a leg, but if he remembered correctly, pig legs weren't nearly as long. It seemed as though it went on forever, but the moment he felt the thigh shift into the unmistakable shape of a hip and torso, he no longer had any doubts what it was he was groping.
Dragging the corpse across the flat floor alone proved difficult enough to force him into a sweat, in spite of the cold. There was absolutely no way he was going to be able to manage all thirty-five steps on his own. So, with a fair lack of decorum, he let the body's feet go, and a dull thunk bumbled about the small room. In his surprise and excitement, his hunger and been all but forgotten - while hunger trump most everything else, curiosity always won out.
What one might have expected from a young boy who had come across the frozen remains of corpse stowed away in the cellar of his mysterious benefactor was panic - or at the very least a desire to conceal one's presence had ever been there at all and hope to cover it all up and live as though no discovery had ever been made. Mads, while a young boy indeed, had never been one for living up to the expectations of those around him - with the exception of Graciana. Instead, he was fascinated.
As a young child, he'd always been interested in the inner workings of living things, all the moving parts and bones and blood. People, especially, had always been of particular interest to him, but small as he'd been, he'd never once considered cracking another person up and poking around inside. The logistics of ensnaring a sentient being who was at least his size if not larger had never panned out well for him in his many mental scenarios. None of them had accounted for the chance of simply happening across a corpse. He found it a shame the body had been frozen; even if he dug into it, there would be no blood, but it was a body all the same. A human body. The thought as to how it ended up in Graciana's cellar never once occurred to him, so taken he was with the thrilling discovery.
Forgetting himself - and the precarious state of the situation - Mads rushed up the stairs, tripping several times, before snatching one of the bloodlights from the kitchen's counter and dashing back down - the second descent much easier with the aid of his vision. The very first thing he noticed about the man - for it was indeed a man, shaved completely from the top of his head down to the knuckles of his toes - were the missing pieces, carefully carved from his body. Wedges had been taken from the neck, from the man's upper thighs, and several strips of flesh had been cut from his back. And each cut he could clearly pair with...
Above, a familiar voice called out, weary but welcoming. "Mads? Are you still awake? The whole thing was a fiasco, I assure you. My apologies for dawdling."
Blinking down at the dead, empty eyes of the man who'd helped to supply his breakfast, Mads ran through the various scenarios available to him. All instances of trying to put the man back where he'd found him and pretend as though nothing had happened ended... poorly. Thus, the only real option was a confrontation. "Down here, Madam. In the cellar!" His voice rang out clear, no tinge of fear or apprehension. "I know you said not to go down but-"
In all his time living with the Madam Graciana Moreno, he'd never once seen her run. She'd walked briskly before, to a point where he had to near sprint to keep up, but never the true definition of "run". Thus, when she interrupted him, voice slightly out of breath, standing at the top of the cellar stairs, he whirled about with a fair amount of jolted surprise. "Mads! What are you-"
"I was hungry." The words came out sheepish, half apologetic.
"Oh, Mads. I..." Graciana seemed to struggle for words, her composure broken by her own fatigue and the surprising scene laid out below her.
"Since there's still so much left, can we have steak for supper?"
Graciana's uncertain expression finally settled on an amused curve of her lips. "May we have steak for supper, darling."
Dark clouds filled the sky; the ruddy glimmer of the bloodlights pressed back against the shadows cast over the city. Through the murk, Mads stepped lightly, clad in an unremarkable cloak and dark, worn boots. Beside him, Graciana strode with a measured confidence, her own nondescript robes seemingly constructed from the same stuff as the clouds above them, spun coarse, and fitted loosely. Such was their common garb when they went about the city, but it was no common trial, to be sure.
"Now," Graciana spoke low, though her voice carried easily enough between the small distance that separated them. "I will only step in when I absolutely must." She raised a brow, emphasizing her next point. "Which, I assure you, I would rather not do."
"Of course." At a similar volume, Mads' voice was much softer than the woman's, but not so much she needed to strain to hear his replies. "Though... I cannot make any guarantees." He wasn't quite nervous - perhaps a bit excited, both in the emotional and physical sense. Mistakes were most often made in such states, something he was well aware of. "Are you- do you really believe me ready?"
With a short, assuring chuckle, Graciana gripped Mads' elbow with a reassuring squeeze. "Oh, readiness has never been a worry of mine with you, darling. If anything, I was a bit... concerned you may try something like this on your own. Unsupervised."
"Do I really come across so reckless?" It was his turn to laugh lightly, his mirth only partially genuine. He couldn't deny he'd thought about it several times over. It had been nearly an arc since she'd first shared her spark with him. The wounds inflicted by her Seeker friends had only just finally finished healing; they were physical reminders of just how juvenile a thing he was when it came to magic. "You have taught me well enough, I doubt I would have trouble even in solitude."
"It is not so much the act itself but... what comes after that poses the greatest obstacle to overcome." She rustled her robes with a sly grin. "Two pairs of hands - and legs - are immeasurably more useful than a single set."
The two companions rounded a corner, their pace steady but casual. Ahead, there was a distinct cover of darkness; no bloodlights lined the shabby sills of the windows, nor were there any signs of straggling life about. The alley was, as far as the eye might tell, deserted. They continued straight ahead, into the inky expanse, two drab figures of modest light gradually swallowed by the nightmare maw of absence.
In the darkness, they could hear a slow, steady breath.
"Remember, always overestimate."
He heard the words like one might one's own stream of consciousness. While he couldn't see, he could hear, and, guided by the unfaltering rise and fall of an unseen chest, he made his way through the darkness. Though his first time in practice, Graciana had walked him through so many countless scenarios, it almost felt familiar. Familiarity alone, however, didn't make up for a lack of practical experience. With a wordless wince, he froze in place the moment his shin collided with something cold and solid - a slab of stone no doubt. The noise of the collision wasn't loud enough to wake the sleeper, but he figured it was better not to take any unnecessary chances. After all: "always overestimate".
Soon enough, he was standing beside the sleeping figure. His eyes had since adjusted to the darkness, leaving him a bit more aware of his surroundings, though more so in the vague sense of ambiguous outlines than true sight, but it was more than enough. Drawing a small, sharp knife from within the thick folds of his cloak, he readied himself. Knees bent, breath steady, blade poised-
Whether by the man's own devices or something else entirely, he flailed out in his sleep. Their hands collided, knocking the knife from Mads' hands to send it clattering uselessly to the ground. The sudden advent of touch seemed enough to fully rouse him, and the man jerked forward into a seated position, his voice garbled and confused. "Wh-what? Who're-"
Stooping to collect the knife from the ground, fingers blindly dancing over the cool sone of the street until the smooth ivory of the handle was once more securely in his hands, he spoke to buy himself a bit of time. "Who am I? A concerned neighbor, sir."
The educated lilt to his words and complete lang of shorthand slang immediately set him apart from most anyone else the many surely knew. Though there wasn't light enough to show it, the man's eyes were barely squints, such was the weight of his skepticism. "Don't sound like a Heap."
"No. No, I suppose I do sound a bit..." Knife ready once again, Mads decided it was best to bide his time. He couldn't see clearly in through the cloudy evening's murk, and once he lost the rest of whatever was left of the element of surprise, he was on even ground - not the sort of ground he preferred to be caught on. "Odd."
"I was gonna say 'fuckin' weird', but that'll do."
"Synonyms, essentially." A brief stint of silence followed, and Mads cleared his throat. "I merely wished to- that is... I was wondering if you were dead."
"Dead? I look dead to you?"
"Well, I am unable to see very clearly, but you do sound lively enough." He didn't bother trying to smile to make himself more amenable. He couldn't make out a single feature on the other man's face - in fact, he wasn't entirely certain he was even starting at the man's face to begin with.
"So. Just worried 'bout my beating heart, huh?" Even had the man tried to put effort into making himself sound unsuspicious, it would have taken more effort than Mads and Graciana combined to effect any sort of believable performance.
His grip tightened on the knife, voice still smooth, soft, and polite as ever. "Yes, actually. That very thing, specifically."
"Uh huh." The man rose up to his full height - even in the darkness, the amorphous shifting space that was what Mads assumed to be the other man was at least a head taller than he, if not more. "What are you worried about now?" His voice was a low growl, that of a man with pent-up frustrations and a new target upon which to vent them.
"I would still have to say... your beating heart."
He could feel the man's arm move more so than see it, close as they were to one another. In the same time it took for the man to thrust his fist forward, Mads lowered his own, reaching down into the cool, calm reservoir of his spark, drawing in the ether that drifted through his body - ethereal, astral blood, as it were - and willed it forward. In the next moment, the man let out a surprised grunt as he felt the force of his punch reversed, his first bouncing off of the air just a few centimeters in front of Mads' lowered hands. Graciana hit harder than that.
Using the man's confusion to his benefit, Mads slashed out with his knife, aim for where he supposed the man's neck to be. He felt it collide with smooth flesh only to catch on bone and strain against his grip. Realizing he'd aimed too high at the same time the man began to let out a scream and reach for his face, Mads' free hand jutted forward, fingers gripping the man's throat, attempting to crush the screams out of it. Mostly successful in stifling the noise, Mads yanked back on the knife, freeing it from wherever the blade had stuck and drew upon his ether again.
The man struggled weakly against his grip, taller but not nearly as well fed and managed as the boy who, through the force and desperation of his choke, had knocked the two of them onto the ground, using the man's head to break their fall. Dazed, confused, and in pain, he let out a wheezing, soundless screech.
The ether pooled into his left hand that still gripped the man's warm, stubbly throat, primed and ready. With his right, He jammed the knife downward, aiming for a spot it little bit above his hand. At the same time, he released the ether. The effect was something of an updraft to a blow that would have otherwise severed the web between his thumb and forefinger; fortunately for him, the knife, at least, buried itself in the man's soft skin. There was a gurgling, spluttering noise, followed by several trills of increasingly impotent twitches until, at last, the man lay still beneath him.
Panting, brow wet with sweat and hands slicked with blood, Mads stared blindly down into the darkness. He could smell the sweet aroma of blood wafting through the air. He could taste the coppery tang of it on his tongue, and he knew without needing to use his eyes the exact crimson hue that now dribbled its way down onto the cool dirt of the alley.
Graciana joined him, quickly setting about shackling the man with her own magic to drain the body of its blood, sending it back to earth, back to the Wounded God, and whispered quietly, "Messy, yes, but? Successful nonetheless." He felt a proud grip on his shoulder. "Good work, Mads."
He wanted to feel proud as if he'd accomplished something worthy of the Madam's praise. Instead, he found himself utterly irritated and a bit disgusted - not with the gore nor the fact he'd killed someone, but with the knowledge he'd gone about it in so simplistic a way. There was no fun in slitting a man's throat nor desperately rolling about upon the ground, struggling over who might lay claim to the other's life. The killing itself wasn't the issue.
How it was done? That would prove a worthy challenge.
"Mads, darling, would you mind widening the cut? Better to take care of this quickly and hurry home. We shall use your robe to wrap him before settling him into the sack; I left your spare cloak a few paces back."
"Right. Right, of course."
Next time would be different.
Next time would be better.
"Go on, open it, darling."
Sunlight filtered through the glass panes of they study, lazily drifting through the open air that smelled of paper and ink. The day was pleasant, warm, much like the smile Graciana wore as she beheld the bright-eyed, blonde haired young man before her. Arcs had come and gone with an ease of flow she'd not known for a long, long time. To say she loved him would have been to misspeak entirely, but there was no denying she was proud of what he was becoming, of what she was shaping him to be. Like her carvings, he'd started out rough, a bleached bone with flecks of flesh still clinging desperately to it. Slowly, she'd made her cuts. She'd guided him, molded him, turned him into something beautiful, something more than what she could acheive with bone alone; everything she'd taught him, had yet to teach him, all of it he absorbed, and, through that, had begun to carve himself.
Perhaps that was what it meant to be a parent?
As Mads carefully undid the twine about the small, burlap-wrapped package in his hands, Graciana shook her head, her smile turning somewhat inward as she gently, silently chastised herself. No, she was no parent, and, while he might believe himself to be, Mads was no son. She was, however, his progenitor, in a way. Who he was, what he was, had all been due to her careful guidance. He was her creation. He was her legacy.
But he was not her son.
The wrapped slowly fell away to reveal a pale ring of ivory. It was simple enough in design; though nearly entirely a simple band, there was a rounded plateau with a flat surface that showcased the polished texture and quality of material it had been carved from. Comfortable quiet passed between the two of them as he carefully studied the milky piece of jewelry, grey eyes sparkling with intrigue. "This is..." He paused, his soft voice trailing off as his expression became a tad more contemplative. "This is his, is it not? The first man I..."
Graciana nodded, hands folded neatly upon her lap as she regarded him with all the approval of a queen and her favorite knight. "Carved from his spine where your knife nicked the bone."
It was rare for them to speak openly of what they did. More so, such things were referenced in innuendo. There was something childishly enjoyable at breaking the unspoken taboo. With a grin, Mads slipped the ring over his slender finger. "It is wonderful. Thank you, Graci."
"Nineteen arcs." The words sighed their way out of her, and for a moment, the Madam Graciana Moreno look very old and very tired. "What times we have had, darling."
With a raise of his brow, Mads leaned back into the soft backing of his armchair. "You make it sound as though such times are coming to close."
Sighing through her nose, Graciana shook her head, amusement filtering back into her features as she chuckled. "No, no. Merely a reflection back upon the past. It is something I find myself partaking of quite frequently in my dotage."
"Dotage? Were you not the woman who, only a handful of trials past, stood laughing in the face of a deranged defier?" The situation had been a bit more dire than his tone suggested, but the point was made. It drew another chuckle, though this one a bit darker in tone.
"Allow an old lady her hyperbole, Mads. It is not polite to nitpick the elderly."
"Of course, Madam. My sincere apologies."
They shared a mutual smile, though let the conversation lull into a comfortable silence. The warmth of the sun filled the room, and both felt the soothing tendrils of drowsiness whisper to them. They didn't celebrate his birth trial - not in the traditional sense. It was a celebration of his rebirth, a remembrance of their meeting. The gift was more than a souvenir, more than a kind gesture to remind him of her. It was the manifestation of their bond, something much deeper than that of a child and mother, an apprentice and mentor. It was both light and dark, secret and explicit. It was everything they knew about one another and everything they didn't.
Though she'd already given him so much, the ring itself was a declaration that, whatever was to come next, where ever his path led him, she would be there - perhaps not in flesh and blood, but in spirit and soul always.
There was something comforting about it, warm and entirely alien.
She had, at last, acknowledged him; and, as Mads began to drift off into rolling mists of his dreams, his lips curved in a slight smile.
How pleasant it was to be accepted.
"Exactly my point, Marcelo."
The dark haired man ran a hand through his hair, exasperation poorly concealed. "It's just a bird. It was probably already dead before-"
"He was tearing it apart, Marcelo. Disassembling it." Horror and fear mixed into an unsavory, acrid smoke that seeped out through the pale, blonde woman's eyes and ears and from between her lips. "Something is- is wrong with our son."
Not a beat passed before the resounding sound of hard bone thinly veiled in skin cracked against the soft flesh of a cheek. "There is nothing wrong with him, woman." Soft whimpers followed in the blow's wake; slowly, sky-bright grey eyes rose to meet the dark earthy hue of her husband's. "He's a child. They're all prone to strange things before they've learned the right of it."
Delicate fingers absently traced over where she'd been struck, the ivory skin already a ruddy scarlet. "I... perhaps you're- you're right, Marcelo. I just- it's just-"
"Enough." Weariness far outweighed the subtle undercurrent of anger. "I'll go fetch him and we'll bury the thing. It'll be a... a lesson in death, I suppose."
"Yes... yes that would be best. Good. I'll- I'll tend to supper."
Stepping out into the half-light of the setting sun, Marcelo was met with the gruesome sight of a small boy's bloody grin, hands sticky and stained, eyes not only unrepentant but nearly joyful. "Papa!"
Suppressing a shiver, he pulled a worn handkerchief from his back pocket; kneeling down, he began to wipe the boy’s face, his free hand gently entangling fingers in the mess of soft, blonde curls to hold his son's head steady. "You've made quite a mess, little one."
"Birds have a lot of blood." The boy grimaced under the ministrations of his father, the rough fabric scratching at his soft skin.
"So I see." While the most the cloth had done was to smear the gore about, his child appeared a bit more presentable at the very least. "Hands." They were extended without protest, though the same sky-bright grey eyes as his mother's wandered upwards into the gentle pinks and purples of the cloud cover.
"Why can birds fly? But we can't?"
"Is that why you did... what you did, Mathias?" Cleaning the boy's hands proved to be more difficult than his face, rusty coagulation stuck firmly beneath the small nails and sticky residue already steeped into the little wrinkles of his skin. "Because birds can fly, and we can't?
"No." Bright eyes continued to stare upward, the little boy's tone hardly indicative of a juvenile lie. "I wanted to see... how they do it. How they flap and go up, instead of stay here." He tried to pull his hands away to demonstrate but, upon realizing his father wasn't going to let go of his wrist, instead hopped up and down in place, his feet hardly leaving the stone street beneath him.
"You know, you gave your mother a fright."
"Why?"
Another sigh. "It's not... what you did to that bird, it's not... nice, Mathias."
There was a slight pause, Mathias' gaze settling on the concerned and enervated frown his father worse so often. "...why?"
"The dead shouldn't be... disturbed."
"It wasn't dead."
The cleaning stopped abruptly. "What?"
"It wasn't dead." There wasn't even a flicker of remorse in his voice or gaze as Mathias stared up at his father, though his confusion over what the issue was at all was evident in his small, furrowed brow. "Mama killed it."
"Then what..."
"I wanted to know how they do it, Papa. If it's dead, how can I know?" He giggled at the end as if it were the most obvious thing.
Marcelo felt a sharp twinge in his chest. When he spoke, he did so slowly, carefully, even as he felt the heat of his blood flush through his cheeks. "What did you do exactly, Mathias?"
Clear that his father was now clearly distressed, Mathias' good humor faded to be replaced with an uncertain, vaguely apologetic worry. "I..."
"Yes?"
"I caught it and- and opened it up to see-"
"How?"
"How?" His brow furrowed again. "Um... I had a basket..."
"No not- how could you- how could you do it?" Exasperation found itself replaced with ire. "What is- what is wrong with you?"
"...Papa?"
A hand was raised, but the boy didn't flinch - unaccustomed to what the gesture was meant to imply. Before it could fall, Sabine called out from their window that supper had been prepared and to hurry back if they could. There was the briefest of moments during which Marcelo's eyes were a window into a war of rage and compassion, but in a blink, his hand returned to his side, handkerchief loosely held in his other. Another sigh passed between his lips, though this was far more weary, far more empty than any before it. "Show me where its body is. We're going to give it a burial."
Quietly, aware of the somber shift in atmosphere though unsure of how it came about, Mathias nodded slowly, little brow still furrowed as his thoughts whirred violently within his head to make sense of what he'd been told, what they were supposed to do, what had just happened. "Papa, why-"
"Walk in silence, Mathias. Think about what you've done."
His father's tone was a familiar one: that which he employed when there were to be no more questions, no more words at all. There was nothing playful about it, and Mathias settled into reticence, doing as he was bid. Yet for all the time it took to find the broken, bloodied bits and pieces of the bird who's head had been crush beneath the heel of boot far larger and weightier than his own; for all the time it took to delve down into the littered earth, excavating a space large enough for all the lifeless fragments of what had once been a living creature; for all the time it took for them to trudge back to their home in that same oppressive silence that carried on through dinner and into his bath and bedtime; Mathias couldn't understand what it was he'd done wrong, why his parents were so upset with him.
Had he been able to do so, to realize then what "humanity" meant for so many, his life would have been quite different. He might have grown up to be a young man aspiring to become a Dragoon. He might have found a man or woman to share his life with, bear children, grow old. He might have become the man his father had always hoped for him, the man his mother had always dreamed he'd be.
He might have, he might have, he might have.
But what he might have done was not what he did at all.
"We've got to get rid of him. My skin crawls every time he looks and at me and his laugh... his laugh is-"
"Sabine. You must calm down. He's our son. Your son, he-"
"He's no child of mine!" Hysteria might have been an apt description had her fears not been so founded in their placement.
"Then what would you have me do, Sabine?" An uncharacteristic helplessness pervaded Marcelo's voice as he slumped into his chair. "Cast him out? Orphan my son?"
There was no hesitation in her voice, ragged and worn. "Yes." After a short silence, Sabine drew a slow, steadying breath through her nose, hands running through her hair in a vain attempt to help manage the mussed tresses that so accurately displayed her disheveled state of mind over the matter. "I found that damned cat Vanda has been searching for." Marcelo's eyes shut as if cutting off his own sight removed him from the world at large. "Ask me where I found it, Marcelo." He remained as he was, his head shaking just the slightest shift from side to side. "Ask me."
"Where did you find it." It wasn't a question, and there was not even the vaguest of hints he didn't already know the answer.
"Under his bed. And only because I tripped over one of his shoes." An odd calm had settled over her, and she spoke almost conversationally - had it not been for the frantic way she picked at the skin on her knuckles, she might have almost passed for normal. "And a knife, of course. Of course! It was wrapped up in canvas, a perfect little parcel."
"Sabine..."
"The beatings do nothing, Marcelo. He's fundamentally broken. He's a monster, and he's going to cut into us next, I can feel it. I know it."
An arc ago, he would have met such an accusation with a fiery rebuttal, but after the countless birds and rats and now that wretched, precious cat... he was so very tired. "...then I'll make arrangements."
The response was so wholly unexpected, Sabine didn't seem to realize she'd already won. "He was asking me about the Wounded God the other day, asking why we cut were we cut and not the neck. He said the faster the Wounded God gets blood, perhaps the faster-" She blinked, her husband's words finally finding purchase. "You-you're serious?" Her eyes which had dulled over the past arc under the ever-present shroud of mounting anxiety that had at some point melted into fear shimmered a hopeful gleam. "I'll be- we'll be free? At last?
Another sigh, added to the countless others before that had all lead up to his final decision. "Yes. We'll be... free."
"Mama? Papa?" Mathias' voice drifted in through the open window. He'd returned earlier than usual, though what it was he did with his time, neither wished to know. He was a common face about the area, and while some whispered it wasn't right to let a five arc old wander about so far from his parents' purview, both Sabine and even Marcelo had held the faintest of hopes - hopes tinged with self-loathing - that the child might simply disappear. That he, without fail, reappeared each evening with his bright smile and friendly demeanor that felt so impossibly real and fake, a simultaneous paradox, served only to paint them all the more wretched in their own minds.
"We-we're here, darling. Come inside, we have-"
Marcelo rose out of his chair, a hand gently placed upon her wrist. He spoke softly, tone warning. "No. It's better we say nothing."
"...we haven't finished supper yet, but if you'd like to help, I'd be glad for it."
"I can?" Excitement filled his voice - an excitement neither Marcelo nor Sabine could determine as genuine or false.
"Of course! Clean yourself up and help me wash the mushrooms." She smiled through her own misgiving. At one point she had loved her son more than anything in the world, but love was such a strange beast. It could twist and warp beneath the sulphuric heat of fear, yet it continued to cling, a cloying chain about one's heart. As she watched the curly blonde head of hair bob up and down to the rhythm of hands being dunked into the wash basin, she glanced toward her husband, wondering if the man felt the same as she: torn entirely to pieces yet...
Marcelo merely stared straight ahead, slumping back into his chair and looking for all the world the image of a man who'd lost everything he'd once held dear.
Mathias didn't understand what was happening when the man came to take him away. His father refused to look him in the eye when he asked, as he was guided out of the house, vice-like grip about his wrist a firm reminder he would go wherever the man planned to take him. Some children, upon the realization that they were being given away, might have felt betrayed, abandoned, angry. He simply felt confused. He asked, several times throughout the long, trudging journey through broken streets, where it was they were going, what the man's name might be, when he was going to go home... All questions were met with the exact same indifferent response: silence.
He knew when it was they arrived without feeling the need to verify through questions - questions he was certain would have the same answers and before even had he asked them. Nothing in Quacia, save a small, select few grandiose fixtures that defined the city almost more than the people who populated it, was quite deserving of the word "stately", but the building before him was very nearly so. While his wide eyes drank in the scene before him, his attention was caught and held by a woman who stood waiting calmly, silhouetted by sunlight that poured through windows unseen and cascaded out through the front door. She was tall and elegant, money evident from her dress to her grooming to the manner in which she stood, expectantly waiting for the two of them to reach a distance over which she might speak comfortably.
"My, he is a handsome little thing, is he not, Donato?"
The man grunted, pulling Mathias forward before shrugging his shoulders. "I don't bed kids, so I dunno." He paused and added a "Madam." at the end.
"Ah, well." There was a brief flash of something like disgust dipped in pity before her lips turned a soft smile that made little effort to reach her calm grey eyes. "That will be all, I think, Donato. Thank you for fetching him for me." There was another grunt as Mathias felt his now reddened wrist finally released before Donato turned to leave without any further hesitation.
"Hello." Wide eyes matched the woman's in color as he stared up at her, his blonde curls shifting slightly as his chin tilted upward. "Can I ask you a question?"
"'May I ask you a question', dear."
Mathias blinked blankly at the correction, patiently waiting for the answer.
"Yes. You may ask me a question."
"Who are you?" It would have been perfectly acceptable to have sounded suspicious in his circumstances, but there was little more than a genuine curiosity behind his words.
"I am..." She paused, surveying him with pursed lips and a thoughtful, gentle furrow of her brow. "Well, my name is Madam Graciana Moreno."
"Okay."
"One should say 'It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance.' when another gives one her name." The correction wasn't condescending so much as academically informative.
"Oh. It's a pleasure to make your 'qauintence."
"'It is', dear, and it is not 'quaintence' rather 'acquaintance'."
Mathias blinked blankly once more, but from Madam Graciana's expression, he knew well enough she expected him to try again. "It is a pleasure to make your uhquaintance."
The Madam pursed her lips and let out a soft sigh through her nose, but allowed herself to smile once she was finished, albeit with some reservation. "We shall... endeavor to improve with small strides, I suppose."
"Okay."
"Now you should introduce yourself." With an expectant raise of her brows, she waited once more.
Mathias, quick enough as he was, responded without hesitation. "I'm Mathias, but my friends call me Mads."
"Friends?" Genuine surprise broke through the Madam's carefully constructed expression of matronly warmth. Her eyes narrowed just slightly, uncertainty a whisper beneath her next words. "You... have friends, Mathias?"
"No, you should say 'It is a pleasure to make your 'quain- uhquaintance.'" He stared up, his expression a mirrored replication of the expectancy the Madam had worn only moments before, and she blinked several more times in surprise before quickly metering out a rushed reply.
"Erm- yes. It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Mathias. Now," A frown settled upon her features as she regarded him. "You have friends?"
"Nope." Little hands found their way into his pockets as his small shoulders rose and fell. "All the other kids don't like me." If he was disappointed about the fact, his voice didn't suggest it.
What tension had crept into the woman's shoulder seemed to settle. "Oh! Oh, I see-" The relief in her voice was quickly replaced with a cooing concern. "And why is that, Mathias? Why do they not like you?"
"'cause I killed their pets." The answer was as casual as if he'd given her the time of day. "They think I did it."
The Madam's lips curved a soft, thoughtful smile. "And did you, Mathias? Kill those animals?" For a moment his brow furrowed, clearly uncertain as to whether he should lie or not, but the Madam extended out her hand toward him, stooping lower so that their faces were level with one another. "Mathias, I promise you I will be your friend as long as you promise to always tell me the truth."
He stared back at her for a beat or two, wide grey eyes contemplative. "But my friends call me Mads."
"Mads it is then." Though the informal moniker seemed to cause her a physical discomfort she smiled in spite of herself, a reflection of the boy's own expression. "Did you kill those animals?"
"Yep!" Neither of them ceased smiling, something he was entirely unaccustomed to when the subjected of animals and death were brought up in the same breath. He glanced down at the extended hand, his smile just slightly tinged with confusion.
"This, Mads, is a handshake. Friends shake hands when they make deals, it... it is a sign of mutual understanding. A physical reiteration of a promise."
"Ariteration?" He blinked a couple times but stared curiously as the Madam reached out to take his right hand in hers.
"Now we shake."
Mathias - Mads - stared at their clasped hands for a long while in silence, until he finally settled his gaze upon his new friend's face. "Are you my mama now?"
"No, Mads." Her voice was warm and gentle, alluring like the scent of honey lolling along a lazy summer's breeze. She tenderly guided him into the house, wordlessly requesting he remove his shoes as they stepped over the threshold to stand upon an ornately woven rug. "I am, and always will be: your friend."
Bright eyes stared analytically down at the carefully carved slice of meat that serenely cooled itself upon his plate. The aroma of the flesh, heated and seared but not so much that the pleasant, copper tang was lost, bade him whet his appetite, but in the two arcs he had spent under the supervision of his friend and teacher Madame Graciana Moreno, he'd fast learned she expected him to wait until she was seated as well - and for the woman to take the first bite at that. He didn't mind waiting; it made the moment his teeth bit into the various morsels she crafted for them all the more exhilarating. Though no amount of self-imposed restrictions could keep his growing stomach from gurgling in protest.
"Oh, hush now, you silly stomach!" Graciana chuckled as she swept by, her long, elegant fingers playfully tousling the boy's golden curls as she passed. "You really should learn to be more like Mads. Look at how calmly he is waiting for me. The model of a proper young man." She grinned wide, a jovial glimmer in her eyes as she settled into her seat. The upholstered fabric of the chair let out a near silent sigh, and as she drew up the silver fork and knife, Mads did the same. "Now, Mads, if you will."
Nodding slowly, he set his utensils to work, carefully slicing through the meat, testing its resistance, eying the quality of the flesh itself. "...shank?" Before Graciana could say anything, the boy shook his head, absorbed in his task. "No... it's- it is," He sheepishly grinned at the approving nod given him his quick correction. "Neck?"
"Neck." Her face immediately found a neutral mask; her eyes regarded him with an unreadable regard. Mads blinked and forced his hands to stay where they were in spite of the sudden urge to scratch at the tip of his nose. "You are... correct!" A small sigh of both relief and triumph escaped him as they both broke out into shared grins. "Now, let us dine before the poor thing cools."
As the clinking of silver against china filled the dining room, Mads let his gaze wander. It wasn't polite to speak during a meal, but there was nothing wrong with enjoying the comfortable atmosphere - and familiar company - in contented silence. While it was not large in any sense, there was room enough - with windows as well - that the space felt open and inviting. While the carved, wooden table was large enough to seat several more, he and Graciana had taken to sitting kitty-corner the other at the table's southern end. That left the other free to display Graciana's latest works, careful figurines carved and sculpted from bone and ivory - delicate and beautiful.
The windows were framed by drawn, verdant drapes, their hems just barely brushing along the smoothed, worn wooden floor. Light filtered in unimpeded, illuminating the cabinet that sat against the wall and two his left which housed the more intricate and diminutive pieces Graciana kept for herself. Some she'd carved, others she'd collected. It was what she referred to as her "cabinet of curiosities" - and curious they were indeed. While it - and the basement - were the only things he wasn't allowed to interact with, the cabinet at least was readily available to be admired; so long as he didn't actually touch anything in, on, or around it, Graciana was more than happy to allow him to study the varied, eclectic contents from afar. There was one piece he liked in particular, one Graciana had done herself: a figure of a man stooped over, chipped and cracked - her rendering of the Wounded God.
Both she and he let blood when it was asked of them. Mads didn't quite understand the religiosity of it, but he'd always been fascinated with blood. He quite enjoyed their trips to the temples, and thus he had grown to foster a sort of relationship with the silence of the Wounded God. So many bled for him, without question. He often wondered to what end it all might come, but such were questions even the greatest among the Theocratum could answer only in vague, gestural strokes of their tongues, a verbal portraiture in true fauvist expressionism. There was no certainty - only faith; it was upon faith along the people bled, and to Mads, it was a magic in and of itself.
When the meal was finished, their forks and knives settled, Graciana's lips began to purse, the beginning of words just starting to depart from her mind and out into the open air between them, there came a rapping at the door. Blinking in surprise, clearly not expecting a caller so early in the day, she rose wordlessly, gesturing that Mads remain seated. There was no air of urgency about it - it was merely polite to sit and digest one's meal after ingesting it. The exception, of course, came when more pressing matters were to be attended to, such as opening the door for a visitor.
Or, as it happened to be upon that particular trial, Cristiano Vargas - a middle-aged, worrisome man who was burdened with the unfortunate task of requesting the services of those magical practitioners who were not directly affiliated with any particular group or faction. Most of whom did not appreciate Cristiano's presence, let alone his petitions. After all, there was a general understanding between the few who did not align themselves with the Theocratum or the Seekers or the Dukes and the rest of the city that such ties were not drawn specifically to avoid providing assistance of any kind. Graciana was, by far, one of the more gracious independents - it helped her particular domains were hardly what one might consider aggressive - and yet she often proved to be one of Cristiano's last resorts. Whether it was merely coincidence or the man did so intentionally was hardly a concern of hers.
Mads, obedient up to the point of curiosity, compromised with Graciana's prior command and quietly slipped down from his seat - resolving not the leave the room, a partial adherence to her request-, creeping quietly over the sturdy boards of the floor to peak around the corner of the archway that faced the front door. He'd missed the beginning of the exchange, focused as he'd been in making as little noise as he could manage, but his wide, curious eyes carefully studied Cristiano's dark, sweat beaded brow and frantic, near blubbering, breathless words.
"T-they've tried containing him, but-but he's flayed two already and I- we thought we should get some help from a... from you. I-if it pleases, Madam."
Though her back was turned to him, Mads didn't need to see her face to know the expression it made: slight frown, bright eyes calculating, brow raised a hair higher on her left than right. "I suppose breath would be wasted to chastise you and yours for pursuing an aberrant without proper precautions." Cristiano made a sort of squeak and grunt, still panting from the distance he'd no doubt covered in half the time it should have taken. "Very well." Without missing a beat, she turned, staring directly into the eyes of the young spy as if she'd known he was there all along. "Mads, darling, I apologize but, as I am certain you have determined for yourself, my services have been requested." The more she spoke, the more nervous and restless Cristiano became - it seemed only one of them considered the matter an urgent one.
Mads was not that one. "Will you be returning late?" His voice was smooth and unassuming, an impressive change from where he'd started arcs ago.
Graciana smiled, a knowing glint to her gaze. "The significance of this particular trial has yet to slip my aging mind, darling. Clean up breakfast, finish your essays, and prepare for your revision. I will try my utmost best not to tarry."
The thought crossed his mind that he should, perhaps, be disappointed with such a reply and set of carefully listed commands, but Mads brushed it away with a nod of his head and polite smile offered their caller, who had now broken out once more in a sweat - this time one of impatience and poorly contained insistence. "As you say, Madam."
As the trial progressed and blank papers slowly filled with ink, Mads found himself - as was so common when it came to the fascinating worlds that literature provided him - lost in his own thoughts. While time moved no faster nor slower than it ever did, night had long since descended upon him before the boy even realized how late it had gotten. Struggling to sit proper after having half burrowed his way into a worn but still perfectly presentable lounge chair that faced the study's large paned window, he squinted out into the gathering darkness, the dull glow of the boodlights carefully and artfully placed throughout the study making it difficult to see anything but his own reflection in the glass. At some point, he'd dozed off, and when he glanced back down at the book in his lap, he couldn't quite recall where it was he'd stopped reading - or if he'd read any of it at all.
Once he managed to extricate himself from his seat, he lightly padded his way to the bookshelf, a near sculpture of stone that had been built into the wall of the home, providing a plethora of artfully placed nooks and crannies wherein one could store books or trinkets of similar dimension. Though he wasn't certain of the exact time, his rumbling stomach suggested it was, at the very least, late enough in the evening that taking supper wouldn't be an absurdity - yet he remained where he was, staring thoughtfully at the weathered, leather-bound spine of one of the books in front of him.
For the most part, their food was kept in the basement; there were only two things he wasn't allowed to do: touch anything in or on the cabinet of curiosities and go into the basement.
His stomach grumbled again, expressing its impatient need to be filled with something other than empty thought.
Finally deciding upon a frown, he turned from the book and settled back into the armchair, this time staring out of the window once more, focusing on the ruddy glow of the streets beyond. Graciana had assured him she'd return as soon as she was able. Hungry or not, he resolved himself to wait. After all, there as so very little she ever truly demanded of him. A little bit of hunger wasn't going to be enough to sway his better judgment.
But a lot of hunger?
Several breaks passed with no change but a deepening of the darkness - and of the growing pit in his stomach. Ever since the first time he'd stepped foot in the house, Graciana had never left him alone for longer than a trial - of the kind from sun's rise to set. He was hungry, and it was clear his provider wasn't nearby. Though he understood perfectly well such a situation didn't excuse him from breaking one of the only two rules she'd set down for him, he decided that whatever punishment - be it one based in disappointment or in a more physical sense - was well deserved; he would accept it accordingly - once he'd eaten something, of course.
Gradually, he wandered his way into the kitchen, the sunset hue of the bloodlights casting odd and intricate shadows onto the floor and walls. Pausing, considering his choices, he hesitated for just a moment before he pressed his shoulder against the sliding stone door. It moved without much resistance, far smoother a glide than he'd been expecting, and revealed a rush of cool, wintery air that swept past him like a specter finally freed of its prison. Shivering in unconscious response, Mads curled his toes in his socks and peered down into the darkness.
Ordinarily, Graciana would have simply plucked one of the bloodlights from its perch and brought it down with her, but he felt the odd sense that if he took one of the lights down with it, somehow, it would make the breaking of the taboo all the worse. If he couldn't see anything, he might even accurately say he wasn't even entirely certain what was in the basement. Surely such ignorance would count in his favor to some extent. His stomach groaned again, loud enough that he could hear the noise tumble awkwardly down the smooth stone steps, disappearing into was seemed for all the world to be an endless descent into the bowls of the world.
And endless descent wherein somewhere food was stored.
Food outweighed uncertainty - along with most other things to boot. With steady, probing steps, more so out of concern for his well-being than fear of the inky darkness that most Quacians were as at home in as the daylight, he worked his way down. His fingers trailed along the wall, their tips numbed from the chill. Slowly, he counted each step in a quiet, thoughtful whisper. The sound of his own voice a muffled metronome to mark his unwavering descent.
"...thirty-four,
thirty-five,
thir-"
He felt a sharp, jarring pain shoot up through his foot as his toe smashed itself into the ground where - had there been a step as he'd assumed - there should have been nothing but air. Limping off of the last step, steadying himself on the wall to his left, and letting the chill of the air help to dull the throbbing pain in his toe, Mads glanced curiously around him through his involuntary grimace. The action itself was done more out of habit than anything else; dark as it was, he couldn't see anything but the faint outline of the first handful of steps that seemed to hang in a vast expanse of black nothing, so poorly illuminated by what light was able to filter in through the open door.
It was much colder at the bottom than the top, and Mads wrapped one of his arms around the middle of his stomach in a vain attempt to stave off some of the chill. Shuffling forward, his left arm extended and fingers reaching blindly for a shelf or chest or box, he gradually made his way across the floor, his socked feet sending little, soft echoes about the space. Though he was no expert, it sounded fairly small, though how small he couldn't tell. It didn't take long for him to reach the other wall, with no interruption in between, and he frowned, the small twinge of irritation rearing its twitchy head. "I just want some-"
Moving with a bit more speed and far less caution, his words were cut short as his foot caught against something protruding out from the wall, sending him to the ground in a mess of knees and elbows. Within the next moment, he'd managed to right himself onto his knees, blindly investigating whatever it was he'd tripped over. As his hands gripped the smooth mass before him, he found that the texture - while could - was alarmingly familiar. It was most certainly a leg, but if he remembered correctly, pig legs weren't nearly as long. It seemed as though it went on forever, but the moment he felt the thigh shift into the unmistakable shape of a hip and torso, he no longer had any doubts what it was he was groping.
Dragging the corpse across the flat floor alone proved difficult enough to force him into a sweat, in spite of the cold. There was absolutely no way he was going to be able to manage all thirty-five steps on his own. So, with a fair lack of decorum, he let the body's feet go, and a dull thunk bumbled about the small room. In his surprise and excitement, his hunger and been all but forgotten - while hunger trump most everything else, curiosity always won out.
What one might have expected from a young boy who had come across the frozen remains of corpse stowed away in the cellar of his mysterious benefactor was panic - or at the very least a desire to conceal one's presence had ever been there at all and hope to cover it all up and live as though no discovery had ever been made. Mads, while a young boy indeed, had never been one for living up to the expectations of those around him - with the exception of Graciana. Instead, he was fascinated.
As a young child, he'd always been interested in the inner workings of living things, all the moving parts and bones and blood. People, especially, had always been of particular interest to him, but small as he'd been, he'd never once considered cracking another person up and poking around inside. The logistics of ensnaring a sentient being who was at least his size if not larger had never panned out well for him in his many mental scenarios. None of them had accounted for the chance of simply happening across a corpse. He found it a shame the body had been frozen; even if he dug into it, there would be no blood, but it was a body all the same. A human body. The thought as to how it ended up in Graciana's cellar never once occurred to him, so taken he was with the thrilling discovery.
Forgetting himself - and the precarious state of the situation - Mads rushed up the stairs, tripping several times, before snatching one of the bloodlights from the kitchen's counter and dashing back down - the second descent much easier with the aid of his vision. The very first thing he noticed about the man - for it was indeed a man, shaved completely from the top of his head down to the knuckles of his toes - were the missing pieces, carefully carved from his body. Wedges had been taken from the neck, from the man's upper thighs, and several strips of flesh had been cut from his back. And each cut he could clearly pair with...
Above, a familiar voice called out, weary but welcoming. "Mads? Are you still awake? The whole thing was a fiasco, I assure you. My apologies for dawdling."
Blinking down at the dead, empty eyes of the man who'd helped to supply his breakfast, Mads ran through the various scenarios available to him. All instances of trying to put the man back where he'd found him and pretend as though nothing had happened ended... poorly. Thus, the only real option was a confrontation. "Down here, Madam. In the cellar!" His voice rang out clear, no tinge of fear or apprehension. "I know you said not to go down but-"
In all his time living with the Madam Graciana Moreno, he'd never once seen her run. She'd walked briskly before, to a point where he had to near sprint to keep up, but never the true definition of "run". Thus, when she interrupted him, voice slightly out of breath, standing at the top of the cellar stairs, he whirled about with a fair amount of jolted surprise. "Mads! What are you-"
"I was hungry." The words came out sheepish, half apologetic.
"Oh, Mads. I..." Graciana seemed to struggle for words, her composure broken by her own fatigue and the surprising scene laid out below her.
"Since there's still so much left, can we have steak for supper?"
Graciana's uncertain expression finally settled on an amused curve of her lips. "May we have steak for supper, darling."
Dark clouds filled the sky; the ruddy glimmer of the bloodlights pressed back against the shadows cast over the city. Through the murk, Mads stepped lightly, clad in an unremarkable cloak and dark, worn boots. Beside him, Graciana strode with a measured confidence, her own nondescript robes seemingly constructed from the same stuff as the clouds above them, spun coarse, and fitted loosely. Such was their common garb when they went about the city, but it was no common trial, to be sure.
"Now," Graciana spoke low, though her voice carried easily enough between the small distance that separated them. "I will only step in when I absolutely must." She raised a brow, emphasizing her next point. "Which, I assure you, I would rather not do."
"Of course." At a similar volume, Mads' voice was much softer than the woman's, but not so much she needed to strain to hear his replies. "Though... I cannot make any guarantees." He wasn't quite nervous - perhaps a bit excited, both in the emotional and physical sense. Mistakes were most often made in such states, something he was well aware of. "Are you- do you really believe me ready?"
With a short, assuring chuckle, Graciana gripped Mads' elbow with a reassuring squeeze. "Oh, readiness has never been a worry of mine with you, darling. If anything, I was a bit... concerned you may try something like this on your own. Unsupervised."
"Do I really come across so reckless?" It was his turn to laugh lightly, his mirth only partially genuine. He couldn't deny he'd thought about it several times over. It had been nearly an arc since she'd first shared her spark with him. The wounds inflicted by her Seeker friends had only just finally finished healing; they were physical reminders of just how juvenile a thing he was when it came to magic. "You have taught me well enough, I doubt I would have trouble even in solitude."
"It is not so much the act itself but... what comes after that poses the greatest obstacle to overcome." She rustled her robes with a sly grin. "Two pairs of hands - and legs - are immeasurably more useful than a single set."
The two companions rounded a corner, their pace steady but casual. Ahead, there was a distinct cover of darkness; no bloodlights lined the shabby sills of the windows, nor were there any signs of straggling life about. The alley was, as far as the eye might tell, deserted. They continued straight ahead, into the inky expanse, two drab figures of modest light gradually swallowed by the nightmare maw of absence.
In the darkness, they could hear a slow, steady breath.
"Remember, always overestimate."
He heard the words like one might one's own stream of consciousness. While he couldn't see, he could hear, and, guided by the unfaltering rise and fall of an unseen chest, he made his way through the darkness. Though his first time in practice, Graciana had walked him through so many countless scenarios, it almost felt familiar. Familiarity alone, however, didn't make up for a lack of practical experience. With a wordless wince, he froze in place the moment his shin collided with something cold and solid - a slab of stone no doubt. The noise of the collision wasn't loud enough to wake the sleeper, but he figured it was better not to take any unnecessary chances. After all: "always overestimate".
Soon enough, he was standing beside the sleeping figure. His eyes had since adjusted to the darkness, leaving him a bit more aware of his surroundings, though more so in the vague sense of ambiguous outlines than true sight, but it was more than enough. Drawing a small, sharp knife from within the thick folds of his cloak, he readied himself. Knees bent, breath steady, blade poised-
Whether by the man's own devices or something else entirely, he flailed out in his sleep. Their hands collided, knocking the knife from Mads' hands to send it clattering uselessly to the ground. The sudden advent of touch seemed enough to fully rouse him, and the man jerked forward into a seated position, his voice garbled and confused. "Wh-what? Who're-"
Stooping to collect the knife from the ground, fingers blindly dancing over the cool sone of the street until the smooth ivory of the handle was once more securely in his hands, he spoke to buy himself a bit of time. "Who am I? A concerned neighbor, sir."
The educated lilt to his words and complete lang of shorthand slang immediately set him apart from most anyone else the many surely knew. Though there wasn't light enough to show it, the man's eyes were barely squints, such was the weight of his skepticism. "Don't sound like a Heap."
"No. No, I suppose I do sound a bit..." Knife ready once again, Mads decided it was best to bide his time. He couldn't see clearly in through the cloudy evening's murk, and once he lost the rest of whatever was left of the element of surprise, he was on even ground - not the sort of ground he preferred to be caught on. "Odd."
"I was gonna say 'fuckin' weird', but that'll do."
"Synonyms, essentially." A brief stint of silence followed, and Mads cleared his throat. "I merely wished to- that is... I was wondering if you were dead."
"Dead? I look dead to you?"
"Well, I am unable to see very clearly, but you do sound lively enough." He didn't bother trying to smile to make himself more amenable. He couldn't make out a single feature on the other man's face - in fact, he wasn't entirely certain he was even starting at the man's face to begin with.
"So. Just worried 'bout my beating heart, huh?" Even had the man tried to put effort into making himself sound unsuspicious, it would have taken more effort than Mads and Graciana combined to effect any sort of believable performance.
His grip tightened on the knife, voice still smooth, soft, and polite as ever. "Yes, actually. That very thing, specifically."
"Uh huh." The man rose up to his full height - even in the darkness, the amorphous shifting space that was what Mads assumed to be the other man was at least a head taller than he, if not more. "What are you worried about now?" His voice was a low growl, that of a man with pent-up frustrations and a new target upon which to vent them.
"I would still have to say... your beating heart."
He could feel the man's arm move more so than see it, close as they were to one another. In the same time it took for the man to thrust his fist forward, Mads lowered his own, reaching down into the cool, calm reservoir of his spark, drawing in the ether that drifted through his body - ethereal, astral blood, as it were - and willed it forward. In the next moment, the man let out a surprised grunt as he felt the force of his punch reversed, his first bouncing off of the air just a few centimeters in front of Mads' lowered hands. Graciana hit harder than that.
Using the man's confusion to his benefit, Mads slashed out with his knife, aim for where he supposed the man's neck to be. He felt it collide with smooth flesh only to catch on bone and strain against his grip. Realizing he'd aimed too high at the same time the man began to let out a scream and reach for his face, Mads' free hand jutted forward, fingers gripping the man's throat, attempting to crush the screams out of it. Mostly successful in stifling the noise, Mads yanked back on the knife, freeing it from wherever the blade had stuck and drew upon his ether again.
The man struggled weakly against his grip, taller but not nearly as well fed and managed as the boy who, through the force and desperation of his choke, had knocked the two of them onto the ground, using the man's head to break their fall. Dazed, confused, and in pain, he let out a wheezing, soundless screech.
The ether pooled into his left hand that still gripped the man's warm, stubbly throat, primed and ready. With his right, He jammed the knife downward, aiming for a spot it little bit above his hand. At the same time, he released the ether. The effect was something of an updraft to a blow that would have otherwise severed the web between his thumb and forefinger; fortunately for him, the knife, at least, buried itself in the man's soft skin. There was a gurgling, spluttering noise, followed by several trills of increasingly impotent twitches until, at last, the man lay still beneath him.
Panting, brow wet with sweat and hands slicked with blood, Mads stared blindly down into the darkness. He could smell the sweet aroma of blood wafting through the air. He could taste the coppery tang of it on his tongue, and he knew without needing to use his eyes the exact crimson hue that now dribbled its way down onto the cool dirt of the alley.
Graciana joined him, quickly setting about shackling the man with her own magic to drain the body of its blood, sending it back to earth, back to the Wounded God, and whispered quietly, "Messy, yes, but? Successful nonetheless." He felt a proud grip on his shoulder. "Good work, Mads."
He wanted to feel proud as if he'd accomplished something worthy of the Madam's praise. Instead, he found himself utterly irritated and a bit disgusted - not with the gore nor the fact he'd killed someone, but with the knowledge he'd gone about it in so simplistic a way. There was no fun in slitting a man's throat nor desperately rolling about upon the ground, struggling over who might lay claim to the other's life. The killing itself wasn't the issue.
How it was done? That would prove a worthy challenge.
"Mads, darling, would you mind widening the cut? Better to take care of this quickly and hurry home. We shall use your robe to wrap him before settling him into the sack; I left your spare cloak a few paces back."
"Right. Right, of course."
Next time would be different.
Next time would be better.
"Go on, open it, darling."
Sunlight filtered through the glass panes of they study, lazily drifting through the open air that smelled of paper and ink. The day was pleasant, warm, much like the smile Graciana wore as she beheld the bright-eyed, blonde haired young man before her. Arcs had come and gone with an ease of flow she'd not known for a long, long time. To say she loved him would have been to misspeak entirely, but there was no denying she was proud of what he was becoming, of what she was shaping him to be. Like her carvings, he'd started out rough, a bleached bone with flecks of flesh still clinging desperately to it. Slowly, she'd made her cuts. She'd guided him, molded him, turned him into something beautiful, something more than what she could acheive with bone alone; everything she'd taught him, had yet to teach him, all of it he absorbed, and, through that, had begun to carve himself.
Perhaps that was what it meant to be a parent?
As Mads carefully undid the twine about the small, burlap-wrapped package in his hands, Graciana shook her head, her smile turning somewhat inward as she gently, silently chastised herself. No, she was no parent, and, while he might believe himself to be, Mads was no son. She was, however, his progenitor, in a way. Who he was, what he was, had all been due to her careful guidance. He was her creation. He was her legacy.
But he was not her son.
The wrapped slowly fell away to reveal a pale ring of ivory. It was simple enough in design; though nearly entirely a simple band, there was a rounded plateau with a flat surface that showcased the polished texture and quality of material it had been carved from. Comfortable quiet passed between the two of them as he carefully studied the milky piece of jewelry, grey eyes sparkling with intrigue. "This is..." He paused, his soft voice trailing off as his expression became a tad more contemplative. "This is his, is it not? The first man I..."
Graciana nodded, hands folded neatly upon her lap as she regarded him with all the approval of a queen and her favorite knight. "Carved from his spine where your knife nicked the bone."
It was rare for them to speak openly of what they did. More so, such things were referenced in innuendo. There was something childishly enjoyable at breaking the unspoken taboo. With a grin, Mads slipped the ring over his slender finger. "It is wonderful. Thank you, Graci."
"Nineteen arcs." The words sighed their way out of her, and for a moment, the Madam Graciana Moreno look very old and very tired. "What times we have had, darling."
With a raise of his brow, Mads leaned back into the soft backing of his armchair. "You make it sound as though such times are coming to close."
Sighing through her nose, Graciana shook her head, amusement filtering back into her features as she chuckled. "No, no. Merely a reflection back upon the past. It is something I find myself partaking of quite frequently in my dotage."
"Dotage? Were you not the woman who, only a handful of trials past, stood laughing in the face of a deranged defier?" The situation had been a bit more dire than his tone suggested, but the point was made. It drew another chuckle, though this one a bit darker in tone.
"Allow an old lady her hyperbole, Mads. It is not polite to nitpick the elderly."
"Of course, Madam. My sincere apologies."
They shared a mutual smile, though let the conversation lull into a comfortable silence. The warmth of the sun filled the room, and both felt the soothing tendrils of drowsiness whisper to them. They didn't celebrate his birth trial - not in the traditional sense. It was a celebration of his rebirth, a remembrance of their meeting. The gift was more than a souvenir, more than a kind gesture to remind him of her. It was the manifestation of their bond, something much deeper than that of a child and mother, an apprentice and mentor. It was both light and dark, secret and explicit. It was everything they knew about one another and everything they didn't.
Though she'd already given him so much, the ring itself was a declaration that, whatever was to come next, where ever his path led him, she would be there - perhaps not in flesh and blood, but in spirit and soul always.
There was something comforting about it, warm and entirely alien.
She had, at last, acknowledged him; and, as Mads began to drift off into rolling mists of his dreams, his lips curved in a slight smile.
How pleasant it was to be accepted.