718 Vhalar 55...
Silence filled the bloody shadows of the alley, as if it, and only it, had been the only thing to ever exist there. It didn’t hang in the air, like some passing wanderer, rather it was a force, a presence, thick and heavy and commanding. It existed; it was.
And it had wrapped its welcoming arms about the slight, still shoulders of the little, flaxen hair boy and held him close for the past break.
Outside of Silence’s domain, crouched and hidden behind a half-crumbled, stone sigh of what had once been a true and proud wall of granite and slate, wide blue-green eyes, still blazing with a fiery determination, stared intently at the child’s turned back. The second set, grey and piercing, settled for the messy, sandy curls beside them, those that belonged to the first.
She didn’t seem to notice her companion’s shift in focus – just as she’d failed to do so the past thirty-seven times before.
“I do not-“ Mads began, voice only just louder than his own breath.
A hand was immediately raised, silent but commanding nonetheless, as she turned to face him, sea-green eyes as determined as ever. “He hasn’t moved an inch. Just… standing there… I really think-“ But she didn’t get to finish, nor would she ever find the time.
He wasn’t close enough to do anything more than utter a halted, wordless noise that fell on immediately deafened ears. The child stood behind her – in front of him -, a knife in his hand and up and through the base of her neck. It was a sound he’d heard many times before, that of cold metal and hot flesh clashing, but something about way it was done, so mechanical in nature, sent a reflexive shiver down his spin – a physical reflex to danger that was entirely disproportionate to what the child should have been able to represent.
The voice was low and rasping, entirely alien from the smooth pink lips that formed the words, from the rounded cheeks and watery eyes, from the careful, but flawed, attempt at confusion and fear and sadness all mixed into one. “I’m soh-sorry.”
“Mads, darling, would you mind terribly if you played the role of courier for me?” Madam Graciana Moreno strode into the sunroom, her footsteps soft but pronounced enough that Mads had already set his book aside, straightened up his posture, and was well ready to respond to whatever it was she had sought fit to interrupt his study with.
“Of course not.”
“Wonderful. I have this-“ A graceful hand slipped into the folds of her carefully draped cloak. “Hmm…” Several trills passed as she stared a few paces ahead of her own feet, brow just slightly creased before- “Ah ha! As I was saying, I have this letter,” She withdrew her hand, a small beige envelope neatly tucked between two of her fingers, cocked at an angle with the second highest corner pointed toward her charge. “That I would like delivered to one Mister Bernadino Cardoso.”
Rising up and off of his seat, Mads padded across the cool, smooth stone floor and received the note, eyes bright and inquisitive as he stared down at its blank face and featureless wax sealing. “To Lair, then?” While it was both secularly and religiously acceptable to associate with those who conducted their personal business within the den of iniquity that was the city’s mandated quarter of sin, it never hurt to be cautious in openly declaring one’s relations with them.
“Yes. I believe his name is not unknown among the flesh-hawkers, though…” Graciana frowned though not enough to wrinkle her forehead, “No… was it Black Dens? Mmm.” A gentle but firm hand found its way to Mads’ shoulder as she reassuringly patted him, lips parting into a genuinely amused smile. “I am sure you will find him. Eventually.”
Almost everything Graciana asked him to do – or rather, commanded him, with the illusion of choice, to do – was as layered and veiled as the magic they shared. An errand was never just an errand, and he had no doubt, as he nodded his understanding and tucked the letter into his trouser pocket, the delivery was merely a catalyst for whatever it was she wanted him to stumble upon.
“Thank you, darling.” She withdrew her hand and stretched her arms out to the side, cloak shifting to reveal a very conservative but tasteful gown of a sheer, grey fabric that hung from her regal shoulders and travelled down her slender frame in sharp, chic angles. “How do I look?”
There was only one correct answer, one he’d learned relatively young, along with the proper expression. His own lips turning a wide grin – though, as always, not quite touching his eyes – he chuckled out a quiet, “Stunning, as ever.”
“Forever, we should add, I think.” Her own bemused titter was far more genuine, but then again, so too were all her expressions. She never once faulted him for his lack of depth, but he often wondered if it ever bothered her, that she might not ever receive from him the increasingly more common displays of warmth she seemed to offer. If it did, she hid it quite well.
“Are you off to call upon… Deodato again?” He intentionally reigned in the lightness of his tone, a deliberate reprimand that earned him a mischievous grin and twinkle of the eye from the elder woman.
“Mister Romão and I do have an appointment.” She flicked her wrist dismissively at Mads’ raised brow. “Now,” Lightly clearing her throat, she shifted her shoulders to allow the concealing folds of her cloak fall back into place. “I must be off. Make certain you lock the door and put out the candles before you leave, darling.”
Darkness, in as much as the shadowy crimson half-light allowed it, had long since descended upon the city before he’d finally delivered his letter. His requests for one “Mister Bernadino Cardoso” had led him through the various winding, twisting, rotting, squelching ways and by-ways of the debaucherous district for most of the afternoon, all of the evening, and about a break into the night.
When he had finally located the man, he’d been subjected to another break and half’s worth of erotic, suggestive dancing which the man had dubbed a generous “gift” in thanks for Mads’ services. He had never known bodies could do quite what the men and woman who “performed” for him did, but there had been a moment during an especially loud and upbeat number during which one of the men, dressed a woman who was dressed as a man who was dressed as a woman – there had been a narrative there, somewhere -, dropped to the floor in the blink of an eye before popping right back up again.
It was one of the few things that caught Mads’ attention, and over the course of the show, he made certain to carefully watch the man’s leg placement, the manner in which he both prepared for the fall and recovered on the rise. The speed itself was impressive, and though it left the man relatively useless for a trill or two, he had no doubt it would be an effective manoeuvre when dealing with intermittent projectiles – like crossbows and bowls of sludge gathered from questionable sources.
Finally released, letter delivered, and in the heart of Lair during its busiest time, Mads mulled over the recurring and admittedly disconcerting rumour gathered from the snippets and bits of conversations he’d overheard throughout the better half of the trial. There was no doubt in his mind, as a pair of half-clothed men – in the sense that their shirts were loosely hung over their necks like draped scarves – stumbled past, mumbling to each other about the exact same thing that seemed to be on the tip of everyone’s wagging tongues.
Creepborne within the city.
Whether they were substantiated or not, that there was even talk of such a thing was cause for some concern. He knew there were parts of the city where the sinuous Creep snaked and slithered along abandoned streets, ensnaring the empty hovels and homes of Heaps long since left, but such things rarely Bloomed – they were, for the most part, swiftly set aflame by citizen and Dragoon alike.
If it was indeed what Graciana had sent him out to investigate – he did what he could to always allow room for doubt, however unlikely -, he supposed it was past time to take a more proactive approach to everything he’d heard thus far.
As he glanced around the narrow, crowded, sweating alley, he supposed that while he was in the right place to hear a rumour, it wasn’t the most ideal of locals for verifying it. A woman, chest covered in blood and eyes wide and dazed began screaming about bodies that weren’t bodies, and immediately began gnashing her teeth menacingly at a young woman with tousled, flaxen hair and alarmingly bright and acute sea-green eyes. For a moment, she met his gaze, inquiring – no, searching – before she decided whatever she saw wasn’t what she was looking for, scowled, and brushed by.
Lucidity in Lair was rare among those who were not attempting to steal it from others; what was more, as he fell into step some distance behind her, putting forth no particular effort to avoid notice as the uneven cobbled street was filled with sound and light and laughter and screams more than enough to muddle the senses, she seemed to pay mind only to the quieter denizens of the alley-way. Each time, she studied them, scrutinized them with a pensive, analytical pout of her lips and furrow of her brow. Each time, she hurried onward.
Until she spotted the boy.
Silence filled the bloody shadows of the alley, as if it, and only it, had been the only thing to ever exist there. It didn’t hang in the air, like some passing wanderer, rather it was a force, a presence, thick and heavy and commanding. It existed; it was.
And it had wrapped its welcoming arms about the slight, still shoulders of the little, flaxen hair boy and held him close for the past break.
Outside of Silence’s domain, crouched and hidden behind a half-crumbled, stone sigh of what had once been a true and proud wall of granite and slate, wide blue-green eyes, still blazing with a fiery determination, stared intently at the child’s turned back. The second set, grey and piercing, settled for the messy, sandy curls beside them, those that belonged to the first.
She didn’t seem to notice her companion’s shift in focus – just as she’d failed to do so the past thirty-seven times before.
“I do not-“ Mads began, voice only just louder than his own breath.
A hand was immediately raised, silent but commanding nonetheless, as she turned to face him, sea-green eyes as determined as ever. “He hasn’t moved an inch. Just… standing there… I really think-“ But she didn’t get to finish, nor would she ever find the time.
He wasn’t close enough to do anything more than utter a halted, wordless noise that fell on immediately deafened ears. The child stood behind her – in front of him -, a knife in his hand and up and through the base of her neck. It was a sound he’d heard many times before, that of cold metal and hot flesh clashing, but something about way it was done, so mechanical in nature, sent a reflexive shiver down his spin – a physical reflex to danger that was entirely disproportionate to what the child should have been able to represent.
The voice was low and rasping, entirely alien from the smooth pink lips that formed the words, from the rounded cheeks and watery eyes, from the careful, but flawed, attempt at confusion and fear and sadness all mixed into one. “I’m soh-sorry.”
“Mads, darling, would you mind terribly if you played the role of courier for me?” Madam Graciana Moreno strode into the sunroom, her footsteps soft but pronounced enough that Mads had already set his book aside, straightened up his posture, and was well ready to respond to whatever it was she had sought fit to interrupt his study with.
“Of course not.”
“Wonderful. I have this-“ A graceful hand slipped into the folds of her carefully draped cloak. “Hmm…” Several trills passed as she stared a few paces ahead of her own feet, brow just slightly creased before- “Ah ha! As I was saying, I have this letter,” She withdrew her hand, a small beige envelope neatly tucked between two of her fingers, cocked at an angle with the second highest corner pointed toward her charge. “That I would like delivered to one Mister Bernadino Cardoso.”
Rising up and off of his seat, Mads padded across the cool, smooth stone floor and received the note, eyes bright and inquisitive as he stared down at its blank face and featureless wax sealing. “To Lair, then?” While it was both secularly and religiously acceptable to associate with those who conducted their personal business within the den of iniquity that was the city’s mandated quarter of sin, it never hurt to be cautious in openly declaring one’s relations with them.
“Yes. I believe his name is not unknown among the flesh-hawkers, though…” Graciana frowned though not enough to wrinkle her forehead, “No… was it Black Dens? Mmm.” A gentle but firm hand found its way to Mads’ shoulder as she reassuringly patted him, lips parting into a genuinely amused smile. “I am sure you will find him. Eventually.”
Almost everything Graciana asked him to do – or rather, commanded him, with the illusion of choice, to do – was as layered and veiled as the magic they shared. An errand was never just an errand, and he had no doubt, as he nodded his understanding and tucked the letter into his trouser pocket, the delivery was merely a catalyst for whatever it was she wanted him to stumble upon.
“Thank you, darling.” She withdrew her hand and stretched her arms out to the side, cloak shifting to reveal a very conservative but tasteful gown of a sheer, grey fabric that hung from her regal shoulders and travelled down her slender frame in sharp, chic angles. “How do I look?”
There was only one correct answer, one he’d learned relatively young, along with the proper expression. His own lips turning a wide grin – though, as always, not quite touching his eyes – he chuckled out a quiet, “Stunning, as ever.”
“Forever, we should add, I think.” Her own bemused titter was far more genuine, but then again, so too were all her expressions. She never once faulted him for his lack of depth, but he often wondered if it ever bothered her, that she might not ever receive from him the increasingly more common displays of warmth she seemed to offer. If it did, she hid it quite well.
“Are you off to call upon… Deodato again?” He intentionally reigned in the lightness of his tone, a deliberate reprimand that earned him a mischievous grin and twinkle of the eye from the elder woman.
“Mister Romão and I do have an appointment.” She flicked her wrist dismissively at Mads’ raised brow. “Now,” Lightly clearing her throat, she shifted her shoulders to allow the concealing folds of her cloak fall back into place. “I must be off. Make certain you lock the door and put out the candles before you leave, darling.”
Darkness, in as much as the shadowy crimson half-light allowed it, had long since descended upon the city before he’d finally delivered his letter. His requests for one “Mister Bernadino Cardoso” had led him through the various winding, twisting, rotting, squelching ways and by-ways of the debaucherous district for most of the afternoon, all of the evening, and about a break into the night.
When he had finally located the man, he’d been subjected to another break and half’s worth of erotic, suggestive dancing which the man had dubbed a generous “gift” in thanks for Mads’ services. He had never known bodies could do quite what the men and woman who “performed” for him did, but there had been a moment during an especially loud and upbeat number during which one of the men, dressed a woman who was dressed as a man who was dressed as a woman – there had been a narrative there, somewhere -, dropped to the floor in the blink of an eye before popping right back up again.
It was one of the few things that caught Mads’ attention, and over the course of the show, he made certain to carefully watch the man’s leg placement, the manner in which he both prepared for the fall and recovered on the rise. The speed itself was impressive, and though it left the man relatively useless for a trill or two, he had no doubt it would be an effective manoeuvre when dealing with intermittent projectiles – like crossbows and bowls of sludge gathered from questionable sources.
Finally released, letter delivered, and in the heart of Lair during its busiest time, Mads mulled over the recurring and admittedly disconcerting rumour gathered from the snippets and bits of conversations he’d overheard throughout the better half of the trial. There was no doubt in his mind, as a pair of half-clothed men – in the sense that their shirts were loosely hung over their necks like draped scarves – stumbled past, mumbling to each other about the exact same thing that seemed to be on the tip of everyone’s wagging tongues.
Creepborne within the city.
Whether they were substantiated or not, that there was even talk of such a thing was cause for some concern. He knew there were parts of the city where the sinuous Creep snaked and slithered along abandoned streets, ensnaring the empty hovels and homes of Heaps long since left, but such things rarely Bloomed – they were, for the most part, swiftly set aflame by citizen and Dragoon alike.
If it was indeed what Graciana had sent him out to investigate – he did what he could to always allow room for doubt, however unlikely -, he supposed it was past time to take a more proactive approach to everything he’d heard thus far.
As he glanced around the narrow, crowded, sweating alley, he supposed that while he was in the right place to hear a rumour, it wasn’t the most ideal of locals for verifying it. A woman, chest covered in blood and eyes wide and dazed began screaming about bodies that weren’t bodies, and immediately began gnashing her teeth menacingly at a young woman with tousled, flaxen hair and alarmingly bright and acute sea-green eyes. For a moment, she met his gaze, inquiring – no, searching – before she decided whatever she saw wasn’t what she was looking for, scowled, and brushed by.
Lucidity in Lair was rare among those who were not attempting to steal it from others; what was more, as he fell into step some distance behind her, putting forth no particular effort to avoid notice as the uneven cobbled street was filled with sound and light and laughter and screams more than enough to muddle the senses, she seemed to pay mind only to the quieter denizens of the alley-way. Each time, she studied them, scrutinized them with a pensive, analytical pout of her lips and furrow of her brow. Each time, she hurried onward.
Until she spotted the boy.
