[ a sensation that should be more unfamiliar than it is, but instead just rings an echoing mirror of a vision he's had again and again - the pattern, the pattern, the pattern. and he half expects a whisper, a berating any moment for hiding for so long. red eyes calling back the void. he barely notices when the scene changes and he's somewhere else. hallucinations aren't exactly new either.
the woman is new though. he's not so totally lost in his head that he doesn't remember what the memory experience is like - but it does take him by surprise. he'd thought this was over.
he'll follow close behind then. he doubts there will be any good in attempting to stop her? what has already happened, has already happened. ]
The whispering of the Core is behind him. The young woman keeps walking. She's cute and mundane, sweet. She's having an entire ordeal trying to figure out how to get Viktor's attention once she gets where she's going. Probably to Viktor. She takes out a set of large, heavy keys so she can get into the next door.
The organic spiderweb of void flickers in, obscuring Lucien's vision, and when it vanishes again in the span of those half seconds, Lucien is now seated on a stool in front of a work table. Every ounce of his clothes has been discarded to the floor on the right. In front of him are two scalpels and hovering in front of him is a matrix, each side of the many pyramids that make it up etched with runes of the arcane. It's already started to learn, to evolve, to turn twisted with lifeblood.
The Shimmer is gone, Lucien finds, and the anxious rise in his throat turns quickly to stubborn desperation. He exchanges the empty vial with the scalpel. The thought of dying hurts more than cutting into his thin flesh--all over the arms, the chest.
It's time.
The next step in becoming cosmic, glorious. Whole. Alive. It will work. It will work. It can fix the perpetually aching back and pelvis like it fixed the leg. The Core wakes under Lucien's hand as it reaches out, flourishing with the same energy as what was in the void.
What is the price of having a life? Another life? Pay the price.]
[ everything old is new, and everything new is old. there's a rising sense of panic as he hears (hears?) the voice, calling. panic, and fear and anger. how fucking dare it address him now, after all this. if they're looking for lucien tavelle, that's not supposed to be him right now. if he presses forward into the memory, then they won't see.
the only way forward is through. the blink into the next part of the scene is easily accepted, dream logic works as you'd expect. it will work, because the only option is for it to work. he is tired of picking up the pieces. the dream of ████████ will make all things whole again, starting with him. of course it makes sense to reach out, make the trade. an easy one, considering he's spent so much of his life already trading blood for power.
It's Sky, clinging to Lucien, having not even hesitated to race in to help, not a single ounce of hesitation. It's Sky, blown into nothing but ash, expelled even beyond Oblivion as if she never even existed, the taste of her in the air like chalk in Lucien's mouth. How strange, how someone, how an actual person can be reduced to such an insignificant, tiny state.
The ash grows a pair of wings, rounded on the corners; butterflies which flit away. A voice calls out for him, pulling the curtain of memory aside to reveal the crochet of the odd void again. Familiar. A voice thick with blood, but wrapped around amusement.] Lucien. [Brevyn's voice.] Lucien? [Then as the voice becomes clearer,
it's a bit softer, has an accent behind it.]
...Lucien?
[When Lucien opens his eyes, Viktor is standing there looking at him, worried, having shifted the staff to his left hand. The right one is poised, reaching out, but not touching Lucien just yet, as if waiting to see if Lucien will finally focus.
Behind Viktor, the Core does a tantalizing little dance.]
[ it is, it is ash. it's the ash of Sky and the ash of Aeor and the ash of-- the journal has been burned, but strangely he feels the phantom press of it now against his chest. oddly warm in contrast to the frigid, biting cold of Eiselcross. searing like scalpel cuts into the skin. Brevyn's hands pushing the book against him. Sky's hands around his arm and trying and failing to pull him back. a glaive twisting in his chest as the ribs crack beneath it. the price of a ticket. a life for a life for a life.
his eyes dart around wildly for a moment, first at Viktor and then at the Core, and then back to Viktor, face hot and flushed and panicked. tense like a rabbit about to run, or a snake about to strike. ]
[ the first touch on his shoulder seems to make him flinch as if he expects it to hurt - to burn to like every other thought he's just had, but he doesn't move away. the red eye on the side of lucien's under viktor's hand slides across the skin away from his touch. ]
I heard them-- I saw ... [ he keeps trailing off, which isn't helpful, but he doesn't quite know what to say yet. scrubbing a hand over his face, across his eyes, a sharp intake. he's muttering to himself which probably isn't a great sign, but he is known to have arguments with himself a lot. ]
Your memory, I think.
[ viktor had described what happened to sky, but seeing is always a bit different than hearing about something. ]
[The start and stopping, the muttering, doesn't seem to bother Viktor much. He understands. He gives Lucien time.
His expression tumbles into something pensive, and then quickly apologetic.] I'm sorry... [This again? Isn't one week enough? He thought... He thought Lucien had been spared such grievances. He thought... maybe it could have been a better one than what it seems to have been. But his life was always a long list of misfortunes, wasn't it?
The same sort of sorry is in the way his thumb brushes Lucien's jaw.]
You don't have to stay... if you don't want. I'll get it in the housing.
[ A thought floats through his head. a woman's voice, haughty and assured. `You say that now because you are young and scarred only by tragedies not of your own making. Greatness inevitably requires action, and action begets mistakes.` he sets his jaw and shakes his head. It's not like he wants Viktor to start apologizing for ... what? exactly? getting his memories shared against his will? everyone does that.
Besides, he's not going to let that rotten cube of magic win their little battle of wills here. that's what that was, wasn't it? it feels pointed. like it was trying to rattle him on purpose. one by one, the eyes start to flare up and he makes a bit of a face as he watches the walls shimmer and crack through with flesh with the true sight, the chatter of every mind nearby starting to whisper at his ear, but the anti-magic will kick into life after a moment. ]
[He stands there for half a moment and looks into Lucien's face, studying it in the curious way he would often do before.
Yes. Love and legacy are the sacrifices we make for progress.
The eyes begin to glow, and he kisses Lucien quickly on the corner of the mouth before turning around out of the way and sidling up parallel, shoulder to shoulder, waiting.
The Hex Core is blasted by Lucien's beautiful breasts, and it becomes suddenly frozen in place. The outer spines of it undulate, but it ceases its endless turning, and the light within grows dim and winks out. Viktor waits for a long moment, and then he steps forward toward the locker cautiously. When he gets to it, he hesitantly, ever so slowly, reaches out with his right hand to nervously tap the very edge of it once. The Eye evaporates the glow and energy to his hand (and leg, beneath the pants) as it passes through, but he isn't bothered by it.
The Core does little more than ripple at the extremities.]
[ he's still clearly agitated - sometimes his eyes can be hard to track with the red-on-red of the iris but he's flicking between looking back at Viktor and the Hex Core itself. it's still beautiful, but many deadly things are. What are the chances he ends up like Sky did? nothing but ash and regrets? but Viktor had asked him to trust, and that's what he's chosen to do. taking a breath out after the kiss, concentrating on the eyes instead.
he's always more than a little smug when the anti-magic works, tilting his head and giving viktor a grin. shifting in place to cock a hip and put his hand on it, the red eye on his chest glowing brightly, but staying where he is so he doesn't move the field. he can probably see the boundaries of it because the air outside of it shimmers slightly at the edges. ]
Might want to hurry. Who knows how long it'll work, and I don't think it likes me much.
He gives Lucien a firm nod of understanding, and then lifts the prison end of the staff. The naughty blood magic prism gets the pear wriggler. He props the staff close, then sort of... bats the inert prism into the open end. It gets wedged between the prongs, but with it immobile in the anti-magic cone, he's able to bop it down into the cage of the staff.
This cone is probably so fucking big, but whatever, he steps back and out of the edge of it with the trapped Core, switching the staff to his right hand. As soon as it leaves the field, it whirls hungrily to life again, the glow swelling awake in the center of it. Magical energy hops in little currents up and down the metal of the staff, colliding with the ones from Viktor's hand and fizzling out into the air.
[ well he has a right to be cocky i spent some time googling anti-magic field and every post about it is reddit bros SO ANGRY the only counter to it is "send in a guy with a good old non-magical knife" so all hail the 8th level spell. anti-magic field: it's some bullshit!
he'll turn the eyes off then, tilting his head and watching carefully, following the streaks of magic energy. ]
[Hmmmm. He ponders the snorb by peering up at the Core as it loops and wiggles inside of its cage. Like Lucien, he's not... entirely sure how to feel about something like it.]
I don't know... I know it's extremely dangerous, but... I don't think... it's evil. It just... learns. It evolves based on what it absorbs. In the wrong hands, it could be used for terrible things.
[ you can tell he's feeling more normal this week because the cheeky bastardry comes so naturally now. ]
As I've said, I have placed my trust in you and your understanding of this thing, and I believe entirely in your ability to solve the problem. But the nagging voice of the part of myself you so begged for me to listen to compels me to ask: if it learns from what it absorbs, is feeding it nine distinctly insane and malevolent mage ghosts going to be ... a good idea?
[Get out of here with that logic, he is running on desperation and love only.]
Well, the Core does seem to... [He trails off with a somewhat forlorn frown.] I don't think... they would necessarily survive transmutation with the Core, but their essence, their... power... probably would become integrated into the Core's learning.
So it would follow the same sort of rules. Not evil, but... could potentially be dangerous if in the wrong hands.
[ he pauses, and then goes to pull the amulet off from around his neck, holding it out. the little vial of blood in the middle sloshes around. ]
Could try with a smaller piece of it first. See what it does with it. That has the power of the Mind Rend in it, which I clearly don't need now that I can do it on my own again.
Otherwise, you should hold onto it. Good for you to have a defense of some kind, and it doesn't require any aiming. Just a touch and a thought.
[He looks startled and surprised at the offered amulet. He keeps glancing back and forth between it and Lucien much like Lucien had been doing with him and the Core.
He ventures over, but only to sort of touch it gently in Lucien's hand. Touched, but unsure if Lucien is making the right decision giving it up.]
I thought... you were the one who said it was dangerous to just give away your blood?
[ As he reaches for the amulet, he finds himself frantically knocking on a door instead. The knocker is a face, made of gold and stretched into a desperate smile, and you’re bashing it as hard as you can against the door.
The clearing is calm, and peaceful - or would be, if it weren’t for the two of you careening your way through it. The red cottage sits in the middle of it. A strange sight in the Savalirwood, all things considered. Not much lives in here, let alone has a sweet little home. There’s birdsong, and the sound of a babbling brook, and shouting in the distance as the mercenaries of the Red Debt close in on you quickly. They don’t care that you’re scrawny, 12-year-old urchins, they’ll still slice your throats and leave the corpses in the Jagentoth Tomb as a warning to other upstarts hoping to take a Mardoon job.
“Azrahari! You owe me! You owe me!” And the voice that is meant to be demanding sounds pleading instead, on the edge of childish, angry tears. “Azrahari!”
Cree is tugging at your sleeve, eyes in a panic and claws dug so deeply into the sleeve of your coat that they’re pricking your skin. “Lucien, we have to go! Not in the open! Not in the open—”
There’s a part of you that hopes, maybe, the witch has abandoned this place. You’ve simply come here to cower as you die and maybe it will be over soon. But, mercifully or not, the door opens. Your knees nearly buckle as she emerges from the shadow of the door.
“What an unexpected surprise.” She smiles. Peace. Calm. A natural serenity. The woman is tall, taller than she should be, with an ageless sort of beauty about her. Icy-blonde hair in ringlets gathered at the crown of her head, and two gray horns sweep back from her forehead. Cree’s eyes widen in horror, her head snapping back and forth between the woman and where the two of you had run from. Calculating the seconds until your time is up. “Normally, I only greet visitors with an appointment, but for you... ” Her blue eyes narrow, looking at you, while a hand toys with the gold and silver amulet at her chest, “I could make a rare exception.”
You, however, can only stare at the witch. You can’t decide if you want to run, or vomit. She ruined your life. But she owes you. ]
[The shift is so sudden it startles the piss out of him. He gasps from somewhere inside of the body that's smashing the leering knocker of the door. The feelings don't seem like his own, but they also aren't bizarre. In fact, they are quite, quite familiar, and so he thinks they may be his own anyway.
The woman who answers the door is beautiful in a very unnerving, unnatural way. For some reason... she is familiar, and he tries to parse whether the familiarity it because this is clearly--it is clear, right?--Lucien's memories, or because he had heard something about her once...
Whatever the case, she owes him a debt, and he realizes they have maybe not even a minute to collect on it. So he says the only thing he can think to say:]
[ A smile stretches across her face. She does. She owes you.
“Come in. Make yourself at home.”
She opens the door further, and you and Cree go sprawling in. Catfolk like her should have better balance than this you think.
“Dear child, dear child … it’s good to see you. I’m not surprised you remembered the way.” You grimace as she runs a hand over your head, one hand curling briefly around a horn. She isn’t wrong, a well-practiced path through the forest. She’d ruined your life, and made you ruin others. “What do I call your friend?”
“Nothing.” You spit out, before Cree can speak. “You don’t need to know her name.” Cree wisely shuts her mouth. Taking the hint. Better for a hag to not know your name.
The witch laughs. “A touch rude, but I’ll allow it. You know, I was thinking of poor sweet Elric the other day … ” But you’re ignoring her as you drag Cree over to crouch beneath the sooty window, keeping your eyes glued to the floor. Everything in here remains exactly the same as it had been, then. Dark and swept-clean except for a black crocheted rug on the floor. A grate sits over the fireplace: tongs, shears, a hammer, and a collection of unsettlingly large needles. None of it has changed. Not the medicinal scent of bark tannin, the earthy smell of leather, or the eerie quiet punctuated by the occasional startling pop of the fire.
You turn Cree roughly by the wrist so she’s looking out the window, hoping she doesn’t notice. By now, you can see the approaching mercenaries - six of them well-armed and in thick red leathers, and one (the one you had ambushed, or, failed to ambush really) looking roughed-up, weaponless and bedraggled. The Red Debt. No wonder the job was paying an entire gold piece. You’d been expected to rob the gods-damned Red Debt. They probably never expected to have to pay up. Still, you don’t feel confident about much, but you do feel the witch will protect you. She owes you that much.
She steps back outside, as calm and practiced as ever. There’s a brief conversation. the mercenaries are stupid brutes, but even they know a woman alone in the Savalirwood is likely not someone to be trifled with. You're trying not to watch, counting stitches on the rug.
It’s too late to stop Cree from looking as Azrahari lifts the amulet and whispers a single, guttural word. The Red Debt fools who had taken a good, long look at the amulet go still, and then shiver. One of them groans, and then all of them in turn drop to the ground. Clothes and skin. Whatever bones, guts, and spirits had been within vanished, leaving nothing but loose, deflated piles of flesh, clothes, leather and armor. The last mercenary screams in terror.
Cree shoots to her feet, backing away from the window and yellow eyes reeling. You stand up to reach for her, try and keep her head down, but it’s not quick enough.
She’s noticed the high shelves running along every wall.
“What is this place?” Cree whispered, flashing fangs as she tried and failed to tear her eyes away from the rows and rows of large, still puppets. Too realistic, too ghoulish, to be stitched from yarn and fabric and beads.
Lifeless now, but not always so. She looks at you in horror, betrayal, shaking like a leaf. “Lucien … “
You aren’t able to answer. The witch, dragging the last mercenary still alive by the collar of her coat, re-enters the cottage.
“Bracing, I know.” Azarhari coos. “The Hollowing is not for the faint of heart.” She strokes the amulet with a thumb as she tosses the mercenary - a girl, a dwarf, not that much older than the two of you - to the floor.
You stand up on shaking legs. “Tell us where you buried the goods, and we’ll let you go.” You don’t look at Azrahari. You already know it’s a lie and you don't need to see her sickening smile to confirm that.
“P-please,” she cowers on the floor, not even attempting to crawl away, only staring in horror at the witch and her amulet. “Please don’t do to me what you did to them … "
Azrahari taps her foot on the floor, impatiently. “This young man asked you a question.”
“Switchback C-Cave. There’s a pile of rocks outside. You w-won’t miss it.”
That’s enough for Cree. She flees, hurtling over the girl and out of the door and past the carnage. Probably for the best.
You hazard one last glance back at the witch. Maybe it should have occurred to you sooner that she might not let you leave, as she had all the other times before. This time, as the others, you had led people here for her. Just like your Da had instructed, all those times before. Your parents had owed, but you had paid the blood price. Elric was nothing, then, an empty puppet who could barely grunt a few words. Aldreda was too young, too gentle and naive. Easier for you.
“Know this: I owe you nothing now.” All traces of civility and gentility erased from her tone, a hissing quality to it instead. “You destroyed one of my finest creations, child. Do not find yourself in this part of the Savalirwood again, Lucien Tavelle. Consider that warning my generosity.”
You look at her. Fire burns in your gut, and you gesture to the dwarven girl, who's now sobbing in heaving gulps. “What will you do with her?”
It doesn't matter. You aren't going to trade your life for hers. You don't know what your destiny is, but it isn't here, an empty sack of skin on the floor of this hut. A puppet. Still, something like pity aches in you.
“Little fool.” She smiles, and tilts her head to one side. “You already know.”
You don't wait longer than that to turn tail and run.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
no subject
the woman is new though. he's not so totally lost in his head that he doesn't remember what the memory experience is like - but it does take him by surprise. he'd thought this was over.
he'll follow close behind then. he doubts there will be any good in attempting to stop her? what has already happened, has already happened. ]
no subject
where?WHERE?where?WHERE?where?where?where?whERe?WHEREAREYOU?
The whispering of the Core is behind him. The young woman keeps walking. She's cute and mundane, sweet. She's having an entire ordeal trying to figure out how to get Viktor's attention once she gets where she's going. Probably to Viktor. She takes out a set of large, heavy keys so she can get into the next door.
The organic spiderweb of void flickers in, obscuring Lucien's vision, and when it vanishes again in the span of those half seconds, Lucien is now seated on a stool in front of a work table. Every ounce of his clothes has been discarded to the floor on the right. In front of him are two scalpels and hovering in front of him is a matrix, each side of the many pyramids that make it up etched with runes of the arcane. It's already started to learn, to evolve, to turn twisted with lifeblood.
The Shimmer is gone, Lucien finds, and the anxious rise in his throat turns quickly to stubborn desperation. He exchanges the empty vial with the scalpel. The thought of dying hurts more than cutting into his thin flesh--all over the arms, the chest.
It's time.
The next step in becoming cosmic, glorious. Whole. Alive. It will work. It will work. It can fix the perpetually aching back and pelvis like it fixed the leg. The Core wakes under Lucien's hand as it reaches out, flourishing with the same energy as what was in the void.
What is the price of having a life? Another life? Pay the price.]
no subject
the only way forward is through. the blink into the next part of the scene is easily accepted, dream logic works as you'd expect. it will work, because the only option is for it to work. he is tired of picking up the pieces. the dream of ████████ will make all things whole again, starting with him. of course it makes sense to reach out, make the trade. an easy one, considering he's spent so much of his life already trading blood for power.
he knows the price of a ticket. ]
no subject
That's the price of a ticket.
It's Sky, clinging to Lucien, having not even hesitated to race in to help, not a single ounce of hesitation. It's Sky, blown into nothing but ash, expelled even beyond Oblivion as if she never even existed, the taste of her in the air like chalk in Lucien's mouth. How strange, how someone, how an actual person can be reduced to such an insignificant, tiny state.
The ash grows a pair of wings, rounded on the corners; butterflies which flit away. A voice calls out for him, pulling the curtain of memory aside to reveal the crochet of the odd void again. Familiar. A voice thick with blood, but wrapped around amusement.] Lucien. [Brevyn's voice.] Lucien? [Then as the voice becomes clearer,
it's a bit softer, has an accent behind it.]
...Lucien?
[When Lucien opens his eyes, Viktor is standing there looking at him, worried, having shifted the staff to his left hand. The right one is poised, reaching out, but not touching Lucien just yet, as if waiting to see if Lucien will finally focus.
Behind Viktor, the Core does a tantalizing little dance.]
Are you alright?
no subject
his eyes dart around wildly for a moment, first at Viktor and then at the Core, and then back to Viktor, face hot and flushed and panicked. tense like a rabbit about to run, or a snake about to strike. ]
Did you-- ... ?
no subject
His hand finally darts out, tender, touching Lucien's shoulder first--it's him--before rising to stoke his neck while he steps closer.]
It's me. We're here. Are you alright...? What happened? Your face is so warm, Lucien.
[His first thought is the Core made Lucien ill.]
no subject
I heard them-- I saw ... [ he keeps trailing off, which isn't helpful, but he doesn't quite know what to say yet. scrubbing a hand over his face, across his eyes, a sharp intake. he's muttering to himself which probably isn't a great sign, but he is known to have arguments with himself a lot. ]
Your memory, I think.
[ viktor had described what happened to sky, but seeing is always a bit different than hearing about something. ]
no subject
His expression tumbles into something pensive, and then quickly apologetic.] I'm sorry... [This again? Isn't one week enough? He thought... He thought Lucien had been spared such grievances. He thought... maybe it could have been a better one than what it seems to have been. But his life was always a long list of misfortunes, wasn't it?
The same sort of sorry is in the way his thumb brushes Lucien's jaw.]
You don't have to stay... if you don't want. I'll get it in the housing.
no subject
[ A thought floats through his head. a woman's voice, haughty and assured. `You say that now because you are young and scarred only by tragedies not of your own making. Greatness inevitably requires action, and action begets mistakes.` he sets his jaw and shakes his head. It's not like he wants Viktor to start apologizing for ... what? exactly? getting his memories shared against his will? everyone does that.
Besides, he's not going to let that rotten cube of magic win their little battle of wills here. that's what that was, wasn't it? it feels pointed. like it was trying to rattle him on purpose. one by one, the eyes start to flare up and he makes a bit of a face as he watches the walls shimmer and crack through with flesh with the true sight, the chatter of every mind nearby starting to whisper at his ear, but the anti-magic will kick into life after a moment. ]
no subject
Yes. Love and legacy are the sacrifices we make for progress.
The eyes begin to glow, and he kisses Lucien quickly on the corner of the mouth before turning around out of the way and sidling up parallel, shoulder to shoulder, waiting.
The Hex Core is blasted by Lucien's beautiful breasts, and it becomes suddenly frozen in place. The outer spines of it undulate, but it ceases its endless turning, and the light within grows dim and winks out. Viktor waits for a long moment, and then he steps forward toward the locker cautiously. When he gets to it, he hesitantly, ever so slowly, reaches out with his right hand to nervously tap the very edge of it once. The Eye evaporates the glow and energy to his hand (and leg, beneath the pants) as it passes through, but he isn't bothered by it.
The Core does little more than ripple at the extremities.]
...It worked.
no subject
he's always more than a little smug when the anti-magic works, tilting his head and giving viktor a grin. shifting in place to cock a hip and put his hand on it, the red eye on his chest glowing brightly, but staying where he is so he doesn't move the field. he can probably see the boundaries of it because the air outside of it shimmers slightly at the edges. ]
Might want to hurry. Who knows how long it'll work, and I don't think it likes me much.
no subject
He gives Lucien a firm nod of understanding, and then lifts the prison end of the staff. The naughty blood magic prism gets the pear wriggler. He props the staff close, then sort of... bats the inert prism into the open end. It gets wedged between the prongs, but with it immobile in the anti-magic cone, he's able to bop it down into the cage of the staff.
This cone is probably so fucking big, but whatever, he steps back and out of the edge of it with the trapped Core, switching the staff to his right hand. As soon as it leaves the field, it whirls hungrily to life again, the glow swelling awake in the center of it. Magical energy hops in little currents up and down the metal of the staff, colliding with the ones from Viktor's hand and fizzling out into the air.
But the Core stays!]
Incredible...
no subject
he'll turn the eyes off then, tilting his head and watching carefully, following the streaks of magic energy. ]
Everything you dreamed of?
no subject
I don't know... I know it's extremely dangerous, but... I don't think... it's evil. It just... learns. It evolves based on what it absorbs. In the wrong hands, it could be used for terrible things.
...But I do think it's amazing.
no subject
no subject
...Yes, Lucien?
no subject
As I've said, I have placed my trust in you and your understanding of this thing, and I believe entirely in your ability to solve the problem. But the nagging voice of the part of myself you so begged for me to listen to compels me to ask: if it learns from what it absorbs, is feeding it nine distinctly insane and malevolent mage ghosts going to be ... a good idea?
no subject
Well, the Core does seem to... [He trails off with a somewhat forlorn frown.] I don't think... they would necessarily survive transmutation with the Core, but their essence, their... power... probably would become integrated into the Core's learning.
So it would follow the same sort of rules. Not evil, but... could potentially be dangerous if in the wrong hands.
no subject
Could try with a smaller piece of it first. See what it does with it. That has the power of the Mind Rend in it, which I clearly don't need now that I can do it on my own again.
Otherwise, you should hold onto it. Good for you to have a defense of some kind, and it doesn't require any aiming. Just a touch and a thought.
no subject
He ventures over, but only to sort of touch it gently in Lucien's hand. Touched, but unsure if Lucien is making the right decision giving it up.]
I thought... you were the one who said it was dangerous to just give away your blood?
no subject
he'll push it forward more insistently. ]
Yes, well, it is dangerous. You're going to do god's knows what with it. [ ... ] I told you that I trust you. I'm yours to do with as you wish.
no subject
Don't make it sound like I'm going to feed you to a hag.
no subject
The clearing is calm, and peaceful - or would be, if it weren’t for the two of you careening your way through it. The red cottage sits in the middle of it. A strange sight in the Savalirwood, all things considered. Not much lives in here, let alone has a sweet little home. There’s birdsong, and the sound of a babbling brook, and shouting in the distance as the mercenaries of the Red Debt close in on you quickly. They don’t care that you’re scrawny, 12-year-old urchins, they’ll still slice your throats and leave the corpses in the Jagentoth Tomb as a warning to other upstarts hoping to take a Mardoon job.
“Azrahari! You owe me! You owe me!” And the voice that is meant to be demanding sounds pleading instead, on the edge of childish, angry tears. “Azrahari!”
Cree is tugging at your sleeve, eyes in a panic and claws dug so deeply into the sleeve of your coat that they’re pricking your skin. “Lucien, we have to go! Not in the open! Not in the open—”
There’s a part of you that hopes, maybe, the witch has abandoned this place. You’ve simply come here to cower as you die and maybe it will be over soon. But, mercifully or not, the door opens. Your knees nearly buckle as she emerges from the shadow of the door.
“What an unexpected surprise.” She smiles. Peace. Calm. A natural serenity. The woman is tall, taller than she should be, with an ageless sort of beauty about her. Icy-blonde hair in ringlets gathered at the crown of her head, and two gray horns sweep back from her forehead. Cree’s eyes widen in horror, her head snapping back and forth between the woman and where the two of you had run from. Calculating the seconds until your time is up. “Normally, I only greet visitors with an appointment, but for you... ” Her blue eyes narrow, looking at you, while a hand toys with the gold and silver amulet at her chest, “I could make a rare exception.”
You, however, can only stare at the witch. You can’t decide if you want to run, or vomit. She ruined your life. But she owes you. ]
no subject
The woman who answers the door is beautiful in a very unnerving, unnatural way. For some reason... she is familiar, and he tries to parse whether the familiarity it because this is clearly--it is clear, right?--Lucien's memories, or because he had heard something about her once...
Whatever the case, she owes him a debt, and he realizes they have maybe not even a minute to collect on it. So he says the only thing he can think to say:]
You owe me.
no subject
“Come in. Make yourself at home.”
She opens the door further, and you and Cree go sprawling in. Catfolk like her should have better balance than this you think.
“Dear child, dear child … it’s good to see you. I’m not surprised you remembered the way.” You grimace as she runs a hand over your head, one hand curling briefly around a horn. She isn’t wrong, a well-practiced path through the forest. She’d ruined your life, and made you ruin others. “What do I call your friend?”
“Nothing.” You spit out, before Cree can speak. “You don’t need to know her name.” Cree wisely shuts her mouth. Taking the hint. Better for a hag to not know your name.
The witch laughs. “A touch rude, but I’ll allow it. You know, I was thinking of poor sweet Elric the other day … ” But you’re ignoring her as you drag Cree over to crouch beneath the sooty window, keeping your eyes glued to the floor. Everything in here remains exactly the same as it had been, then. Dark and swept-clean except for a black crocheted rug on the floor. A grate sits over the fireplace: tongs, shears, a hammer, and a collection of unsettlingly large needles. None of it has changed. Not the medicinal scent of bark tannin, the earthy smell of leather, or the eerie quiet punctuated by the occasional startling pop of the fire.
You turn Cree roughly by the wrist so she’s looking out the window, hoping she doesn’t notice. By now, you can see the approaching mercenaries - six of them well-armed and in thick red leathers, and one (the one you had ambushed, or, failed to ambush really) looking roughed-up, weaponless and bedraggled. The Red Debt. No wonder the job was paying an entire gold piece. You’d been expected to rob the gods-damned Red Debt. They probably never expected to have to pay up. Still, you don’t feel confident about much, but you do feel the witch will protect you. She owes you that much.
She steps back outside, as calm and practiced as ever. There’s a brief conversation. the mercenaries are stupid brutes, but even they know a woman alone in the Savalirwood is likely not someone to be trifled with. You're trying not to watch, counting stitches on the rug.
It’s too late to stop Cree from looking as Azrahari lifts the amulet and whispers a single, guttural word. The Red Debt fools who had taken a good, long look at the amulet go still, and then shiver. One of them groans, and then all of them in turn drop to the ground. Clothes and skin. Whatever bones, guts, and spirits had been within vanished, leaving nothing but loose, deflated piles of flesh, clothes, leather and armor. The last mercenary screams in terror.
Cree shoots to her feet, backing away from the window and yellow eyes reeling. You stand up to reach for her, try and keep her head down, but it’s not quick enough.
She’s noticed the high shelves running along every wall.
“What is this place?” Cree whispered, flashing fangs as she tried and failed to tear her eyes away from the rows and rows of large, still puppets. Too realistic, too ghoulish, to be stitched from yarn and fabric and beads.
Lifeless now, but not always so. She looks at you in horror, betrayal, shaking like a leaf. “Lucien … “
You aren’t able to answer. The witch, dragging the last mercenary still alive by the collar of her coat, re-enters the cottage.
“Bracing, I know.” Azarhari coos. “The Hollowing is not for the faint of heart.” She strokes the amulet with a thumb as she tosses the mercenary - a girl, a dwarf, not that much older than the two of you - to the floor.
You stand up on shaking legs. “Tell us where you buried the goods, and we’ll let you go.” You don’t look at Azrahari. You already know it’s a lie and you don't need to see her sickening smile to confirm that.
“P-please,” she cowers on the floor, not even attempting to crawl away, only staring in horror at the witch and her amulet. “Please don’t do to me what you did to them … "
Azrahari taps her foot on the floor, impatiently. “This young man asked you a question.”
“Switchback C-Cave. There’s a pile of rocks outside. You w-won’t miss it.”
That’s enough for Cree. She flees, hurtling over the girl and out of the door and past the carnage. Probably for the best.
You hazard one last glance back at the witch. Maybe it should have occurred to you sooner that she might not let you leave, as she had all the other times before. This time, as the others, you had led people here for her. Just like your Da had instructed, all those times before. Your parents had owed, but you had paid the blood price. Elric was nothing, then, an empty puppet who could barely grunt a few words. Aldreda was too young, too gentle and naive. Easier for you.
“Know this: I owe you nothing now.” All traces of civility and gentility erased from her tone, a hissing quality to it instead. “You destroyed one of my finest creations, child. Do not find yourself in this part of the Savalirwood again, Lucien Tavelle. Consider that warning my generosity.”
You look at her. Fire burns in your gut, and you gesture to the dwarven girl, who's now sobbing in heaving gulps. “What will you do with her?”
It doesn't matter. You aren't going to trade your life for hers. You don't know what your destiny is, but it isn't here, an empty sack of skin on the floor of this hut. A puppet. Still, something like pity aches in you.
“Little fool.” She smiles, and tilts her head to one side. “You already know.”
You don't wait longer than that to turn tail and run.
It fades as quickly as it started. ]
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)