I'm here as your physician, naturally. I've come to make sure your humors are quite balanced, that's all.
[ Haha... an old-timey medical pun. In spite of whatever anxiety throwing himself to the lion's—er, goat's—den might be giving him, it's just not within Julian's reckless spirit not to make a joke out of it. Or, better yet, to not flirt anyway. After who knows how long resisting all Lucio's many, many passes, he figures he's lost the right to pretend he has any decency or self-respect left in his system whatsoever now that he's submitted to it, but he hasn't quite given up the ghost of shame yet.
Which of course is like blood in the water to the Count. Alas. Julian sighs like even he knows his attempt at a joke is useless and knocks back his drink, overdramatic even in how he tilts the tumbler to his lips. ]
You know, I still say we're much too sober for this conversation. Keep drinking; it's good for you. Doctor's orders.
[Lucio's only response is flash another grin that's nothing short of smug and just bordering on dangerous. He's only too happy to comply with the order to drink, taking a considerably bigger swig this time along with a noise of approval at the burn. As much as he's come to enjoy high-end spirits there's always something to be said for the harsher stuff; it reminds him of home, of pillaging and conquering and then celebrating until blacking out.
After the drink he drapes his prosthetic arm across the back of the couch behind Julian, leaning in closer.]
This is why you're my favorite doctor, you know? Not nearly as stuffy and high-strung like most of those simpering idiots that come around here. They're all so damn boring.
[ If he were a man of any class, Julian would make a face at the reek of alcohol on Lucio's breath when he leans in, but he is categorically not and... honestly finds it comforting at best, intoxicatingly (heh) attractive at worst. Torn between looking away stubbornly and just going all in, he lets the alcohol decide for him and tosses back the last of what's in his glass. After he swallows, he grins. Oh, good. He hasn't decided to be a baby about it after all.
Not that he won't get flustered again in five seconds anyway. ]
If I had it my way, I'd be your only doctor. I know what's best for you, after all. And sometimes you even actually listen to me! That's the real medical miracle. No other quack can claim such a feat.
[While the blonde would hardly have been swayed regardless of Julian's reaction he's only encouraged by the other man apparently keen on playing along. It's so rarely that anyone- at least anyone that knows better- indulges Lucio in his bad behavior and flirtations, so when someone actually does he leaps in with reckless abandon. As he does with most things.]
Do you now? Just like you swore that cutting off my arm was best?
[For emphasis he drops the metal limb around Julian's shoulder, gold fingers curling trailing against the top of his arm.]
For the last time, it was for the best. It's doing a whole lot better now, isn't it?
[ That depends on how you define better, but whatever. You know what the trouble with that arm is, now that it's curling around him and essentially capturing him in place? That it feels a whole lot like being cornered by a predator, and he was stupid enough to let it get its claws in him. Or on him, rather. There's no escape in that direction, and the other direction means leaning toward Lucio.
That just gives him one last out, which he takes, in spite of his decision not to fight this: to lean forward and reach out for the bottle of brandy and raise it, as a distraction, to Lucio's lips. No glass. Straight from the tap. ]
More, uh... more booze, that's what. Now be a good patient and take your medicine!
I mean I suppose it looks better now, but it's still not the same!
[Lucio sighs dramatically, slumping back for just a moment like some stereotypical swooning damsel in distress. But the act only lasts a split second, that gold limb still very much trapping Julian in place. It very much looks like he's plotting his next method of attack and makes a move to lean in closer just as the other man abruptly holds the bottle up to effectively bar the way.
For a moment his expression twists into one of mixed irritation and disappointment before finally settling into a pout.]
Hmph! You're lucky that this is the fun kind of medicine...
Gil? Oh, that coin people use here. Well, I wasn't planning on giving it to the local sea life. Or feeding them, for that matter. It... sounds like there's a story there.
Don't go in the water, then. They're craftier than they look, and they'll try to lure you in by acting all cute and... dolphin-y. Doing tricks, things like that. I fell for it one too many times when I was growing up down there.
I'll be there in about an hour, but... your host - what's she like? I might know just where you are.
She's middle-aged, I'd say. Not quite elderly. An absolute darling, name of Ethel. She makes the most fascinating eel stew. I'd never tried eel with garlic and peppers before. And she's got an old scruffy cat with an ear missing. Do you know her?
I might've known her... husband? There was a man down there who took me in for a week when I came down with a cold as a kid and had me eat nothing but that for three days. Ask her if she was married to a man named "Fred" when you get the chance, and if she still makes those banora tarts that everyone talked about up top. This would've been about... God, about twenty years ago? Give or take. I was only about knee high when that happened, but you don't forget meals like that no matter how long it's been.
I'll ask her. She just got back from market a little while ago.
[ And then like half an hour later: ]
Fred, yes. That was his name. She said he died in the war. It was... a really sweet story she told. She wasn't sure she recognized your name, but she still makes the tarts.
(option 1:) ( the raven he destroyed his chains yes YES the raven is out
well, alright.
he didn't destroy his chains.
he would never.
but someone did. someone did, and when he woke up, someone had put the world to rights, too. it's just too bad someone couldn't put him to rights while they were at it. but then again—no, this is how it should be. this is what he deserves.
julian wakes up outside the rowdy raven. not the hanged raven, but the rowdy alternative. malak circles overhead, squawking until he comes-to. when he does, he's pecked at insistently until he stands. the world is so... bright. the sun is out, a beautiful day in vesuvia. for a few moments he can only stand there, hunched over on bent legs, feathered arms hanging at his sides, wings limp, shoulders slumped, squinting in the daylight. it... almost burns. it does burn. someone comes around the corner and gives a startled gasp at the sight of him. then after the initial shock wears off, a terrified scream. they run away, but so does julian. if you can even call it a "run," the way he staggers and stumbles through the alleys. it's been so long, it's a wonder he can even recall where to go. to his home that's still there just the way he left it, desperately hiding in the shadows whenever he hears anyone walking around nearby. he doesn't have the key anymore, when he gets there. he's too big to fit through the window. he yanks and pulls at the door in desperation, swearing, but can't get it open. he could pull it off its hinges, but before he gets the chance somebody comes around the corner and he flees again.
malak screams overhead, circling. he wonders briefly whether he can fly. he's never tried. he's too afraid to try now, either. instead he frantically ditches town, escaping into the woods where the other monsters live. it's the only place he can think to hide. by the time he's arrived he's terrified half a dozen people and it'd be no surprise if the city guard comes looking for him. defending himself is simple, but he doesn't want to hurt anyone. or scare anyone.
no. nobody can know he's here. not anyone, ever. )
(option 2:) ( everything is as it's been. for years and years and ages and ages and seconds and seconds. monsters outside, monsters inside. illusions, tricks, traps, tragedy. all his friends, probably dead. and if not dead, he can only pray their suffering is minimal. he can only pray that he is doing all the suffering for them instead. he would give anything for that to be true. anything, anything, anything. even though he has already given everything, he would give even more to know—
but he never will. so here he sits.
the hanged raven. it's happy hour. but it's always happy hour. the drinks magically refill. there's food, there's music, there's an endless array of wandering souls to come and go and keep him company a spell, although few ever do. fewer still are real. still, there's drinks. endless drinks. there's a chair with his name on it, practically. there's glass all over the floor, barbed branches winding all throughout the space. an ominous wind filters in through a window that looks open but isn't, really. the light is reddish-orange, flickering. like hellfire.
someone outside screams. probably not real.
he never ever leaves this place. doesn't want to. couldn't, he thinks, if he wanted to. but when the sounds outside continue, something inhuman mixed with something a little too human, a struggle, he can't help wandering to the door. he hasn't opened it in a long time. the door feels heavy as he pulls the handle and peers out into the gloom. from the outside, he's nothing but a towering black shadow, too big even to fit properly in the doorway, bathed in miserly firelight. he feels despondent and stupid, bothering with this. it's only going to be something unreal again. but he calls out anyway, his voice raw and thick with irony: )
Come now, this is no way to behave. Why don't you come settle your differences with a drink?
[to say she understood what had happened after everything would be one of the biggest lies morga has ever uttered. something compelled her to return to vesuvia with julian all those months ago. what that was, she didn't know. all she knew and understood that she was there at the masquerade that night. her son returned. julian gone. then montag. there had been no time to grieve, even after the fact when the world began to howl, twist and change. and when the world began to "settle", there was still no time. it had become that much more dangerous, and while she could've — should've — returned south...
she didn't.
part of the reason had been because there was no point to it. if the north had turned so dangerous overnight, the south would've been a deathwish. the other part... morga didn't know what to call whatever it was with julian besides (for lack of a better word) complicated. regardless of what it was, she knew julian still had family in the city. family that she'd been keeping an eye on from a distance despite best efforts to bring her into the fold of survivors proper. in the end, it was the very least she could do to honor his memory.
but then one day, the world un-fucked itself. people began to slowly rebuild their lives, and morga remained. she still kept her distance, but... she was still in vesuvia. she never understood why until the frantic, frightened whispers reached her ears. rumors that a monster yet remained in the city. the guards were better suited to calming people down and stay put, and frankly they still looked to be in rough shape. certainly not suited for fighting monsters, even if morga didn't look much better herself.
tracking it down had been easy enough. people were more than willing to point her in the direction that they'd seen it run.
it's horrifying, a young woman cried. it was black, bigger than any animal i've ever seen and teeth sharper than a bear's.
by the time she reached the woods, she had a vague idea of what to look for. and boy, was it easier to pick up the trail amongst the trees and dirt than it was in the city. protecting people... morga's track record with that was abysmal, no matter how much it pained her to admit it. now, hunting? she was good at that. three days in the forest, and she finds a fresh trail. broken branches. loose feathers. claw marks across bark and in the dirt. and in some instances, even blood. a griffin...? no. no, they were incredibly rare these days, much like the dragons and wyrms of old.
it takes another hour at best to find the "beast" in question. she doesn't have the best view of it, but... she sees it. so, she crouches, spear in hand, and waits. when it finally steps close enough, morga launches herself into the hulking figure's side and knocking it off balance. one foot goes down to pin it, and the tip of her spear sits poised mere inches above the throat as her lip curls into a snarl as she takes in its appearance. it's not as big as a man described it, and it looks more man than animal in the fa...
wait.
wait. wait. wait. those fucking eyes— it can't be. her grip tightens, and she brings the sharp tip closer. please, she asks nothing and nobody in particular. please.]
Who are you? Speak.
[distantly, she's hears a raven having a fit and screaming its tiny little lungs out somewhere above.]
( all these eons and all those jumbled, fucked up memories, many of them lost or distorted into something they never were, and he hasn't quite forgotten how to survive. call it a persistent refusal to just die already, but he manages to eke out some semblance of an existence deep in the woods. not stealthily, mind you, and there's another inhabitant of this place that he knows he needs to beware of, but he can at least feed himself. find fresh water. and shelter. protecting himself is as easy as it ever was, at least: no creature would dare come near. he's terrifying when he wants to be, which is... never, really, but it doesn't take much more than standing up tall and extending his arms, puffing up his feathers, and showing his teeth. that does the trick.
malak keeps an eye out for him. thankfully hasn't narced on him to anyone that might want to find him. or, he worries, maybe there just... is no one. either because they don't want him anymore, or because they assume he's gone forever, or because they are... god, no. he can't bear it. as painful as it is not to know, that's his cross to bear. and nail himself to it, he's goddamn determined to do. forever, if that's what it takes. he can't go back. he can't, he can't, he can't.
anyway. just because he knows how to survive doesn't mean he's the craftiest creature in the wood. he's more than easy prey for someone like morga, who he never hears coming. malak must not even realize it. he's on the way to his fresh water supply when he's rammed into and pinned down, his own scream hoarse and ironically not dissimilar from malak's. for being such a horrible, ugly, fearsome monster, the fear in his eyes and all over his face is practically palpable. his clawed hands go up in surrender. he swallows against the speartip. his gaping mouth shows a dark tongue, an excess of sharp teeth. )
I—
( my god. that face. that voice. that ruthless presence. of course he knows her. it's obvious, the recognition. he goes slack all over, eyes widening even further. real? not real? not real, can't be real. even though there is no more hellworld, no more devil, no more illusions. he can't allow himself to believe it. he gave up trying to connect with the imagined specters of his past a long, long time ago. (but if he really doesn't believe it, why hide in the first place? hmmm.) )
[something about the way he screams picks and scratches at a still-fresh wound in her heart. the last time she'd been in a position to spare someone like this, she'd been looking down her nose and the length of her spear into eyes not unlike her own. she should've done it then, if only to spare her future self the heartache she feels now. each expression that flits across her face is brief and subtle, her grip going whiteknuckled as she wrestles with each and every last one.
anger. relief. confusion. sorrow. shock. more anger and grief for a man she never mourned. everything but fear and disgust, though... perhaps because it hasn't had a chance to sink in yet. (fear isn't likely, though. she's eaten scarier things for breakfast.)]
Don't.
[she has to force the words out through gritted teeth and around the solid lump sitting far, far back in her throat. she knows what that is too, but like every other complicated emotion she's experienced, morga ignores it.]
Don't you dare lie to me, Hrafn. I'll ask you again — who are you?
[and... you know what? even with the venom and ice laced on her tongue, the spear withdraws by a fraction. her weight eases, but she doesn't remove her boot. not yet. it's not that she's afraid for her safety, but adrenaline is one hell of a thing.]
( honestly, he liked it better when the sharp point of that spear was touching his throat. his skin's tough enough that it hadn't quite broken to bleed with the effort, but a bit more would've done it. instead, she pulls it back, and he almost wants to echo her: don't. put it back. finish it.
but he just... can't. can't say it. not to her. not to—can't say her name, either. can't even think it.
instead, he curls his fingers around the spear, close to the tip. where there used to be long fingers, pale skin, a murderer's brand, there's only claws, scaly talon-like skin, blackened and bent. still, there's something familiar about the particular movement of his hands, how each finger curls one by one until he's gripping it. and about the way his lips pull back in a wince, the miserably guilty way his eyes avert. the piteousness in his rough voice. (she never had patience for that crap, but she isn't she anymore, and he isn't he and nothing is real—) )
I told you: nobody, anymore. If you were looking for someone, I'm sorry to say you haven't found him. You shouldn't be here, you... I... there's nothing here but dreams and monsters. If I close my eyes, you'll disappear, won't you? So just—
( as a leader--or, more importantly, as the person abandoned in the aftermath of a mess that's been left behind, like a child that's just left all his toys tossed out along the floor, waiting for unsuspecting adults to stub their toes on blunt toy carriages or pierce their skin with the sharp points of molded dragon wings--there are always sacrifices to be made. decisions, choices, reluctant and grim resolutions. but for a city that's been drowning in its own blood for years, is there really anything left that can fix it at all?
she finds out too late, of course, that julian's taken that task onto his own shoulders--the way he takes everything, like his body is some perfectly imbalanced scale of good and evil and anything he can desperately dump into one side of it may erase the guilt that burdens the other. she doesn't have the time to figure it out herself, to find the answers before he's making his deal and sealing himself away with the heavy weight of silver chain and deep, deep red demise--she doesn't get to tell him that it's not his job to do it, that he's already given enough with his death and his help and his constant vigilance even in the face of all her own failure. and it makes her angry, in a way that feels unrelenting, a climbing frustration that builds and builds and builds until she's lashing out.
lucio won't be returning - that's the first task, the easier task, and the one that requires no thought at all. the anger is useful, there, potent and powerful, and it tarnishes her shine a little. she knows it makes her dirty, but it's hard to care.
seeking her own audience with the devil - this requires a little more finesse, and she doesn't say anything against the warnings that asra gives her because she knows that he's right. she can't fight the truth, but she also won't let herself succumb to it; as bad of an idea it is, as much as she knows he'll hate it, as much as it feels backhanded and strange to trade for a wealth of power for the life of someone else, she does it anyway.
and - as odd as it feels, when the anger breaks and the power surges and the strange blood beads and crawls down the skin of her hand like it might find its way underneath. the weight of a heart in her chest that isn't hers. the overwhelming dread of being no longer human. her penance to vesuvia, to her family, to asra, to portia, to muriel, even to him, and how's that for the biggest self-sacrifice, julian? are we even yet?
maybe it's been days, weeks, months, there's no way that she can really tell--the transformation is nearly immediate, anyway, and the realm is covered in some sunset hue that never really betrays any passing of time at all. the city is safe, and given that she won't be trying to merge this world into the other--as least for now--that means everything gets wrapped up nicely, right? and she knows that julian is here somewhere, cowering in some dark room behind locks that her hands should easily find the key to; she knows because the devil ran on about it, proud and pleased, before she put her fingers through his chest and wrenched out a still-beating heart. julian's chains are her chains, now. so why is she so reluctant to find him?
maybe it's why her fingers whisper over the door handle like it's going to burn her--golden tips, honed claws, and hands drenched in a blackness that seems to emanate from her so thoroughly that she thinks even chandra would hate her, were she to make it to this realm at all. she misses her company. she misses company.
but then, power is a delicious thing in and of itself...isn't it? )
Well.
( the door opens, finally, a frame of light that shines a sharp triangle out onto the floor of the room where julian, in his cowering, feathered form, has been locked for some time now. he probably expects some towering humanoid goat there, ready to taunt him and rip him to shreds again, pluck his feathers from his wings one by one or make a fist to tighten the invisible chains like another noose.
what he gets, instead, is nadia standing there in the black silk of her gown, a tumbling sunset of hair that wisps over her shoulders and plunges in at her hips, red eyes and sharp horns and the urge to scream at him for doing any of this at all. )
( for as much as julian gets down on himself, kicks himself around and submits to dramatic feelings of perhaps at least somewhat artificial hopelessness, he used to have such an indomitable spirit. he was a survivor, you know? the storm that claimed most of his family couldn't claim him. the blood-soaked battlefields never dragged him down to their depths. the plague never landed him at the lazaret with the rest of half the population. the years he spent traveling the world couldn't whittle him down. hell, not even a hanging could actually take him out. it isn't enough that he lived through all these things, but that he fearlessly faced them down and was fucking determined to see his purpose through to the end. the same was still true when he was first dragged away in chains to the devil's twisted playground. he survived. he was indomitable. he fought. and fought, and fought, and fought...
and lost, and lost, and lost...
maybe he's getting old.
at this point it's hard to say. he doesn't know how long it's been, just that it's been such a slow, gradual, miserable process. not something that happened overnight. once he finally succumbed to his fate, submitted, accepted defeat, it's not like he opened his eyes and found himself covered in feathers and spines. it still took time. defeat, as he well knows, is not decided in a single loss, or even many losses. real defeat is in the weathering down of the army. it's in the process of exhausting their supplies, their morale, their constitution. this is like that. the torturously slow and horrific gradual transformation of man to monster was the process of his defeat. now he's beaten. thoroughly. it's over. he lost.
there's only one thread of hope left for him to cling to, and it's that, at least in his utter humiliation and torment, his friends are decidedly safe. his bargain made it so. that's all he's got. or so he believed.
when the door opens, he doesn't much have the will to look up. the illusions are such an old hat. the devil's visits are scarce enough that he doesn't fear them anymore. and anyone (anything) else that would come in here isn't anyone worth caring about. they're just monsters like him, that's all. he makes a croaking sort of warbling sound in the back of his throat, swishes his tankard around, and drinks from it. gestures drearily with one taloned hand at any of the chairs.
and then that voice. his chin lifts in a herky-jerky sort of way like he's a poorly oiled animatronic character, not a living thing. his eyes are just about the only recognizable feature he's got left, and even that's a stretch. gunmetal gray, but all the light's gone out of them. he expects an illusion. not... )
What is this?
( not what are you or who are you, but what is this? a trick of his eyes? a trap? a test? something made up just to hurt him? it's his countess, her shape, her voice, her commanding presence, but the design of her is all wrong in a way he knows all too well. it has to be him, doing something sick just to make him crazy. but why? he's already beaten. )
What do you mean, "now"? Stop playing games. It's over. I know already.
( they're crueler words than she expects to fall from her lips, and it's almost like they climb out of her mouth without her even recognizing them, almost as if they're pulled from a place that should be buried, deep and dark, hidden from even those metallic grey eyes that stare at her like she's some poorly-made illusion or like she's not precisely what he's made her to be. no, it's unfair to blame him for everything--in fact she can't really blame him for anything at all. it's her choice that has her here, even if it's tempting to force him to bear more of the burden than she knows he can rightfully tolerate.
he's beaten and low and hopeless, and sharp words and biting retorts aren't the sorts of things he needs to hear now.
julian gestures, wearily, towards any of the open chairs, and while he may have no realization of what she is, there's a shiver of something that goes through the room that makes it quite apparent to the rest of the monsters scattered about that she is not the creature any of them likely want to be caught in the path of. it's not unlike her days in vesuvia, though there was a circle of space around her built from admiration and awe, there, like a flower that needed air around it to breathe; here, it's the quiver of fear, of knowing the power that she possesses even in the unassuming flick of her fingers when she moves through the room and nothing remains in her path, no one left in the line of sight.
which just leaves julian and his sad little feathers, sitting there, with chairs aplenty near him. she melts down into one of them, folds her arms to the table, and curls a finger at him. )
You made an admirable effort, Doctor Devorak, but I couldn't just leave you here to atone for everything you've never had to. You know he could have chosen to dishonor your deal at any point, and would have, naturally, and then where would we be? Where would the city be?
( the minor movement jerks his tankard away from him by magic, slides it across the table until it ends up in the coil of her finger, seemingly held up by nothing at all. )
I make my own deals. And I can get you out of this one now, easy, if you ask nicely.
( but should she? there's a faint uncertainty there, tinging in the words, but it's selfishness that has her doubting. she can't keep him here. )
( he ought to flinch at the accusation, but he's used to the verbal abuse. or got to used to it back when there was still plenty of it to hear. the devil always did know just the right things to say to him to break his spirit, crush his confidence. make him doubt himself, fold in upon himself like a collapsing building and drown in his own guilt. the greatest weapon against julian has always been julian, really.
besides. it's hard to flinch when he's still staring, so stunned, completely unable to grasp what he's looking at. the devil, to be sure... right? but then why this form? why her face? why her voice? why? why? what kind of trick is this? he hasn't experienced anything like it before, and that makes it so much harder for him to reconcile. if it were more of the same old sisyphean torture, pushing that boulder of burden in the shape of his long-lost friends and family now only available to him forevermore as twisted illusions and haunted nightmares, he'd be able to shrug it off. but this—
julian's mouth hangs open, his gaze only shifting to watch the tankard she pulls toward her as if on an invisible string slide across the table. without really being conscious of it, all the feathers on his body start to stand on end, ruffled and frazzled until he's puffed up to nearly double the size he was when she came in. whether that's out of fear or a reaction to some perceived threat, even he doesn't know. )
...Countess?? Nad—
( no. no. there, you see, that's it! a deal> a trap! quickly, he shuts his mouth, shakes his head. )
No. No. I'm not falling for this again, just stop. I don't know what you're playing at, but why bother? What else do you want? I said I'd stay. Don't—use her face. Leave her out of this.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
@plaguebearing
[ Haha... an old-timey medical pun. In spite of whatever anxiety throwing himself to the lion's—er, goat's—den might be giving him, it's just not within Julian's reckless spirit not to make a joke out of it. Or, better yet, to not flirt anyway. After who knows how long resisting all Lucio's many, many passes, he figures he's lost the right to pretend he has any decency or self-respect left in his system whatsoever now that he's submitted to it, but he hasn't quite given up the ghost of shame yet.
Which of course is like blood in the water to the Count. Alas. Julian sighs like even he knows his attempt at a joke is useless and knocks back his drink, overdramatic even in how he tilts the tumbler to his lips. ]
You know, I still say we're much too sober for this conversation. Keep drinking; it's good for you. Doctor's orders.
no subject
After the drink he drapes his prosthetic arm across the back of the couch behind Julian, leaning in closer.]
This is why you're my favorite doctor, you know? Not nearly as stuffy and high-strung like most of those simpering idiots that come around here. They're all so damn boring.
no subject
Not that he won't get flustered again in five seconds anyway. ]
If I had it my way, I'd be your only doctor. I know what's best for you, after all. And sometimes you even actually listen to me! That's the real medical miracle. No other quack can claim such a feat.
no subject
Do you now? Just like you swore that cutting off my arm was best?
[For emphasis he drops the metal limb around Julian's shoulder, gold fingers curling trailing against the top of his arm.]
So what's "best" for me now, hm?
no subject
[ That depends on how you define better, but whatever. You know what the trouble with that arm is, now that it's curling around him and essentially capturing him in place? That it feels a whole lot like being cornered by a predator, and he was stupid enough to let it get its claws in him. Or on him, rather. There's no escape in that direction, and the other direction means leaning toward Lucio.
That just gives him one last out, which he takes, in spite of his decision not to fight this: to lean forward and reach out for the bottle of brandy and raise it, as a distraction, to Lucio's lips. No glass. Straight from the tap. ]
More, uh... more booze, that's what. Now be a good patient and take your medicine!
no subject
[Lucio sighs dramatically, slumping back for just a moment like some stereotypical swooning damsel in distress. But the act only lasts a split second, that gold limb still very much trapping Julian in place. It very much looks like he's plotting his next method of attack and makes a move to lean in closer just as the other man abruptly holds the bottle up to effectively bar the way.
For a moment his expression twists into one of mixed irritation and disappointment before finally settling into a pout.]
Hmph! You're lucky that this is the fun kind of medicine...
[He grumbles, swiping the bottle to take a swig.]
(no subject)
@redlines (tfln 10/2)
It... sounds like there's a story there.
no subject
I'll be there in about an hour, but... your host - what's she like? I might know just where you are.
no subject
She's middle-aged, I'd say. Not quite elderly. An absolute darling, name of Ethel. She makes the most fascinating eel stew. I'd never tried eel with garlic and peppers before. And she's got an old scruffy cat with an ear missing. Do you know her?
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I might've known her... husband? There was a man down there who took me in for a week when I came down with a cold as a kid and had me eat nothing but that for three days. Ask her if she was married to a man named "Fred" when you get the chance, and if she still makes those banora tarts that everyone talked about up top. This would've been about... God, about twenty years ago? Give or take. I was only about knee high when that happened, but you don't forget meals like that no matter how long it's been.
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[ And then like half an hour later: ]
Fred, yes. That was his name. She said he died in the war. It was... a really sweet story she told. She wasn't sure she recognized your name, but she still makes the tarts.
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@alnazar (tfln 10/2) ... the first one
[ ... ]
In an hour. Since the first thing I said would mean never.
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Sorry.
Do you still want me to come over? I'll shut up. Sorry.
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1/2
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OPEN: BIRD TIME
( the raven
he destroyed his chains
yes
YES
the raven is out
well, alright.
he didn't destroy his chains.
he would never.
but someone did. someone did, and when he woke up, someone had put the world to rights, too. it's just too bad someone couldn't put him to rights while they were at it. but then again—no, this is how it should be. this is what he deserves.
julian wakes up outside the rowdy raven. not the hanged raven, but the rowdy alternative. malak circles overhead, squawking until he comes-to. when he does, he's pecked at insistently until he stands. the world is so... bright. the sun is out, a beautiful day in vesuvia. for a few moments he can only stand there, hunched over on bent legs, feathered arms hanging at his sides, wings limp, shoulders slumped, squinting in the daylight. it... almost burns. it does burn. someone comes around the corner and gives a startled gasp at the sight of him. then after the initial shock wears off, a terrified scream. they run away, but so does julian. if you can even call it a "run," the way he staggers and stumbles through the alleys. it's been so long, it's a wonder he can even recall where to go. to his home that's still there just the way he left it, desperately hiding in the shadows whenever he hears anyone walking around nearby. he doesn't have the key anymore, when he gets there. he's too big to fit through the window. he yanks and pulls at the door in desperation, swearing, but can't get it open. he could pull it off its hinges, but before he gets the chance somebody comes around the corner and he flees again.
malak screams overhead, circling. he wonders briefly whether he can fly. he's never tried. he's too afraid to try now, either. instead he frantically ditches town, escaping into the woods where the other monsters live. it's the only place he can think to hide. by the time he's arrived he's terrified half a dozen people and it'd be no surprise if the city guard comes looking for him. defending himself is simple, but he doesn't want to hurt anyone. or scare anyone.
no. nobody can know he's here. not anyone, ever. )
(option 2:)
( everything is as it's been. for years and years and ages and ages and seconds and seconds. monsters outside, monsters inside. illusions, tricks, traps, tragedy. all his friends, probably dead. and if not dead, he can only pray their suffering is minimal. he can only pray that he is doing all the suffering for them instead. he would give anything for that to be true. anything, anything, anything. even though he has already given everything, he would give even more to know—
but he never will. so here he sits.
the hanged raven. it's happy hour. but it's always happy hour. the drinks magically refill. there's food, there's music, there's an endless array of wandering souls to come and go and keep him company a spell, although few ever do. fewer still are real. still, there's drinks. endless drinks. there's a chair with his name on it, practically. there's glass all over the floor, barbed branches winding all throughout the space. an ominous wind filters in through a window that looks open but isn't, really. the light is reddish-orange, flickering. like hellfire.
someone outside screams. probably not real.
he never ever leaves this place. doesn't want to. couldn't, he thinks, if he wanted to. but when the sounds outside continue, something inhuman mixed with something a little too human, a struggle, he can't help wandering to the door. he hasn't opened it in a long time. the door feels heavy as he pulls the handle and peers out into the gloom. from the outside, he's nothing but a towering black shadow, too big even to fit properly in the doorway, bathed in miserly firelight. he feels despondent and stupid, bothering with this. it's only going to be something unreal again. but he calls out anyway, his voice raw and thick with irony: )
Come now, this is no way to behave. Why don't you come settle your differences with a drink?
i told u
she didn't.
part of the reason had been because there was no point to it. if the north had turned so dangerous overnight, the south would've been a deathwish. the other part... morga didn't know what to call whatever it was with julian besides (for lack of a better word) complicated. regardless of what it was, she knew julian still had family in the city. family that she'd been keeping an eye on from a distance despite best efforts to bring her into the fold of survivors proper. in the end, it was the very least she could do to honor his memory.
but then one day, the world un-fucked itself. people began to slowly rebuild their lives, and morga remained. she still kept her distance, but... she was still in vesuvia. she never understood why until the frantic, frightened whispers reached her ears. rumors that a monster yet remained in the city. the guards were better suited to calming people down and stay put, and frankly they still looked to be in rough shape. certainly not suited for fighting monsters, even if morga didn't look much better herself.
tracking it down had been easy enough. people were more than willing to point her in the direction that they'd seen it run.
it's horrifying, a young woman cried. it was black, bigger than any animal i've ever seen and teeth sharper than a bear's.
by the time she reached the woods, she had a vague idea of what to look for. and boy, was it easier to pick up the trail amongst the trees and dirt than it was in the city. protecting people... morga's track record with that was abysmal, no matter how much it pained her to admit it. now, hunting? she was good at that. three days in the forest, and she finds a fresh trail. broken branches. loose feathers. claw marks across bark and in the dirt. and in some instances, even blood. a griffin...? no. no, they were incredibly rare these days, much like the dragons and wyrms of old.
it takes another hour at best to find the "beast" in question. she doesn't have the best view of it, but... she sees it. so, she crouches, spear in hand, and waits. when it finally steps close enough, morga launches herself into the hulking figure's side and knocking it off balance. one foot goes down to pin it, and the tip of her spear sits poised mere inches above the throat as her lip curls into a snarl as she takes in its appearance. it's not as big as a man described it, and it looks more man than animal in the fa...
wait.
wait. wait. wait. those fucking eyes— it can't be. her grip tightens, and she brings the sharp tip closer. please, she asks nothing and nobody in particular. please.]
Who are you? Speak.
[distantly, she's hears a raven having a fit and screaming its tiny little lungs out somewhere above.]
my crops are watered
malak keeps an eye out for him. thankfully hasn't narced on him to anyone that might want to find him. or, he worries, maybe there just... is no one. either because they don't want him anymore, or because they assume he's gone forever, or because they are... god, no. he can't bear it. as painful as it is not to know, that's his cross to bear. and nail himself to it, he's goddamn determined to do. forever, if that's what it takes. he can't go back. he can't, he can't, he can't.
anyway. just because he knows how to survive doesn't mean he's the craftiest creature in the wood. he's more than easy prey for someone like morga, who he never hears coming. malak must not even realize it. he's on the way to his fresh water supply when he's rammed into and pinned down, his own scream hoarse and ironically not dissimilar from malak's. for being such a horrible, ugly, fearsome monster, the fear in his eyes and all over his face is practically palpable. his clawed hands go up in surrender. he swallows against the speartip. his gaping mouth shows a dark tongue, an excess of sharp teeth. )
I—
( my god. that face. that voice. that ruthless presence. of course he knows her. it's obvious, the recognition. he goes slack all over, eyes widening even further. real? not real? not real, can't be real. even though there is no more hellworld, no more devil, no more illusions. he can't allow himself to believe it. he gave up trying to connect with the imagined specters of his past a long, long time ago. (but if he really doesn't believe it, why hide in the first place? hmmm.) )
Nobody. I'm... nobody. Nothing but a monster.
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anger. relief. confusion. sorrow. shock. more anger and grief for a man she never mourned. everything but fear and disgust, though... perhaps because it hasn't had a chance to sink in yet. (fear isn't likely, though. she's eaten scarier things for breakfast.)]
Don't.
[she has to force the words out through gritted teeth and around the solid lump sitting far, far back in her throat. she knows what that is too, but like every other complicated emotion she's experienced, morga ignores it.]
Don't you dare lie to me, Hrafn. I'll ask you again — who are you?
[and... you know what? even with the venom and ice laced on her tongue, the spear withdraws by a fraction. her weight eases, but she doesn't remove her boot. not yet. it's not that she's afraid for her safety, but adrenaline is one hell of a thing.]
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but he just... can't. can't say it. not to her. not to—can't say her name, either. can't even think it.
instead, he curls his fingers around the spear, close to the tip. where there used to be long fingers, pale skin, a murderer's brand, there's only claws, scaly talon-like skin, blackened and bent. still, there's something familiar about the particular movement of his hands, how each finger curls one by one until he's gripping it. and about the way his lips pull back in a wince, the miserably guilty way his eyes avert. the piteousness in his rough voice. (she never had patience for that crap, but she isn't she anymore, and he isn't he and nothing is real—) )
I told you: nobody, anymore. If you were looking for someone, I'm sorry to say you haven't found him. You shouldn't be here, you... I... there's nothing here but dreams and monsters. If I close my eyes, you'll disappear, won't you? So just—
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secret option number three
she finds out too late, of course, that julian's taken that task onto his own shoulders--the way he takes everything, like his body is some perfectly imbalanced scale of good and evil and anything he can desperately dump into one side of it may erase the guilt that burdens the other. she doesn't have the time to figure it out herself, to find the answers before he's making his deal and sealing himself away with the heavy weight of silver chain and deep, deep red demise--she doesn't get to tell him that it's not his job to do it, that he's already given enough with his death and his help and his constant vigilance even in the face of all her own failure. and it makes her angry, in a way that feels unrelenting, a climbing frustration that builds and builds and builds until she's lashing out.
lucio won't be returning - that's the first task, the easier task, and the one that requires no thought at all. the anger is useful, there, potent and powerful, and it tarnishes her shine a little. she knows it makes her dirty, but it's hard to care.
seeking her own audience with the devil - this requires a little more finesse, and she doesn't say anything against the warnings that asra gives her because she knows that he's right. she can't fight the truth, but she also won't let herself succumb to it; as bad of an idea it is, as much as she knows he'll hate it, as much as it feels backhanded and strange to trade for a wealth of power for the life of someone else, she does it anyway.
and - as odd as it feels, when the anger breaks and the power surges and the strange blood beads and crawls down the skin of her hand like it might find its way underneath. the weight of a heart in her chest that isn't hers. the overwhelming dread of being no longer human. her penance to vesuvia, to her family, to asra, to portia, to muriel, even to him, and how's that for the biggest self-sacrifice, julian? are we even yet?
maybe it's been days, weeks, months, there's no way that she can really tell--the transformation is nearly immediate, anyway, and the realm is covered in some sunset hue that never really betrays any passing of time at all. the city is safe, and given that she won't be trying to merge this world into the other--as least for now--that means everything gets wrapped up nicely, right? and she knows that julian is here somewhere, cowering in some dark room behind locks that her hands should easily find the key to; she knows because the devil ran on about it, proud and pleased, before she put her fingers through his chest and wrenched out a still-beating heart. julian's chains are her chains, now. so why is she so reluctant to find him?
maybe it's why her fingers whisper over the door handle like it's going to burn her--golden tips, honed claws, and hands drenched in a blackness that seems to emanate from her so thoroughly that she thinks even chandra would hate her, were she to make it to this realm at all. she misses her company. she misses company.
but then, power is a delicious thing in and of itself...isn't it? )
Well.
( the door opens, finally, a frame of light that shines a sharp triangle out onto the floor of the room where julian, in his cowering, feathered form, has been locked for some time now. he probably expects some towering humanoid goat there, ready to taunt him and rip him to shreds again, pluck his feathers from his wings one by one or make a fist to tighten the invisible chains like another noose.
what he gets, instead, is nadia standing there in the black silk of her gown, a tumbling sunset of hair that wisps over her shoulders and plunges in at her hips, red eyes and sharp horns and the urge to scream at him for doing any of this at all. )
I suppose you belong to me now, isn't that right?
( nice to see you again, doctor. )
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and lost, and lost, and lost...
maybe he's getting old.
at this point it's hard to say. he doesn't know how long it's been, just that it's been such a slow, gradual, miserable process. not something that happened overnight. once he finally succumbed to his fate, submitted, accepted defeat, it's not like he opened his eyes and found himself covered in feathers and spines. it still took time. defeat, as he well knows, is not decided in a single loss, or even many losses. real defeat is in the weathering down of the army. it's in the process of exhausting their supplies, their morale, their constitution. this is like that. the torturously slow and horrific gradual transformation of man to monster was the process of his defeat. now he's beaten. thoroughly. it's over. he lost.
there's only one thread of hope left for him to cling to, and it's that, at least in his utter humiliation and torment, his friends are decidedly safe. his bargain made it so. that's all he's got. or so he believed.
when the door opens, he doesn't much have the will to look up. the illusions are such an old hat. the devil's visits are scarce enough that he doesn't fear them anymore. and anyone (anything) else that would come in here isn't anyone worth caring about. they're just monsters like him, that's all. he makes a croaking sort of warbling sound in the back of his throat, swishes his tankard around, and drinks from it. gestures drearily with one taloned hand at any of the chairs.
and then that voice. his chin lifts in a herky-jerky sort of way like he's a poorly oiled animatronic character, not a living thing. his eyes are just about the only recognizable feature he's got left, and even that's a stretch. gunmetal gray, but all the light's gone out of them. he expects an illusion. not... )
What is this?
( not what are you or who are you, but what is this? a trick of his eyes? a trap? a test? something made up just to hurt him? it's his countess, her shape, her voice, her commanding presence, but the design of her is all wrong in a way he knows all too well. it has to be him, doing something sick just to make him crazy. but why? he's already beaten. )
What do you mean, "now"? Stop playing games. It's over. I know already.
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( they're crueler words than she expects to fall from her lips, and it's almost like they climb out of her mouth without her even recognizing them, almost as if they're pulled from a place that should be buried, deep and dark, hidden from even those metallic grey eyes that stare at her like she's some poorly-made illusion or like she's not precisely what he's made her to be. no, it's unfair to blame him for everything--in fact she can't really blame him for anything at all. it's her choice that has her here, even if it's tempting to force him to bear more of the burden than she knows he can rightfully tolerate.
he's beaten and low and hopeless, and sharp words and biting retorts aren't the sorts of things he needs to hear now.
julian gestures, wearily, towards any of the open chairs, and while he may have no realization of what she is, there's a shiver of something that goes through the room that makes it quite apparent to the rest of the monsters scattered about that she is not the creature any of them likely want to be caught in the path of. it's not unlike her days in vesuvia, though there was a circle of space around her built from admiration and awe, there, like a flower that needed air around it to breathe; here, it's the quiver of fear, of knowing the power that she possesses even in the unassuming flick of her fingers when she moves through the room and nothing remains in her path, no one left in the line of sight.
which just leaves julian and his sad little feathers, sitting there, with chairs aplenty near him. she melts down into one of them, folds her arms to the table, and curls a finger at him. )
You made an admirable effort, Doctor Devorak, but I couldn't just leave you here to atone for everything you've never had to. You know he could have chosen to dishonor your deal at any point, and would have, naturally, and then where would we be? Where would the city be?
( the minor movement jerks his tankard away from him by magic, slides it across the table until it ends up in the coil of her finger, seemingly held up by nothing at all. )
I make my own deals. And I can get you out of this one now, easy, if you ask nicely.
( but should she? there's a faint uncertainty there, tinging in the words, but it's selfishness that has her doubting. she can't keep him here. )
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besides. it's hard to flinch when he's still staring, so stunned, completely unable to grasp what he's looking at. the devil, to be sure... right? but then why this form? why her face? why her voice? why? why? what kind of trick is this? he hasn't experienced anything like it before, and that makes it so much harder for him to reconcile. if it were more of the same old sisyphean torture, pushing that boulder of burden in the shape of his long-lost friends and family now only available to him forevermore as twisted illusions and haunted nightmares, he'd be able to shrug it off. but this—
julian's mouth hangs open, his gaze only shifting to watch the tankard she pulls toward her as if on an invisible string slide across the table. without really being conscious of it, all the feathers on his body start to stand on end, ruffled and frazzled until he's puffed up to nearly double the size he was when she came in. whether that's out of fear or a reaction to some perceived threat, even he doesn't know. )
...Countess?? Nad—
( no. no. there, you see, that's it! a deal> a trap! quickly, he shuts his mouth, shakes his head. )
No. No. I'm not falling for this again, just stop. I don't know what you're playing at, but why bother? What else do you want? I said I'd stay. Don't—use her face. Leave her out of this.
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