SUMMER

Angkar: Wet season. Precipitation is common during the late afternoon and evening hours. Vegetation grows significantly during the summer, but flooding is a danger due to the monsoons that ravage the country. The rainforest sees evenly distributed rainfall throughout the season.

Ashoka: Desert: Extremely hot and dry. Violent, heavy downpours following long dryspells. Jungle: Hot and humid with frequent, violent rainstorms.

Morrim: Relatively hot and dry, but with a chance of thunderstorms from time to time. The heat may cause forest fires.

Soto: Hot and humid, tree cover is dense while ground growth is restricted. Thunderstorms see the most amount of rainfall during the season, and it can be very windy. On occasion, there are flash floods that can destroy homes and farms built on flood plains.

ANNOUNCEMENTS

March 30th, 2018 As you might have noticed, Elenlond has changed hands and is now under new management! If you have any questions, please direct them to DaringRaven! As for the rest of the announcements, including a season change, you can find them over here at the following link!

January 16, 2018 As you might have noticed, Elenlond has a new skin, all thanks to Mel! Don't forget to check out the new OTMs as well!

December 2, 2017 Winter has settled on Elenlond, bringing sleep for some and new life for others.

September 26, 2017 With the belated arrival of autumn come some interesting developments: new OTMs, a Town Crier and the release of the Elly Awards winners!

July 14, 2017 After a bit of forum clean-up, Elly Awards season has arrived! Head on over to make your nominations!

May 31, 2017 Summer has arrived and so has activity check! That's not all though – we also have some new OTMs for you and some staff changes!


WHAT IS ELENLOND?

Elenlond is an original free-form medieval fantasy RPG set on the continent of Soare and the Scattered Isles, which are located to the south in the Sea of Diverging Waters. The four chief nations of the western side of the world—Ashoka in northern Soare, Soto in western Soare, Morrim in eastern Soare, and Angkar, the largest of the Scattered Isles—continue to experience growth and prosperity since the fall of the Mianorite gods, although power struggles within the countries—or outside of them—continue to ensue.


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  • CURRENT EVENTS

    Angkar: To honour the reinvigoration of the ancient city of Mondrágon, the majestic Queen Eulalia has permitted the opening of a Coliseum where people from around the world and all walks of life can test their combat skills against one another. Many have already done battle in search of honour, glory, prizes and money.

    Ashoka: In an otherwise peaceful times, Ashokans are beset with the relatively minor inconveniences of wandering undead and occasionally-aggressive giant rock worms. There has also been some controversy over the recent re-legalisation of human sacrifice.

    Morrim: Rumour has it that Emperor Leofric de Hollemark is mustering forces for a war. Though the threat from Soto’s forests has passed, the forces previously employed in watching the forest now linger at the border. Rumours also circulate of a small group that has been dispatched to make contact with the tribes of the Do’suul Mountains.

    Soto: The Sotoans have defeated the fey and liberated themselves from Méadaigh’s oppression! Preliminary efforts have been made at rebuilding the city of Madrid, which had been captured at the beginning of the war. However, the Sotoans are hindered from recovery famine. Méadaigh’s magic caused summer to persist in the Erth’netora Forest through the winter. Her power has been withdrawn and the plants die as if preparing for winter – even though it is now summer. The Sotoans must sustain off what food they can get, what creatures they can kill and what can be imported into the city from Morrim and Angkar.

    For a fuller description of our most recent events, check out our most recent edition of The Town Crier!

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    Welcome to our home, a world in which anything can happen. From sprawling deserts and vast forests to massive volcanoes and luscious hot springs, Soare and the Scattered Isles are beautiful places just waiting to be explored. For the brave and the bold or the cautious and the wary, creatures of all kinds roam the earth, looking for adventure or for a place to call their own. Species of all kinds - the well-known and the unknown - thrive here, though not always in harmony.

    Elenlond is an original medieval fantasy RPG with a world that's as broad as it is unique. Calling on characters of all kinds, the sky's the limit in a world where boundaries are blurred and the imagination runs rampant. Restrictions are limited and members are encouraged to embrace their creativity, to see where they can go and what they can do. It's no longer just text on a page - it becomes real.

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    Sunny Side Up; Phaedrus
    Topic Started: Jan 26 2015, 09:36 AM (494 Views)
    Bast
    Member Avatar
    'He shall be tormented with fire and brimstone.../And the smoke of their torment ascendeth up, for ever and ever;'

    Summer 8AR

    On Willowfair, three streets off the market square. The house with the red door.

    She'd had to ask for directions, because honestly, when someone says three streets off the market square, without a direction to take, it could have been anywhere. Bloody idiot. It would be a crying shame if she turned up on someone else's doorstep with gifts and a smile, only to find that they were the wrong redhead with the devilish smile.

    Though really, how many could there be?

    The basket hanging from her left elbow bumped against her ample hip each time she swung her arm merrily, one moment half skipping past stalls and the ever sifting colourful river of people, the next carefully wriggling between several bunched together. Once, she was catcalled at, but that ended swiftly enough when her fingers closed around a ripe yellow grapefruit, and sent it sailing with terrible accuracy at the offender. He'd have a bloody nose, but she wasn't going to let that spoil her day.

    Her dress was perfectly cut for summer; for most it was meant to keep the heat off, she supposed. For her, it only gave the sun a better access to warm her skin, until she positively glowed with health. It wasn't quite scandalously short, after all, it almost reached her knees, even if it did have a tendency to gust about in the wind. And it suited her, at least, the colour did. Sky blue, and speckled with little white polka dots, it contrasted perfectly with her bronze skin and flaming hair. That too, she'd taken effort with, binding it up in a white ribbon, the tails of which danced with her fluttering pony each time she moved her head.

    On Willowfair, three streets off the market square. The house with the red door.

    Even now she could still hear his voice so clearly recorded in her mind, and could not but help the grin spilling over her lips. There was only one red door, but...well it looked so high brow...it wasn't what she'd expected at all.
    Bast lingered at the edge of the street, idly picking at a loose piece of wicker on the basket, and chewing her lip. A bee settled on her hand, then another on her bare shoulder, and another, clustering for the warmth until she idly batted them away with the flap of her hand. It seemed to be happening more of late, both with her slowly rising temperature, and the summer being so busy with them.

    Dark eyes searched dark windows, wondering. What if he wasn't home? Stupid..what if it wasn't his house at all? What if she just sat on the steps if nobody was home, and nobody came back? She watched possibly the fattest cat she'd ever seen waddle slowly to the steps, and stretch itself out there in the sun. It seemed content enough...like it lived there...
    Well he was good with his hands. Why shouldn't he have cats? Makes sense.

    Stifling a dirty snorting giggle behind her hand, the elemental crossed to the door and took a moment to locate the dainty little bell, the ornate door handles that with just a touch more finery might be incredibly lewd, the little window boxes of petunias...and the twitching curtains across the street. She rang the bell, watching from the corner of her eye, lest she startle the peeper, then slowly inched her face around to stare at them. Innocent enough.
    The wrinkled, scowling face of some bent-backed elderly woman glowered judgmentally at her. Instantly Bast found herself clutching the basket as if it might shield herself from that glare, and smoothing her skirt, which protested by molding to her legs as the wind changed.

    Why was nobody answering?!

    She rang the bell again, a touch impatiently, her eyes still on the old woman. To look away now would be like...some show of submission. Just as she thought she could take it no longer, Bast stuck out her tongue and pulled a grotesque face, to the apparent shock of his neighbor, who retreated swiftly behind the safety of her drapes.

    Nosey ald shyte.

    The sound of the door finally opening drew her back from her moment of triumph, and she turned, the picture of innocence, to face the inhabitant, doing her best not to look guilty or mischievous in whatever way.
    "Can Phaedrus come out to play?"
    (OFFLINE) PROFILE QUOTE GO TO TOP
     
    Phaedrus
    Member Avatar
    Thus conscience does make cowards of us all/ And thus the native hue of resolution/ Is sicklied o'er with the pale cast of thought.

    [HAHAHHAAH TL;DR OOPSSSS]

    Madrid was dreadfully humid in the summer.

    Everything had a stickiness about it, clung to his clothes and hair like he walked in a sauna. And devils knew one simply couldn’t strip in the streets, to his exasperation, though the look writ on every shining face pointed to the same thought. People made such a fuss when a man stripped to his dainties. Surely society could make allowances in the summer.

    Today was the sort of day pregnant with evening rain, the air buzzing with the hums of thousands of insects trying to mount each other before Death swatted them. If he had to sweep one last bee off the floor, he would certainly kill his petunias, and have done with the whole business of a flower garden. He couldn't even wear lilac oils, else they'd all buzz around him like some great ginger flower and never leave him be.

    That was entirely why he'd decided on a bath of vanilla. Piss off, you furry little devils. The necromancer frowned as he sunk into the scented bubbles, one toe poking idly out of the lukewarm water. He felt he deserved as much, given he’d pored over books until the rising sun and crick in his back told him it was time to slither out of his basement and force himself into some presentability. At least the paladin was gone, and would not lecture him so on the sins of too-long baths. For once, the house was quiet, void of that infernal grating and clanking and pious offal. Something about Aten’s bollocks and Nailah’s teats.

    A sigh tapered off his lips. For a moment there was only the sound of soft splashing and warbling birds outside. The necromancer shut his eyes, one arm dangling loosely off the clawed tub. He’d translated the last passages of the Pyrologicon. What then, Asenath’s writings? What remained to check them against? Not Kaldic runes, the Asenaths used their own bizarre symbology… if only he could fetch one from the grave! His attempts had been fruitless so far — turning up wisps or babbling spirits too mad to restore. It was as if all knowledge of the Arcana vanished from them! As if it were a creature, a sentient force tha—

    ”Hey, princess.” A disembodied voice smashed the trail of his thoughts, broke rudely into the comfortable silence.

    Phaedrus’ eyes snapped open. They narrowed poisonously at the patch of darkness in the corner, a scowl curdling his lip.

    What?

    “There’s someone at the door. Some short tan bint, kinda hefty. Looks like her head’s on fire—

    Phaedrus launched up abruptly, water sloshing around his middle.

    “What?”

    Bast? He couldn’t dare hope. The news struck him deaf to all but those words. Soapy water showered the tile as he scrambled out of the tub, forgetting he was stark naked in his excitement — he almost ran towards the door before remembering himself, fumbling for a towel.

    Could it really be? His fingers scrunched in the fluffiness, toweling himself dry in a hurricane of finely embroidered cloth. It flew across the bathroom and slapped in a wet heap, followed by the slam of a door. Clothes. He’d forgotten how to think, and stared at his wardrobe like he’d never seen one in his life. Clothes—he needed them, couldn’t just go opening the door naked— Well, perhaps she wouldn’t mind, but if it wasn’t…

    “What’s all the excitement about, Princess? You haven’t even brushed your hair.”

    The demon was right. Phaedrus looked wildly in the mirror, blinking at the lank, bloodred mess plastering his head and licking up in places. Oh, no, no, no. That wouldn’t do.

    “Fetch me a comb at once,” the necromancer hissed, wrenching open his closet. He rifled through clothes without really looking at them, snatching something white and billowy that looked least likely to smother him in this heat. What was… The hems fluttered, revealing the garment to be distinctly not masculine, and the necromancer threw it on the floor in frustration, raking through the others. Why did he have a dress in there? Devils!

    An uncomfortable breeze from behind informed him Caulcis had stolen into his room, shyly proffering a comb and craning his head to avoid staring at his master’s rear.

    “Here’s your comb, Princess. ‘Ey, isn’t that what that one Councillor lady was wearin’ for that wine festival…? Starts with a G—Gabriella? No… Gertude…?”

    Devils below! Where is my green tunic!”

    “…Pretty sure it’s in her closet, if I’m gonna make any deductions ‘bout what happened after they brought out the absinthe—”

    Phaedrus made a strangled noise of frustration, fingers fisting around something soft — then pulled out a blue shirt, dragging it over his head.

    “See! Blue’s in season, master. Green’s passe, ‘sides, you always wear green, like a freakin’ leprachaun—”

    The necromancer swiped the comb out of the demon’s claws, planting one fist to his hip and leaning his weight on it. A scowl curled his lips, eyes narrowed to yellow slits.

    Caulcis.” He punctuated the warning with vicious swipes of the comb. “Shut your mouth for a thrice-damned second and listen. I need you to drain the tub and organize the research we conducted earlier. Then, do not interrupt me unless I summon you, and keep yourself hidden. Understand?

    The ivory teeth wobbled. A gilded hummingbird glinted menacingly.

    The demon paused, fixed on the comb, blue flames guttering around its hoofed feet. For a moment its skeletal expression went blank. Then a hideous grin split its skull like a faultline, shivering fire and belching forth an awful laugh.

    “Ohhh. I get it.” Caulcis’ fingers clicked together. “Special time with a special laaa—”

    Nostrils flaring, Phaedrus snapped his hands together—a sharp clap dispersed the demon in a billow of smoke. That horrible goat. The necromancer rolled his eyes so fiercely it hurt, an aggrieved scoff filling the air.

    Finally he finished dressing, fingers trembling as he hooked his belt. With the servant gone, his sour expression faded, and the necromancer smiled privately to himself, mouth suddenly sapped dry. If he’d a heart, it’d be pounding fiercely — the necromancer fumbled with his shirt buttons, drawing a deep breath and raking his hair straight with the comb to ease his nerves.

    Yeh bet yer bottom I'll be seein' yeh again. Her promise rang in his head, erasing the leagues between Eldahar and Madrid, clear as if she’d made it yesterday. Unless something else pops up… When the months stretched, he’d wondered—jerked awake from nightmares of a flaming countryside, glimpses of a mad, greedy face, chanting over strange circles—and worried, with the girl being so accident-prone, if he’d ought to have stayed in Eldahar. Did funds truly matter?

    He supposed he’d done right by returning to research, but the business of waiting—that dread of the unknown—had followed him through spring bacchanals and chittering tea-time conversations, sneaked into his wine cellar and discreet trips to Madrid’s establishments, breathing upon his neck like a heavy shadow. The gazes of thousands of people followed him, clustered over his bed when he stayed awake at night, blinking at the ceiling. But his guilt was not so wholesome, not so driven by the weight of strangers’ lives anymore.

    He was too selfish for that.

    Phaedrus tramped down the narrow staircase, nearly forgetting the crooked board and tumbling down the Ashokan rug—as he cursed, clutching the wall, the bell tinkled impatiently.

    "Half a moment!" the necromancer cried, jumping the last step and launching himself at the front lock. After a moment’s fumbling, the door swung open, flooding his house with sunlight.

    …And there she was.

    Still alive. The wind stirred her hair, dress twisting by her hips, eyes dancing with poorly hidden mischief.

    At once the fears of months past purged from his mind. Happiness flooded to replace it, swelling in his chest until it exploded in an incredulous smile.

    Bast!” Her name burst on a laugh, muffled when he flung his arms around her. Phaedrus hugged her tightly, as if she might fly to motes at any second—the elemental’s hair tickled his nose, head cradled under his chin. On impulse, the necromancer spun her, lifting her a few inches from his porch; the wind licked at his tunic and stirred some drying curls, mingling the perfume of summer with her familiar scent, as vivid as it’d been in Eldahar. Laugh dying to a burble, Phaedrus set her down, head spinning — a dazed grin lingered on his face, warmed his cold eyes.

    “You made it,” he breathed in disbelief, still holding the elemental. Looser, now, his hands lingering on the small of her back, in the softness of the fabric and slope of her hips. The sun reflected back in her bright eyes, a freckle smattered there, cheeks glowing. And she’d done her hair with a ribbon, he noticed now, details filtering in after his surprise had eclipsed them. One side of his mouth curled into a wicked grin, carving a dimple into his cheek.

    “Got here alright? No sour turns or run-ins with wretched hags?” His eyes flickered to the neighbor’s curtains, amazed at the absence of a scowl peeping between them — then jumped back to Bast, dancing with mischief.

    “I’m glad you’re here.” Phaedrus’ gaze softened as his hands slipped up to rest on the girl’s shoulders, squeezing them affectionately. A titter spilled off his lips, eyelids lowering languidly. “Madrid was dreadfully boring without you.”

    Without waiting for a response, he planted a kiss on her lips.
    (OFFLINE) PROFILE QUOTE GO TO TOP
     
    Bast
    Member Avatar
    'He shall be tormented with fire and brimstone.../And the smoke of their torment ascendeth up, for ever and ever;'

    The cat continued to sit there staring at her, stopping now and then to wash itself. Not the out-of-the-corner-of-the-eye staring that they so often did, considering their vision was better from the peripheral. The direct, frontal stare that meant it was trying, and failing, to threaten her. She stared right back, until simultaneously they turned away, watching one another from that peripheral spot.

    Bloody cheek.

    It probably knew what she was, if only by scent alone.

    Her head whipped back about as something collided with the door on the other side, possibly alarmingly, the clack and clatter of a latch sounded, prepared herself to apologize, in case she was wrong anyway.

    She hadn't expected the effect her appearance had however, was blown away by it like so much chaff in a strong summer wind.
    He looked so...pleased. The momentary stunned expression on his face was enough to set her laughing a heartbeat after he exclaimed her name, loosened her arm and let the basket fall from the crook of her elbow with a dry thunk, ignoring the scrape of the wicker as it slid across her skin.

    Gathered so tightly into his arms, for a second she felt blissfully at peace, aware of the coolness of his hands through the fabric of her dress, the fresh scent of vanilla and some kind of herbal soap as she snugged neatly into the hollow of his throat, arms circling his shoulders.
    Her mouth popped open in an involuntary squeak that turned to a hail of full throated laughter as her feet left the ground, flung her arms about his neck as the wind snatched at her, in case he let go.

    Breathless with laughter and dizziness, colour rushed to her cheeks and she released her grip, fingers fisted tightly into his shirt. Nobody had quite greeted her like that, that she could remember, and it was...well, flattering yes. No, not quite that. She couldn't put her finger on it. It was just so astoundingly nice to feel...wanted, and welcome.

    The elemental ducked her chin, swallowing hard as she shook her head, not quite keeping the thickness from her voice when she responded to his question;
    "Some vinegar-faced ald pisspot nosin' across the street. I stuck my tongue oot at 'em."
    Her voice strengthened a touch, a gentle chortle escaping.
    "Maybe I shoulda waved first. T'was a wee bitty rude, but she was starin' at me first. Should I apologize?"
    The last she threw in offhandedly, not really intending to do so. Of course, if it diminished him in some way in the eyes of his neighbors, then...maybe she ought to.

    It looked a nice area, and gods knew she was trouble enough. She ought not to even be here, didn't belong in this place of sun-coloured stone and happy crawling plants, with bright-faced flowers and chirping birds. Yet she couldn't quite bring herself to go haring off to the cold north, with their forbidding grey peaks dusted with snow, and memories of a master that simply didn't care for her existence, or his failure, as he saw it.

    Belong here or not, she wanted to be here, for a little while at least.

    With him.

    Happiness seemed hard to come by, and she hoped that perhaps someone might find her worthy of some before...well. All things had to come to an end. She'd seen Janjak, despite his equally wandering nature. Now she could fill the red-headed devil himself in on her exploits in Ashoka.

    "Oh aye? Missed me did yeh? And here I thought yeh might hae forgotten me alreadeh."
    Her gaze danced away, unable to keep to his unsettling yellow orbs, more than a little guilty and wishing she could have taken it back. He seemed innocent enough, with sunlight in his hair and smellin' all pretty, nobody would think he was a purveyor of the darker side of magic. He had no right to be so damned sweet when they should probably be trying to tear one another's throats out or something.

    Curtains twitched as the pinch-faced shrew returned to peering out, a flicker of distaste sharpening as she looked at him, ignited the rebellious streak in her again. Maybe she should accidentally set fire to her house. There were a lot of problems that fire could solve, like insurance, getting your neighbors to move, destroying evidence, creating distractions...

    The smirk lifted one corner of her mouth into a crude, lopsided mockery, caught his gaze again with something of a challenge, the hint of a question.

    Och yer a lovestruck FOOL yeh wee ninny heid, fer all that opposites attract an-

    Once again he was artfully smashing the train of thought through the guardrail and flinging it so far off the cliff that it was looping on itself back past the point of no return.

    "Must yeh do that?" She broke contact, frowned slightly, a breath apart. "If yeh gonna upset yer neighbors, at least gi'e 'em a good show."
    Her fingers found his collar, pulled him to her and kissed him then, with all the languid ease of a lazy cat on a summer afternoon, and a few dozen thoughts about a metaphorical cold bath.
    "Ah so yeh did miss me!"
    Bast released him, chuckling delightedly, and crouched to retrieve the basket, which was now being investigated by the lazy churl of a creature that had been sitting beside the door, eyeing her.

    "I thought we might go for a picnic, since it's so nice oot. And providin' I got the right hoose. Yeh could use more time under the sun, and we never did find a park in Eldahar."
    Her fingers toyed with the plain lace peeping from within the basket, flicked the coverlet a few times to dislodge another curious bee gravitating to her flesh, the slow words sitting like syrup on her tongue before she finally got them out, her face slowly reddening.
    "It's nae all strictly business...I uh...I missed yeh."
    (OFFLINE) PROFILE QUOTE GO TO TOP
     
    Phaedrus
    Member Avatar
    Thus conscience does make cowards of us all/ And thus the native hue of resolution/ Is sicklied o'er with the pale cast of thought.

    The world shrunk to that wonderful laugh—to the hair tickling his nose and her warmth against him, arms twined perfectly around his neck. All his other considerations fled, all the fears and anxieties drowned, his mind ground to a blissful halt.

    For a moment there was nothing else. Just her, snugged in the crook of his neck, wonderful, alive. Somehow it felt she’d never left, nothing changed between them—that the months spanning Ahmim and Glede’s visit were a fever-dream, bright, vivid, wretched, vanishing at the first trickle of sunlight. When she pulled back, his gaze lingered warmly, a smile quirking his lips.

    “That vulture? Ahh, don’t worry, she hates everything that breathes.” A breathy chuckle left him, fingers dancing up to twirl her hair. “She is convinced I’m a occultic deviant, and…” a creeping sneer broke through his point, shattered by a conspiratorial titter. “Well, she’s not wrong.”

    One hand flicked at the wrist, effete; the other held Bast close as he murmured into her ear, a laugh chasing his words. “Has she upset you? Should I kill her petunias?” Some mornings he’d entertained the thought of withering her flowers into the shape of a phallus, or perhaps a shitting cat. The notion usually passed by the time he stirred his second sugar into his tea and was distracted by breakfast, but… perhaps that wretched goat had influenced him more than he thought.

    An involuntary scoff left him as he searched her face, drinking in the sight of her dark eyes and dusting of freckles, the ease of her smile. Forget you? Well, dropping my brains in the street didn’t manage it. He teasingly flicked her hair, one brow arched. “Hm. I did hit my head a few times. Perhaps I need a reminder.”

    She certainly gave him one—the brief flicker of confusion at her words guttered, sparked out by the dance of their connecting lips, breath short between steps. His hands found her waist, somehow, flung back to Eldahar, to the inn, the kiss she had given him then.

    When she broke away, a picnic was the farthest thing from his mind. Dazed, he slowly got his bearings, a half-wit’s smile lingering on his face. “Right.” His lips still tingled with her warmth, tangling senselessly. “Right, ah, yes—you simply must see the western gardens. There is a summer festival in honor of— well, devils know. The Sotoans will invent gods for a donkey’s arse if it gives them an excuse to drink.” A lazy grin cut his pale face, and he leaned against his doorframe, fingers drumming on the wood.

    I missed yeh. The sheepish admission struck him silent. A bee hummed, joining the drone of faroff insects — somewhere a cane clicked on cobble, following a snatch of voices down the street. A smile sprouted on his face, spread as he looked to the basket, the nervous fidgeting of her fingers — became one of true endearment, a swallow catching in his throat. Did she think of me? When they parted ways in Ashoka, she had not left his mind. Again and again she danced in, and he excused it in the name of research — but he couldn’t drown her in wine or pretty faces, couldn’t outrun her during the spring festivals.

    “I… missed you too.” You’ve no idea. He dodged her stare, guts flipping — a twig on the porch had become utterly captivating. You fool. You horrible fool… Reality stabbed through that bliss, took him in the ribs; for a moment it hurt too much to breathe, to speak.

    “We can discuss business whenever you like. We have time.” By some miracle his voice held steady, sold the lie, and he smiled, smiled through the damn thing, his teeth like broken glass in his mouth. Not soon. Devils, just for a few hours, let us have some peace. However selfish it was to pretend everything was fine, to push it aside—for now he just wanted to forget, cherish the day.

    While they still could.

    He broke from the morbid thoughts with movement, throwing open the door. “Come in, come in. Mind the cats—they like to trip guests.” Phaedrus beckoned, whisking inside. Sunlight flooded his house, dappling the Ashokan tapestries and scattering jewels of light from desert lamps. On the kitchen table sprung fresh sunflowers, their heads turned longingly out the window. All manner of pies and tarts crowded about them, hinting at a sleepless night of baking. Inanely, he went on, kicking off his house slippers. “I just need to fetch my boots… ah, and a blanket…” After a few moments he reappeared, clutching a bundle of linen under one arm. A bottle of summer wine winked in one hand, and a triumphant smile slashed his face, eyes dancing.

    “It’s hotter than the devil’s bollocks today. Here.” Phaedrus set it down with a decisive clink, and slid over a neatly tied jar of preserves, ribbon and all. “Every picnic needs jam. Tell me there are scones in there—I’m utterly famished.” He flicked a bouncing curl behind his ear, looking wretchedly put upon by the world—menaced by the thin porridge that had the audacity to pass as breakfast this morning. Satisfied everything was in order, the necromancer planted his hands on his hips, grinning expectantly at Bast.

    “Ready?”
    (OFFLINE) PROFILE QUOTE GO TO TOP
     
    Bast
    Member Avatar
    'He shall be tormented with fire and brimstone.../And the smoke of their torment ascendeth up, for ever and ever;'

    There was just something about him that she couldn't put her finger on, an uplifting sensation that left her buoyant on the summer breeze. Or maybe it was the way he looked at her as he drew back. It wasn't often that it occurred, but she almost preened herself under his warm yellow gaze, otherwise unsettling. She felt beautiful, powerful even, a spark to be captured and treasured, rather than a skulking little monster, forever beneath even the basic disdain of the people. It was better than just being flattered. It felt good, really....good. Like she was actually a real person.

    Automatically the elemental tilted her head as his fingers wound in her fiery tresses, and half lidded her eyes contentedly.
    "No' just an occultic deviant tae be honest."
    She snorted in a most unladylike fashion, lopsided grin crinkling one eye almost shut, the other positively glittering with mischief and curiosity. She'd not seen him at work but once, if you could call it that, and then she had been tiny and nestled within the confines of his shirt pocket. She'd not seen so much as felt the biting chill, the distant hungry shrieks and the gentle rhythmic lapping of water. And the one time he changed his face. She'd not seen that happen either, but it had been...well, weird. Not that she couldn't do it to herself if she wanted to now...but she'd become distinctly accustomed to the one she had. Fond of it, even, and wasn't inclined to go to the trouble of memorizing a whole new set of features just for that.

    "Och no. Well, no' unless yeh really want tae."
    It seemed a bit vindictive really, the old cow had probably lavished love and attention on the plants to get them to grow. To take that away...well it wasn't like she was offended. Was she? Maybe she couldn't decide, or maybe she didn't want to. It wasn't as though she wouldn't snuff out a life so insignificant if it pleased her to do so, at least until she felt so guilty she had to do something to right that wrong. No matter how small, she'd sworn to herself to be as careful as possible and harm nobody but for self defense.

    Probably a good thing, or one of them might be dead now if their first meeting had been anything to go by.

    Her grin was more than a touch impish at his dazed countenance, a soft chortle spilling from her overripe lips before she turned her face away again. It was like looking into the sun, she countenanced herself. Don't keep staring at him too long or you'll go blind, despite the reckless will to drink in as much as possible through your eyes.

    "Unlike the Ashokans?"
    One brow arched up, a sardonic smile twisting her mouth. From what she'd experienced of Ashoka, people drank alcohol at every opportunity presented, and when it wasn't that, it was some kind of tea, which might also harbor spirits hidden in it. The sound of a festival was intriguing though, even if it was just a case of hanging back and watching revelers jaunt past in their bright colours. She didn't know nearly as much about Soto as she would have liked, and it seemed a rich opportunity to learn, as well as enjoy the company she'd purposefully sought out.

    Her wandering gaze darted back to him, flighty as a bird as the heat suffused her cheeks, the smile returning to dimple her cheeks, wondering on where his silent thoughts went.
    "A lot."
    The smile grew at his admission, faded to a shadow when he avoided her eyes. Had she unintentionally forced him to say something he didn't mean? She felt her spirits wobble from their high perch and make a plummeting descent, pecked at by anxiety and shame throughout all of its tumbling flight.

    Well shit, yeh done buggered that one up royally. Well done you, bravo.

    "Of course."
    Her grip on the basket tightened, reviled with how deflated she sounded to her own ears, the false, forced cheeriness overlaying her tone when she remarked; "My heid's gettin' better, I remembered some stuff...but it's related tae the business, so I'll save it fer later."

    "Okies."
    She followed him obediently over the threshold, relieved that he'd been thoughtful enough to invite her. She'd still not stripped the thrice-damned curse from herself, was still hindered by something so simple as walking into a building.
    Briefly she wondered if she should stop to remove her sandals, then decided against it, dusty as they were. She didn't want to stop and go through the arduous process of untying them from about her knees and then redoing it all again. Maybe when they got to the park, if there was grass.

    His house was so neat.
    Maybe she shouldn't have been surprised but Bast found herself a little..overwhelmed. It just wasn't what she'd expected, then again, she'd never really had any kind of expectation to begin with. It wasn't as though she thought he lived in a bare wooden box hunched over bloodied daubings on the floor and empty pie tins.
    Though, he did seem to have an abundance of things hanging on the walls. She peered at them while waiting on him, dark eyes bobbing from image to image, to flowers, to furniture, to the lazy cat watching her from a prized arrangement of cushions, to the...pie display?

    Okay well everyone had their peculiarities.

    Gods she was out of her depth here. What was she doing, stupid, stupid ragamuffin girl, never sticking in one place, living hand to mouth and never letting anyone have more than she was willing to give of herself. She'd pulled away from the witchdoctor because he was one of those who grasped futilely at flames, tried to clutch her and hold onto her. It was..confining. And here she was...courting and let's not beat about the bush, a dandy who'd never really tried, but had so much niceness at his fingertips. And she'd just spoil that with her dirty thieving fingers. Stupid stupid-

    "Oh aye, and yeh'd ken, bein' an occultist deviant."
    She turned slowly at his return, reached for the jar and lifted it as though it were the most precious jewel in all of Soto. She forced the despondent thoughts from her head, determined to be as lighthearted as she thought she would have been. Not querulous and nervy to be inside his home. Not mentally unbalanced and prone to razing half the city to the ground. Just friendly and enjoyable.
    It looked like strawberry, maybe. She'd already thought to bring jam with her, but she wasn't even mad. Nobody could be mad over jam. Well except maybe Phaedrus.

    "Yeh got a good nose, necromancer. It was supposed tae be a surprise."
    The wry grin that split her mouth was only a little abashed as she produced another smaller jar, not as fancy as his, but darker, purple as the sky before full night broke.
    "I got cherry jam, some scones, and some wee crackers, an' a nice sharp cheese. It's made from sheep. An' apricots. Yeh better be hungry, else I'll hae all the jam tae myself, an' I won't e'en be ashamed."
    She tucked the jars back into her basket, rested it against one ample hip, and returned his grin, then stepped forward and looped her arm through his free one.
    "Aye cap'n! To the park!"
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    Phaedrus
    Member Avatar
    Thus conscience does make cowards of us all/ And thus the native hue of resolution/ Is sicklied o'er with the pale cast of thought.

    Especially the Ashokans.” A smirk curled his lip, said in jest—but he gnawed on the bitterness of it, the hard grain of truth. How else do they cope with such a rotting pustule of a Moghul—

    No.

    She was here. Thought of that bastard would not taint the time they had. Drawing a deep breath, the necromancer swept away the memory, sent it scattering like so many roaches at the fury of a broom. But, like vermin, new ones rushed in to replace them.

    The deflated edge in her voice sent his mood plummeting, made him choke on his own false cheer. A pall rolled over them both, an omen that didn’t take lightly to being forgotten. Everything, from the set of her shoulders to her downcast eyes screamed it, gouged the resolution only further into him.

    I will help you.

    He’d sworn it in Eldahar—and even if he was a failure in all else, a bitter drunk and rake, his morals rotted under a shell of youth, at least he was a man of his word. He’d sworn it, and as more had come to light… his conscience stirred from its years of hibernation, prodded him awake. The village on the Kaadian, Ahmim, now this—each shook him from his torpor, reminded him of the world at large. That once, perhaps, he’d felt a greater responsibility to the living than growing fat on teacakes and picking out new curtains. Remember? Laughable, now—a wisp, a shadow of his old strength, de-fanged, de-clawed.

    Too long he’d dithered, hidden, controlled by the fear of reclaiming the full strength of his Craft. Years he’d played the foolish, weak young man, tittered over wine and tamped down the darkness in the quiet hopes it might forget him, untether him from the trappings of power. Fool. Gods, in the end, he did not want it. Power meant responsibility, and his was no small burden. He did not want greatness or notoriety—he was terrified of the things he knew, the black tongues that hid in his skull, the sorcery best left dead.

    But… he couldn’t shrink from it any longer, duck his head and pretend at being nothing more than a spoilt dandy. Ahmim showed him the price of his indolence. If he had been stronger… if he had remastered the Cants, the spells of binding… A thousand outcomes came to him in hindsight, a thousand ifs, to no point. The grief of the men’s mothers lived on in his memory, tortured him. When he slept, their faces gathered around him, gazes lingering long after he screamed himself awake.

    He would not make that same mistake again. Not when so much more was at stake.

    “For later.” It was hard to tear his eyes away. They kept wandering back, drawn to the glow of her cheeks, her effortless radiance. The longer he looked at her, the slower his thoughts came, the less urgent—till they crawled to molasses, halting entirely. Later. What a magic word. Later was for the horrors he had unearthed, the sound of chains and shrieking granite. For the memories struggling through the cracks. For the long, arduous journey ahead, each path equally bloody.

    Later. It became a mantra. Later, later. First, we are having a picnic.

    “Rather wish he scrubbed,” Phaedrus scoffed back, a twisted smile hooking his features. Ah, but he’d missed her wit. Glede had the verbal repartee of a dead trout — in the few miracles when it didn’t sail over his helm. And Modeste! The simple thought of bollocks was enough to turn him red and fainting, every jest met with a gasp of, oh, Master Phaedrus! How unseemly! or something equally scandalized. Everyone in Madrid sported a firm rod up their arse— devils, but this was refreshing. He found himself relaxing around her, shoulders rolling. A chuckle escaped him.

    “Lucky guess, I suppose. What else were you going to surprise me with?” Now he was interested. Well, frankly, she’d had him at picnic. But scones? The necromancer’s eyes widened a fraction—cherry? he loved cherry—glued to the jar like a cat following a bird. His stomach answered with a demonic growl. Rather unseemly of it, really. Phaedrus gave it an embarrassed pat, smoothing his tunic.

    “Well, you’ve wooed me.” A lazy grin stretched his face, eyes dancing with a hint of challenge. He planted one hand on his hip, brow arched. “Eat all the jam yourself? Over my cold arse. Good thing there’s two jars, else there might be riots.”

    Her hip bumped against him. A moment later, her arm slipped comfortably into his—he hadn’t realized how empty the space was until she filled it, welcome, warm. It felt… right. The necromancer smiled back at her grinning face, adjusting the blanket and nudging the door open with his foot. A snap and muttered ward later, and they were out the door, bathed in sunlight. The trees dappled the streets with shadow, heads bent like gossiping crones. Birds exploded from the branches, chasing each other in fits of wings and chirrups. Once they’d passed Willowfair, he’d decided on the scenic route — after all, she’d never seen Madrid, and he took the mantle of an impromptu tour guide, peppering the streets with gossip and history. It was easy to blather about the Council of Kings, and how Soto had come to its own, despite its clash in the Origa and the haze of the Mianor. His spirits swung, positively buoyant, and as a result he could not keep his mouth shut, practically winding himself.

    “…and that’s a menagerie, actually—the owner used to open it on weekends, but ever since he found Michael Zauber seducing his ostrich, he put up an extra gate—”

    “—over there is Councilor Bellamy’s school for girl—oh, but the whole system of Councilors — it’s based on guilds, you see, not like the monarchy in Morrim, no, no… rather interesting, actually… did you know there’s a guild for dildos?— I’m sodding serious, it’s technically under the wood workers association—”

    “—Ah, here.” He stopped abruptly, pointing as well as he could while laden with a blanket, wine bottle swinging by his fingers. “That is the Guildhall, at the very top of Madrid.” The necromancer squinted at its silhouetted shape against the sun, a proud, towering array of columns and lanterns. Smoke rose up from the building’s platform, and a bright cluster of people milled around the steps, mere specks at a distance. Satisfied, the necromancer put his arm down, continuing his sauntering pace. “They must be burning the offerings now. Sotoans have a god for everything, but in the summer they sacrifice to their earth goddess, Gaena, and everyone gets pissed in her honor.” A cheeky grin dimpled his face, and the necromancer chased a pebble with his boot, eyes lazily drifting down the cobbles. “Ah, we’re close now, I promise. You’ll like the Immortal Gardens. They’re the most beautiful part of the city…”

    Just a few paces, now. Phaedrus stopped looking at the road, ignoring passersby — he’d made this walk a thousand times, drunk, sober, half-asleep at midnight, wretchedly awake in the pre-dawn. His feet knew the way. Instead, he watched the elemental. He wanted to see her face when they crossed the gates, suddenly anxious for her reaction.

    “Here.”

    Well, he didn’t have to say it. That much was obvious to anyone with two eyes—even just a nose would do. It was as if the heart of some forest grove had sprouted in the midst of a city, washing over the cobbles and gushing over buildings. Rose vines bloomed over their heads, groomed and sculpted into archways that led through the garden. Bees hummed, competing with the tiny birds flitting between splashes of flowers. The entire landscape looked like an artist’s turned oil tray — purples mingled with yellows, shot with greens, reds — lilies nodded at rhododendrons, swayed with chrysanthemums. Lotuses shattered the black mirror of a pond, bobbing on its surface like meditative pink monks. There were flowers he had no names for, too many for a single botany book. Certainly too many for a whole encyclopedia.

    Lutes joined the hum of insects. People were whirling further in the gardens, joined in a whooping circle as their bright shawls flapped behind them, streaking like standards on the verdant grass. Someone had strung the pond bridge with chains of flowers and baubles, chimes that sung with every tickle of breeze.

    “Well?” Phaedrus paused, let her take it all in — watched her like a satisfied cat, playfully tugging her arm in his. “What do you think? Found a spot you like?”
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    Bast
    Member Avatar
    'He shall be tormented with fire and brimstone.../And the smoke of their torment ascendeth up, for ever and ever;'

    She was glad when he echoed her sentiments of later. There would be time to catch up with other things first. More demanding things, anchored right here in the present as opposed to ghosting through their past, recent or distant. Say nothing of their proximity and the distraction it caused, nor the memory of cool lips moving against one another, bodies shifting restlessly with familiar heat.

    The elemental cleared her throat delicately, focused her attentions on her fidgeting hands, at a loss of where to look. He was staring again, the same delicious feeling of...was it control? Perhaps it was, to a kind, bubbling up and riding the self consciousness to the surface in a coy smirk. It was a tiny taste of what she thought the lovely and demure women in stories bust have been like, Ashokan queens in their floods of silk and brightly coloured birds ornamenting their personages like gems. Just a flick of a fan, lowering lids and gracious smiles that set hearts to thrumming and suitors to swooning. Was that how they did it?

    Maybe she could allow that for a while, turn the discomfort aside and allow herself to feel gazed at as more than just a piece of meat, or something so grotesque that one couldn't drag their gaze away, latched on with horrified fascination. She almost laughed when the thought that he'd seen her naked fluttered through her head giddily. Well, who hadn't, honestly. Her tendency to alter her matrix and take a new shape when the metaphorical shit hit the fan meant clothes were at best, passingly useful.

    No, that wasn't what she meant. He'd seen beneath that, the myriad network of starlight interweaving, her ragged mouth and the abyss of her empty eyes. Just as she'd seen the flesh desiccating from his bones and turning to dust. It was a shared, intimate secret. And naturally, having never thought of it that way before, made it all the more amusing.

    "T'was easier than I thought it would be." She quipped. Honestly, she'd never met anyone who enjoyed food so much. But then, a lifetime of undeath would probably do that to you. She only wished she could partake in the joy of drinking things the way he did, and viewed it with a little envy. Part of her had wished he'd splashed her back in that fountain in Eldahar, just to see what would have happened, though they both knew. To be able to feel those things..would that make her one step closer to human? She smiled ruefully, patting the cloth over the top of the basket.

    "Maybe...later."
    Her smile was fiendish as well as suggestive. The thought of licking jam off of him in front of a park full of strangers at their festivities didn't quite appeal though. Not that frolicking outside didn't but...in broad daylight, with a ready audience? No, she'd leave that one to his imagination, for all the pretense lacing the word. At this rate it was going to become some sort of inside-joke-trigger-code-word.
    "Dinnae cross me, sweetheart. Yeh ken what they say aboot playin' wit' fire..."

    She was content to let him chatter away, listening enchanted more to the sound of his voice than the actual words, slipping in and out of focusing on the content. Bast wouldn't deny that Madrid was stunning as it was now, decidedly more so than it would ever be in the winter with its bare skeletal trees and sodden pathways. Faded memories sprang to life as they passed places, most of them triggering nothing, but for the odd one or two in days past. She'd never traveled much then, Antenoch had cloistered himself more and more as time went on, until she wondered if he'd been hiding from something, crouched like an old spider in his lair slowly going to ruin. As if the location wasn't already difficult enough to reach.

    She could remember a port city, now called Reine, just a town then, and Etruria, but that wasn't surprising. Maybe they stuck in her head because of the troubles he had to go through to disguise the fact he was carrying a potentially deadly bodyguard with him on those excursions. Only once did she stop as they toured the streets, puzzlement etched on her face as the old memory surged fresh, overlaying the neat little garden laid out in the middle of a square. The faceless statue still gazed down imposingly, though now it was wreathed in strangling creepers and flowering lianas, his feet buried in a carpet of nameless posies. It had been a man once, some founder she supposed. The plaque was too weathered to read, and like much of the city she'd seen so far, it was as if the earth was trying to reclaim what was built here for itself.

    "What happened to his face?"
    She lifted her hand from Phaedrus' arm, pointed up at the weathered figure, then dropped her arm, a little puzzled as to why someone would do it, and fought the urge renewing itself to scale it.
    "I climbed him once and sat on his heid. Everyone was right pissed off wit' me. Mostly because my skirt fell over his face, an' when my master yelled at me I...misbehaved."
    She grinned shamelessly at the memory, and laid her hand on his arm once more. The words were since gone, as if the recollection had been sheared away like ripped paper, but she could remember his face purpling with apoplectic rage as he demanded she get down, instead only eliciting her to arch her back and make loud inappropriate noises much to the entertainment of the gathering crowd.

    "An ostrich? Gods, he's brave. Or a complete noddle. I mean...not that I'd..seduce an ostrich."
    Brave and bloody weird. Her brief encounter with Michael Zauber had ended up with pastry in her cleavage and a whole lot of confusion. Lightheartedly, she teased; "I prefer peacocks."

    Bast didn't mind that what started each time as some historical note on the place often veered away to odd pieces of information. Especially so when it set her to cackling like a dirty old lecher. Which was most adamantly was not. Even if the conversation was about the very specific uh..self pleasuring instruments of the woodworker's guild.

    When the babble of laughter eased, she wiped a stinging tear from the corner of her eye, and gawked at the welcome sight of the park. It was so...so...green. Kinaldi had similar such gardens she was sure, but had declined to set foot back there, both incited and afraid for the changes she knew she'd see. Part of her had wanted to preserve that memory she had of the place, while still itching to rediscover the city itself, causing a mini war in her mind.
    If it was anything like this though...perhaps she'd been wrong to stay away.

    Her breath caught in her throat before she remembered to breath, if only to continue sampling the aromas wafting from the gardens. Trees and grasses of course, but flowers, so many of them scattered, fresh water and people, woodsmoke and somewhere, cooking meat and vegetables, probably over a charcoal brazier. The exciting chatter of so many people flitting about in their bright colours and obvious merriment was uplifting, even from a distance. A bee settled on her shoulder, tickling, while they stood there.
    "It's...really special. Beautiful...glorious e'en."
    The words were inadequate, but she thirsted for it, for the feel of cool grass springing between her toes, the softness of petals and the wavering dappled shade of the protective tree cover. Her hand snaked out, cupping a bobbing bloom from a rose arch as they passed through it, relishing the velvety texture on her skin. It was difficult to keep her temperature so low, lest they wither, but it would become easier, second nature soon enough.

    "What aboot o'er there?"
    She pointed excitedly at a patch some way from the path, still within view of the festivities, but beneath the trees, a green cathedral in miniature. Bast hardly waited for Phaedrus to agree before she tugged him along gleefully, then slipped her arm free and deposited the basket on the ground. She stooped, her fingers flying to the ties of her sandals and had them off in a matter of seconds, wiggling her toes with delight in the grass.
    "Have yeh ever seen anything like it before? Oh, oh what is..how's he doin' that?"
    She balanced on tiptoes in her excitement, her eyes fixed on the colourful figure walking on stilts, a feathered headdress bouncing gaily on his head, his mask styled to look like a beak. He was followed by a train of laughing dandies, each waving paper streamers that spilled out in the breeze behind them.

    After a few moments of childish glee, she dropped to her knees and whipped the cover from the basket, displacing the aforementioned food items onto the cloth in no particular order. Following that went a handful of silverware that didn't match, and a pair of chipped teacups. Well she would have had the picnic anyway even if he hadn't been there. The fact he was just made it the greatest. The only thing it lacked now was the crazy fae witchdoctor and the weird little goat-kid from Eldahar. Then she'd have all her friends in one place.
    Even without them though, it was pretty great. She couldn't think of a single time that she'd been able to just spend time with someone else, no strings attached.
    "Ahh, this is the greatest day ever! D'yeh think he'd let me try to walk on his leg-sticks? An' wear his hat? We should get some of those pretteh paper-tails, and..." she sighed chirpily, face splitting in a ripe grin. "I wish I could play an instrument. I was never allowed, I got angry because I was crap at it and set it on fire."
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    Phaedrus
    Member Avatar
    Thus conscience does make cowards of us all/ And thus the native hue of resolution/ Is sicklied o'er with the pale cast of thought.

    Later.

    He took the meaning of her smile — couldn’t help one himself, utterly wicked. Aaand his imagination dived headlong, face-first into a gutter. Perhaps hoped to go south somewhere else, for that matter. He couldn’t blame the summer heat for everything, skin prickling under her smoldering eyes. Last he’d seen that look, they’d been significantly more naked.

    A laugh cooled him somewhat, sent a mental splash of cold water down his neck. Picnic. Reconvene. Thoughts spilled from their anthills, swarmed back into some cohesion. When she stopped, it broke him out of his yammering, put a tripwire before his tongue. “…supposedly, a mad faun turned that very tree into a— hm?” Phaedrus followed her eyes to where she pointed, shading his eyes against the sun filtering through the trees. A statue towered over them, mustering its best attempt at a glower—rather impressive, really, given its face had fallen off, and ivy crawled through one ear. He felt some solidarity.

    “Had a rough night, I suppose.” The necromancer squinted, losing interest in the ruined statue as the elemental told her story. By the end a nun would have made a sign and prayer at the grin on his face. He never thought he’d be envious of a statue, but then, life still found ways to surprise him. Her? Misbehave? Why, he never… A laugh spilt off his lips. “Set a trend, did you? Maybe that’s why his face fell off. Well, there are worse ways to go. Lucky bastard.” Something mischievous danced in his eyes. Curiosity got the better of him, rearing its head amidst the new thoughts sailing towards the gutter. Antenoch was here? His guts jolted. The tireless part of his mind, the horrid gremlin that picked and clawed at clues, hemmed for his attention. Then—could he have left things behind? Besides the Constructio…

    Careful. If he probed too much, it could very well break the frail happiness that built itself around them, leaving them exposed. Another time, Phaedrus. He cleared his throat and went off on another topic, leaves crunching under his boots. By the time they’d gotten to the gardens, it’d been chased away, sullenly resigned to another corner of his mind.

    Her reaction was priceless. Surprise peeped through first, trickling through in the quiet ‘o’ of her mouth and widened eyes—then joy broke fully across her face, pure and clear. It felt good. For a moment he forgot himself entirely, a smile peeking through his lips, caught up in secondhand excitement. She was so… honest. The excitement on her face was genuine, the soft exclamation — it refreshed his surroundings, chipped through the jadedness that had come with familiarity. For a moment he felt the same as he did when he first stepped foot here, marveling at the opulence.

    “Alr—“ not a second to agree before she’d practically torn his arm off in excitement, running towards the overgrown gazebo. He carefully deposited the wine on the ground like a precious parcel, then set to flapping out the blanket. It hit him in the face before he tamed it enough to spread it on the ground, coughing abashedly. Taking her example, Phaedrus kicked off his boots, flopping himself on the blanket with expert laziness. A long, pleased sigh tapered off his lips as he tucked his arms behind his head, content with the view. A breeze tickled the garden, sending Bast’s dress clinging to her perfect rear. No, I have never seen an arse like… oh, the performers.

    Dimly, he registered some revelry out of his peripheral vision. Oh, yes. How fanciful. Nonplussed, his eyes returned to the greater entertainment, wondering precisely what she meant by surprise

    When she turned, he played innocent, gaze tilted up at the swaying branches. The shade of the gardens cooled the summer day some, and he found himself relaxing, enjoying the warm dapples of sunlight on his arms and face. “This is nice,” Phaedrus admitted, sighing as he slid one leg up. When was the last time he had done this? Just… relaxed, enjoyed himself? The past months had flown by in a maelstrom of work and research, mostly spent in dusty libraries or the choking horror of Madrid’s catacombs. It was easy to forget the world still sat there, bursting with colors and the full gamut of life. Bother. This was perfect. He took a deep breath of fresh air, savoring the moment—tried to extend it, somehow, keep it jarred and tidy, clinging to its skirts before it could pass.

    The smell of food revived him, stirred him out of the danger of an imminent nap. Phaedrus rolled over like an obedient dog, propping his head up on his fist. A smile tugged up his plump cheek. “You’re good at climbing, aren’t you? Give it a go. I promise I’ll catch you,” he teased, realizing belatedly that she might actually take his word for it. An image of screaming and tangled stilts galloped through his mind, crashed a second later. The necromancer shook his head, curls bouncing. “Well… maybe if you ask nicely.” Devils, but he was ravenous. He dug for a scone, unscrewing the lid on the cherry jam and slathering a happy dollop onto the pastry. It disappeared into his mouth, delightfully tangy and sweet at once, cloying with its thickness. Need a drink. As the elemental spoke, he uncorked the wine in a practiced twist of his wrist, pouring a splash into two teacups.

    “Fhats a fhame,” he attempted through a mouthful of scone, pausing, one hand fluttering in a gesture to wait. Phaedrus swallowed thickly, picking up his wine with the effete manner reserved for a teacup, taking an equally affected sip. Once the choking subsided, he grinned, setting the cup against its saucer with a sharp clink. “…That’s a shame,” he amended, eying the cheese. “I’ve dabbled, myself. Ah, sod it, if I’d brought one, I’d teach you… hm.” The necromancer looked up, fingers hovering over the cheese knife. There was a bard some paces away, apparently gone from the world of the living. Empty wine bottles rolled by his bare feet, and if he supposed right, then those were his pants hanging from the branches of an old oak. Snores occasionally rose over the din of the festivities, rumbling out of his thin chest.

    The necromancer sat up fully, leaning conspiratorially into Bast’s ear. “I don’t suppose he needs his lute,” Phaedrus grinned, brow arched. He pulled away, but not before smoothing a wild strand of hair behind her ear, watching her response through lowered eyelids. “Tell you what. I’ll serenade you if you fix some cheese and crackers. Deal?”
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    Bast
    Member Avatar
    'He shall be tormented with fire and brimstone.../And the smoke of their torment ascendeth up, for ever and ever;'

    Just as well they were in Soto where the religion was, apparently, much more lax than Ashoka. From first hand experience she could manage that he'd have been apprehended for the filthy smirk that kept shifting her way. Apprehended but due to her being a woman the blame would likely have been shifted onto her anyway. Well...it wasn't completely misguided. This time she had been the root cause.

    That didn't mean that she didn't like it.

    Laughter gurgled in her throat, and she shook her head in mock embarrassment, setting her bangs to twisting gaily in the breeze.
    "He'd be a first."
    Her gaze slid slyly sideways, viewed him under drooping lids and dusty lashes.
    "Sides, yours ne'er fell off."
    She was glad all the same to walk away from it, leave the scattered recollections of her former life behind, feeble ghosts that called plaintively after her, as though examining them again and again might bring them closer to rebirth. Not for them, she knew. Nothing truly died so long as you remembered it, but neither would it truly live again. In that it was held captive, a tormented state of half life, trapped within the minds of those who could remember. They would not ascend and fly again. Not like her. She was a phoenix.
    A smile lit on her face at the thought, one of quiet anticipation. She supposed for all the thoughts that her life might well end soon, she'd never truly expected to fail. But that might have been down to the previous deaths. She'd never really truly died, and perhaps even if this one time it went wrong, well...somewhere, someone would birth another her, repeat the cycle again, even if she lost everything this time.

    She was surprised in turning from the festivities to find that he didn't mirror her excitement. Of course, he'd probably seen it a hundred times before. She felt a little foolish at her childish exuberance, and flicked her eyes heavenwards, wondering what was so fascinating that had captivated his attention.
    "Aye."
    Nothing, of course. Well let him keep his mysteries, everyone had to have at least one. It kept things exciting not to know every last tiny detail.
    "Oh aye, I bet yeh would, if yeh could stop bendin' yer heid at an unnatural angle tae peer up me drawers. Sides..." She glanced up,then returned to shuffling the contents of her basket, shuddering as her fingers brushed cold metal, came away feeling distinctly dirty, stained, oily even. "Ent nae faces tae sit on up there."

    I shoulda worn pants. Then I could walk on bird-legs.

    Somewhere there was probably someone screaming in indignation at unladylike behavior. The very idea let a secret smirk creep across her, head bowed as she located the little green cloth bundle that held the more delicate things. Paper crackled as she brushed the surprise, and her smile grew toothier.
    "Ey, dinnae choke yerself! Yeh bloody ninny!"

    She helped herself to a scone, breaking it haphazardly in half with her fingers and picking one of the dried sultanas out. It vanished behind her lips, tongue flicking out to catch the last crumbs on her fingers, then snatched at the cherry jam. A brief woeful thought assaulted her that it wouldn't last long between them, consoled only by the fact that he'd presented a satisfactory offering right before they left. It probably wouldn't last the afternoon but you never knew.

    Bast tilted the jar, watching it slide inexorably to its doom, or possibly salvation onto the scone. She slapped the two halves of the scone together, jam oozing from the sides of her construction. It wasn't perfect, but then, perhaps that was the greatest part. It was messy, but she'd never deluded herself that it was going to be otherwise. She swiped her finger around the rim of the jar and stuffed it greedily into her mouth, then bared it again with a popping sound as she freed it again.

    Well, everyone had their own food rituals, right?

    Mouth full of the scone she'd just bitten into, she almost choked herself at his sudden closeness, not unwelcome as it was, eyes wide as he brushed back her hair. It was all she could do to murmur an assent and swallow, feeling more like a fat little hamster than a woman worthy of such silly dalliances as poetry and...was this his idea of courtship? He'd never stuck her as the type funnily enough. She was supposed to be the one with the unrequited emotional attachments. She was the woman, after all, though that was thrown into doubt when she was reminded of the fact they'd been called lesbians once.

    Well she could get used to having someone treat her that way, certainly.

    Was it wrong that she was feeling so covetous of that moment, like she'd deck the first person to interrupt or steal her company?

    Nah.

    She set to preparing cheese and crackers with a will, grabbing up the sharp little knife and cutting slivers from the pale cream coloured wedge. She could have gone back to eating sticks and grass, it would as like be just as nourishing. Didn't taste anywhere near as good though, and who wanted to eat sticks anyway?
    Belatedly she thought that she should have bought some plates or something. Instead there was a small heap of seed crackers building up, each laden with a thin slice of cheese. She took one for herself while she waited for him, and added jam, the combination of the sharp tang of the dairy complimenting the sweetness of the fruit excellently.
    "Sooo? Impress me, and I might give yeh sommat."
    The elemental tucked her knees up to her chest, tugging her skirts down until they pooled on the grass, completely hiding her toes, and waited, bright eyed and only slightly mocking.
    "Nae pressure like."
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    Phaedrus
    Member Avatar
    Thus conscience does make cowards of us all/ And thus the native hue of resolution/ Is sicklied o'er with the pale cast of thought.

    His grand heist was rather straightforward, all told. His hapless victim suspected nothing, perhaps because he'd been whisked off to the realm of impending hangovers, sprawled like a messily arranged... angel. A bit of drool trickled down one cheek, rather spoiling the sweetness of his face. The necromancer made no noise as he moved, feet puttering lightly over the grass. Frankly, if he’d ridden an elephant made of cymbals, the man would not have woken. Still, caution first…

    He returned with the lute and a devil's smile. 

    "Now, then." The grass welcomed his arse as he plopped down again, a hint of mockery dancing in his eyes. But as he arranged himself, fingers probing for the strings, he found himself faltering, no longer so sure of his role as a jester. Rather, it quite felt like someone had duped him into it, tamed a laughing hyena and hapless rake, to sit and… play a sonnet? What? Her eyes shone expectantly as he tuned the thing, hassling with the knobs to haggle a few seconds. 

    Well. Now he felt perfectly absurd. Of a sudden, his mouth went dry, failing him at a most critical moment. He was a man that sung in the privacy of his bath, or under the excuse of generous amounts of wine. Speaking of wine… His cup flashed invitingly in the sunlight, and the necromancer took a long sip, setting it down on its saucer with a resolute clink.

    “No pressure,” Phaedrus echoed, a smirk quick on his face. Idly he hunted for a melody, fingers dancing over the strings with languid ease. He clucked his tongue, hair bouncing as he shook his head. “A hard patron, I see. Very well, I’ll compose something just for you.” An idea flashed in his mind, a flank of inspiration disappearing in the brush. Every wretched story needs a hero, some kind of maiden, and… a villain, of course. His cold eyes slid over to the bloke snoring into the grass, blissfully unaware of his lute’s captor.

    Well, then.

    Decided, the melody slowed, became the weighty hum for a retelling of an odyssey — a tempo for wandering epics and great loves lost, the solemn heroism reserved for the worst fantasy he could think of. He’d become an unsung master of it, after all, what with… ah, no matter. The world would not know him as Smutpurn yet. The necromancer smiled innocently, meeting her eyes before his gaze capered down to his fingers. He could carry a melody fair enough, and his voice sprung clear and pleasant to the ear. Pleasant enough to not be kicked immediately out of taverns, at any rate.

    “Come thee, and listen:

    Before the lands that Gaia wove,
    Before the sun and moon split in two
    O’er unlit eves and starless groves
    Lived a silence only gods knew.

    In this, I swear: the First Men lived in quiet here,
    Without music, lyre and lute each fair
    Nor song to play sweet to the mortal ear,
    And no lovers danced in the summer air.

    Yet birds chirped and frogs croaked, and all of nature sung,
    All but one creature — all but one…”


    The melody joined the merriment floating from the rest of the gardens, mingling with flutes and laughter. At points his fingers plucked a hint of Ashoka from the strings, a warble half-remembered from Etruria. He always found Sotoan melodies fine but dull after a point, lacking the vivacity of the deserts.

    ”The goddess Sappho watched from her tower,
    Delighting in the music she gave all things,
    And her starry eyes burnt through the unlit hours.
    But though the rest found their voices, still man did not sing.

    ‘Poor creatures!’ She cried, and marked their flaw.
    ‘They have no beaks to chirp, or throats to croak.
    Very well: I will grant a gift to mankind all
    That you might play fair ‘neath stirring oaks.’

    With glowing hands she forged it, part by part
    Limned in shining flame, baptized in a star,
    And plucked its chords from her own heart,
    So its notes struck true and echoed far.

    Her work done, she fell to earth, flanked by fire,
    And smiled on the first man she met, folding her wings.
    ‘Do not fear, child of mine: I bear a gift, not ire.
    A lyre, I call it, and it will allow you to sing.’”


    And the words came, burbling like a brook, flung from the tip of his tongue or borrowed in pieces from poems and Sotoan tales. He sung on how man made music to rival the wind and crash of the sea — how it was at once the gurgle of a spring and the warble of a nightingale, sweet to the ear. And he clucked on how it stirred the jealousy of beasts, that man had been given so fair a gift—how it had been stolen by a vicious creature with half the body of man and half of an oxen, hidden in a grove and guarded jealously.

    He told her how man suffered, crafting instruments of their own from wood and mortal gold, but none came close to the sound of Sappho’s; how warrior after warrior fell in their quest to reclaim it, their skulls lining the den of their victor. And how the beast laughed, for he was strong but not clever, delighting only in bloodshed.

    “Now, there was a man who was clever but not strong,
    Who could not heft a sword or string a bow,
    And his hair was like a maiden’s, brushed and long,
    And all the village laughed when he declared he’d go…”


    A smirk broke out on his face but he stifled it, trying not to laugh and spoil the surprise.

    ”He donned a merchant’s hat and clothes,
    And filled his packs with wine.
    At last he hid a poisoned dagger in his seller’s hose,
    And set off through the pines…”


    He sung on his journey into the woods and through each trial, till at last he came upon the beast — hideous, bristling, his red teeth bared to fight. But, he strummed, the monster saw he had no sword or armor, and was but a lost, frightened thing — he’d take no pride in killing this one. And the man begged and screamed, and bartered for his life in exchange for his wares. The beast laughed and stole his goods, and cast him away. That night he ate of horse and drank all the man’s wine, and the thought of the scared merchant pleased him. His belly full, the monster settled into a deep sleep, and did not wake. But the man watched all the while, and crept from the boughs to strike the final blow.

    “Triumphant, he stuck the dagger in the monster’s breast—
    But no— his foe heaved, and with a sudden roar,
    Plunged his wicked blade into the seeker’s chest;
    And both they fell, tangled on the forest floor.

    Beaten, bruised, and famished he
    At last bested, fell in the shade of that tree
    Begged at heav'n, begged at hell
    That he might live enough to be rewarded well 

    There in the boughs he saw it, gleaming gold
    Winking and dappled by the fading sun
    And knew it to be that lyre of old
    Within his grasp at last, the beast slain, his trials done.

    Cold and dying, his fingers wrung
    A single note from the lyre
    And in the darkness sprung
    A burning vision, a maiden bathed in fire

    So bright he took her for the star,
    Eu’la, that guides the dead to distant shores,
    And he wept aloud: ‘Is this my fate, to have come so far,
    and die ’neath an oak, ferried by the Boatman’s oars?’

    She spoke, and motes danced, and birds took wing:
    ‘My sister does not shine as I; her light is cold and grim.
    I am the break of dawn, the sun and spring,
    And you have called me, though too late to wrest thee from Him.

    ‘No, child. I am Sappho, a muse of old,
    Who lived when the gods still walked these grounds.
    And it is my lyre that you hold.’
    He cried: ‘O Sappho! What the beast stole, I have found;

    What was lost so long, I saved,
    I have come too far, and suffered such labors,
    For this quest to be my grave!
    I beg of thee, I beg my life as my favor…’

    She turned her head, and wished to weep,
    For the monster’s blow was cruel,
    And the steel had bitten deep,
    Pooling his blood like a bed of jewels.

    ‘I cannot steal you from my kin,
    I have told you this: it is not my place.’
    And she cursed the monster’s sin
    As she swept the tears from the young man’s face.

    ‘Have you another request, before you meet thy Maker?’

    He wept, and cried: ‘Prithee, prithee,
    I only ask for this: 
    A slice of cheese… and cracker.’”


    With the solemnity reserved for a tragic epic, the necromancer strummed out a final, mournful chord for emphasis, head bowed. Gods, but he was thirsty now. His throat felt sandier than a djinniyeh’s twat. A moment of silence passed as he strangled a laugh, lips twisting. Phaedrus rested the lute on his knees, raising his gaze expectantly to the elemental.

    “I call it… Hors’departure.” He swept up his cup, fanning his pallid fingers over his chest in the affect of a solemn poet. By some miracle he took a sip of wine without spraying it everywhere, hiding his twitching smirk behind its chipped rim. As he swallowed, a snort escaped him, snowballing until it burst into laughter, high and fey.

    “Devils. Forgive me. That was… terrible.” The worst pun you’ve made this week, in fact. Quieting down, the necromancer swilled his wine, pinkie held out from the teacup on reflex. As he wrangled his smile under control, it dawned on him that she might not be as appreciative of his arguably disturbed sense of humor, but… well. Clearing his throat with a delicate cough, Phaedrus took another sip of wine, reclining on his palm. The grass sprung between his fingers, cool against his hand, and he plucked at it, twisting a dandelion away from the soil.

    “...Well? Have I earned your patronage, or are you just going to throw dung at my face and have done with it?” A wicked grin slashed his lips. “I wouldn’t blame you if you did.” But aye, there was the rub. People never recognized his genius. After all, the writer’s guild hardly appreciated the first draft of The Lusty Cloak Collector…
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    Bast
    Member Avatar
    'He shall be tormented with fire and brimstone.../And the smoke of their torment ascendeth up, for ever and ever;'

    Honestly she hadn't really expected him to rise to the occasion, innuendo aside. No, what she'd expected was another joke, glancing aside the not-so-coyly presented suggestion, and half the cracker-stack to swiftly vanish down his gullet. Considering he was supposedly an undead abomination, the thought shouldn't have surprised her, yet it did. He never once came across to her as terribly frightening or repulsive. No more than any human anyway. If he'd dislocated his jaw right then and eaten the entire picnic basket she'd have only been mildly annoyed.

    Mischief wrote itself all across her face as he snatched the musician's lute, coveted it like a prized jewel and returned her. Barely contained excitement bubbling just below the surface, in the twitching of her fingers kneading into her skirt, the slight shift of her backside on the grass, the wiggling of her concealed toes.

    She wondered if he was deliberately delaying, her dark eyes fixed on his graceful fingers as he tampered with foreign nubs and strings, watched the dappling play of light on the grain of the wood, and impatiently tolerated the rise and fall of his adam's apple as he swallowed more wine.
    She couldn't fault him, it was warm, but then, she was always warm, so what would she know?

    Imperceptibly at first, Bast leaned forward, her gaze riveted on him til her chin sat cupped in the palm of her hand, a stupid smile wandering her lips, lopsided and yet perfectly suited to her pointed chin. She was just glad of the opportunity to view him in a way that while he'd probably done it a hundred times for a thousand others, had not had the pleasure before. She hadn't really realized that she was only half listening, caught up in the curiously hypnotic movement on the strings, his concentration so intent, when Sappho plucked at her, niggling, a half forgotten name. Something to do with a lyre and women...

    Her teeth parted in a delighted, beaming smile as he continued singing in dulcet tones fit better for a court than her coarse ungodly ear, determined to pay better attention and stop scrutinizing him quite so hard.

    Her smile dissolved into a look of surprise when she pieced the description of this feminine man and her singer together, quickly shifting her fingers to press over her mouth, though it hid not the crinkling of her eyes as she tried to suppress the silent laugh, nor the shaking of her shoulders. How vain, to work one's own self into a song...but it was so him, and she thought she could forgive him that.
    Her eyes gleamed when he sang of the man's cunning, of drugging his bestial foe to gain the upper hand, breathed sharply in delight and incredulity that the beast would yet fight and sadly strike down the man with courage to do what no other would.

    A bittersweet ending, she thought, a tender ache thrumming in her breast, til he went and finished it like that.
    Her teeth snapped shut on her lower lip, unsure whether she should be wiping burning tears away or laughing like an idiot for such pretty prose all tangled up with such a typically....typically...Phaedrus thing to do.

    Hors'departure. Ye Gods..

    She sat staring at him dumbstruck, her eyes still shining yet, she had nothing to say. No clever quip or witty admonition sprang to her lips. Abruptly she leaned back, collecting a couple of the crackers she'd prepared and the little package hidden at the bottom of the basket. it was cruel, she supposed, to lead someone along like that and end the story so...so...

    But it was funny. She couldn't deny that, and his laughter was as rewarding as the song itself.

    Bast stood and padded to where he sat, then lifted the lute from his lap and set it gently aside in the grass. Hopefully nobody would step on it, it would be a little difficult to return to its owner if it was in pieces. She did the same with his teacup, lest it splash on her and spoil everything with her shrieking and leaking burning essence everywhere.
    "Close yer eyes."
    She found herself responding to the wickedness in his smile with an answering smolder of her own, lips lifting into a sharp smirk. Then she sat on him quite unceremoniously, wiggling her backside just enough to get comfortable. For a man so well rounded, he had awfully bony knees. Funny she'd not noticed before.

    "I didnae gi'e yeh permission tae open 'em yet."
    She unwrapped the baklava with some temerity, smoothing the cloth across her knee, positively thrumming with excitement. It was hard to forget how animatedly he'd spoken about it when they were Ashoka. In doing so she stopped, turning her left hand and noting the sparks of light skittering across the band she'd taken to wearing ever since it had rattled from the confines of its dark prison. The engraved design was the planar word for Ash, the metal cool on the outside, warm against her skin, and grey as the sea in a storm, but strangely light where the sun touched it.

    They'd get to that, in time. But first...
    She leaned back, tipping her head against his shoulder, grinning mouth beside his ear, her fingers tearing it into smaller more manageable parts.
    "Open yer mouth..."
    She pinched a morsel between thumb and forefinger, lifted it and pushed it against his lips, pushed her fingers inside despite the sudden wet burn, then removed them again to get another piece. And perhaps that too was awfully cruel, only one small bit at a time, but like for like...you could say it was a retribution for the sonnet. The laugh spilled over as she lifted a second piece, jumbled with her words.
    "With love, from Ashoka! Yeh can open yer eyes the noo, dummy."
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    Phaedrus
    Member Avatar
    Thus conscience does make cowards of us all/ And thus the native hue of resolution/ Is sicklied o'er with the pale cast of thought.

    It was a small miracle she didn’t punch him.

    Ah, but she’d been so rapt. The look of shining admiration in her eyes almost made him reconsider — almost. But devils, he hadn’t considered another ending, and an empty stomach lent nothing to his creativity. (And, though he’d never admit such a preposterous thing, he was running out of rhymes.) Now she sat dumbstruck, as if someone had pulled the picnic blanket from under her knees. The necromancer bit his lip against the rising mirth — till she leaned back, and for all the world looked like she’d get up and walk away.

    Your puns have done it now, Phaedrus.

    He almost reached out laughing when she stood, dress fluttering.

    “Wait—”

    It had happened, once, and he held a curious pride in his ability to repulse so thoroughly with words. Someone had actually walked out on him, when he’d made a pun about their — ah, no matter, it wasn’t like he’d been a terrible loss —

    She yanked the lute out of his hands, to which he feigned indignation, eyebrows shooting up — and next took his wine, which did elicit a truer reaction. But whatever gasp intended for his teacup quickly fled at the look in her eyes, the devil in her grin. His poor merlot went forgotten when she flounced on his lap, warm and smelling of sunshine, pressed grass and honey — summer, if he were to put it to a single word.

    He closed his eyes with some trepidation, lashes fluttering closed — a sort of self-conscious grin twitched upon his features, lopsided.

    “Yes?” Bast’s hair tickled his cheek, danced by his nose. In the darkness, something crinkled; paper rustled, smoothed against her leg. He was hyper aware of every movement, the way she shifted to lean forward, her dress rubbing against him, the small hum in her throat. She was so near, so present, it made him giddy, enhanced the flush foolishness of wine on an empty stomach. He did his best to wait patiently, but every second had lengthened tenfold with the anticipation, the sense of her there; what must have been a few moments felt stretched to minutes, and he cracked open one eye, a sliver of light dancing through his lashes. The sight before him was blurred, though — he caught a glimpse of checkered cloth and blue before she reprimanded him.

    I didnae gi'e yeh permission tae open 'em yet.

    “Alright, alright,” the necromancer conceded, like a child slapped away from a fresh batch of cookies. What was it? He’d just begun guessing when she leaned into him, suddenly a hand from his face. He could hear her breathing by his ear, felt the grin more than saw it, her presence electric, like the crackle of air before lightning cleaved the sky. Devious.

    Slowly he opened his mouth, wondering if she’d shove a roach in for retribution. Instead, something sweet dropped in — the texture unmistakeable, the mingling of honey and pistachio, nuts and filo dough crunching between his teeth. At once his eyebrows shot up, and a pang for Ashoka hit him, for deserts and the burble of market stalls, the sandstone smell he never thought he could miss until he’d gone back.

    “Baklava?” It wasn’t a guess — and the next moment his eyes snapped open to see them arranged on her lap like little jewels, glistening with honey and dusted with a green crumble of pistachios. At once his spirits leapt, for more reasons than one. He’d not had them for half a year. Yes, he’d taken two boxes of them for the road back to Madrid, but… those hadn’t even lasted through the caravan ride through the Xeric. And he’d been heartbroken to learn that Saqqaf’s had closed — the Ashokan bakery staffed by a kindly old man, surely the best in Madrid. One could fetch some in the refugee quarters of the city, but it wasn’t quite the same; chewy, strange, made with altogether the wrong dough.

    But that was besides the point. More endearing was the fact she’d walked into a bakery and thought of him, filed away his senseless chattering at the fountain. A grin came to his face, bright and ready. “You remembered?” He took it happily, the pastry sticky in his fingers; it was an effort of will not to do anything short of dislocating his jaw and inhaling the lot, but then — that would be unseemly. For the sake of manners he popped only one into his mouth, smiling triumphantly.

    So she did like his wretched puns.

    Few moments offered themselves to such bliss — and this was one of them, almost absurd in its perfection. Good sun, good company, and good pastries. For a moment he wondered if he’d slipped on his exit from the tub and knocked his head wretchedly against the floor, hallucinating much of the afternoon. Somehow it all still felt surreal that she’d come this long way, that her head was presently cradled against his shoulder, eyes smoldering with mischief.

    She'd looked at him like that before, albeit not in a park, and certainly not so modestly dressed. He found himself returning it, eyes glittering, sharing a moment of comfortable silence as he ate. The birds chittered in his stead — far-off cries and whooping laughter muffled by the trees. Absently he looped his free arm around her, pulling her close at the waist. 

    A moment later his lips closed over hers -- a quick, teasing peck, followed by an appreciative squeeze of her side. 

    "Much better than cheese and crackers, thank you. You would not believe the trouble of it, finding proper Ashokan sweets here.” Exaggerated grief struck his tone. He shook his head in a bounce of fiery tresses, looking terribly put-upon. "Everything is a tart. Or a -- hph, there's a new fad, some devilish chocolate in the shape of a nipple." He took another bite, lip quirking as he chewed, as if hearing the very splash of her mind plunging into a gutter. Then, muttered sidelong, muffled by pistachios— 

    "...they're disappointing, by the way. Too bitter. Good for upsetting the elderly at teatime, mostly. " That, or demonstrating what, precisely, you intend to do to a guest of honor later, a few seats across from their oblivious father. Ah, no matter.

    It dawned on him that, left unchecked, he'd eat the rest with selfish glee -- stopped himself as he plucked up another, looking into Bast's eyes. It was only polite to offer, wasn’t it? With anyone else he’d have pointedly swatted their hands away and closed the box, but — well, that was rude, he supposed, and she’d brought them, after all. He could bring himself to share. Just this once. Perhaps.

    “Here— you must have some,” the necromancer insisted cheerfully, carefully tearing it into a manageable piece. He smiled as he lifted it to the elemental’s mouth, recalling of a sudden the fountain, the glint of the water, a strawberry disappearing between her lips. Perhaps I can make a shortcake, later, if she’s fond of them. The thought was filed away for later, stashed in lieu of the memory of that day — the most curious association it had forged in his brain between pistachios and angry clergy. A small laugh built in his throat: the humor of hindsight — it was a funny story, now that the danger of impalement had passed.

    “On one condition: let’s not get run off by priests this time.”
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    Bast
    Member Avatar
    'He shall be tormented with fire and brimstone.../And the smoke of their torment ascendeth up, for ever and ever;'

    ((SORRY THIS IS KINDA SHITTY))

    Maybe she ought to have shoved a bug in his mouth but she hadn't any to hand and it wasn't like she was just gonna walk around with a box of beetles in her pockets. Was there, somewhere, a shop where you could walk in and select bugs from a display, like a child with too much loose change picking candies? Could you literally say, 'Yes I'll take half a pound of earwigs and a penny's worth of pill bugs please?'

    ...Maybe she should write that one down as an idea for later. Maybe it already existed. She wouldn't put it past the world to contain something as uniquely curious as that.

    The implicit trust as he closed his eyes was quite endearing really, and she took the moment to study his face, in case she somehow managed to forget. Pretty, in repose, like one of those statues that fronted the guild hall. Not one of the ones with the missing faces, but the ones with their arms lifted in some majestic proclamation, scrolls tucked under one arm and perfectly carved by the hands of some smartass. She found it hard not to smile, his sharp thin nose, the pleasing arch of his eyebrows...

    She cleared her throat and dragged her gaze away, back to the task at hand. And damn him if he wasn't pleased because she'd flown all the way from bloody Ashoka with the damned things and it had been tiring. She didn't want to think about how many bugs and leaves and sticks she'd had to eat to get by when she stopped, all the while tempted by the tantalizing scent of pastry.

    "Of course I did, twas hard tae forget."

    How could I forget, yeh ne'er shut up about it, like some ne'er endin' love affair.

    His smile made it worth it though, and she found it infectious, worming its way deep within her and settling like a terminal illness. She found she didn't mind, could live with that. Ah and there was the Look. She thought that might have faded but, with a smile that might have been called sharp, possibly cruel, he was giving it to her, and she half expected him to tumble her laughing into the grass right there and then.

    Bast smiled against his lips as he laid the kiss on her, content with feeding him for the moment, at least until he mentioned nipples. They were quite ordinary really but it was such a dirty word, somehow, wasn't it. Nipples. She wouldn't have minded if he wanted to discuss nipples in depth with or without the chocolate, honestly.
    "Reminds me o' a rhyme. Roses are red, so's raspberry ripple, chocolate is sweet, and so is yer- ...well except in your case apparently."
    She snorted, a dirty sound that didn't quite belong in the pretty streets of Soto, and rolled her eyes a touch.
    "Oh woe is me fer I cannae find a single sweetie from the motherland! If that's all yer worryin' about...mebbe yeh ought tae set up a black market run fer pastries."
    Yes, a caravan train apprehended by bandits in the dead of night, swiftly cracking the locks and pushing back the lid to lay eyes on the booty, a small mountain of strawberry tortes...

    She lowered her lashes as he raised the pastry to her lips, smirked at the hesitation, a full blow sunny smile forming. If that was all he was worried about...
    Her fingers caught his hand, pulled the pastry from them with her teeth, then licked each of the digits and released him.
    "Oh aye I promise. A gods man runnin' after yeh wi' his dress flappin' along behind him weren't ne'er so scary. Mm...but, while I appreciate the thought, I brought 'em here fer you."

    Shoulda filled the box wi' mud pies and see if he still compliments that.

    She gathered the baklava into the cloth, bundling it up and setting it aside, then dusted her knees briskly and got off his lap. She wished she hadn't, really, it was kind of comforting when you considered the loneliness of the open road. Gods but she was being clingy as a cat that just came home after a two week stint out in the boonies and no milk. Breathe, woman, it wasn't like you'd never see him again, was it?
    The crackers wobbled in her hand as she offered them to him, laden with jam and cheese, and took one for herself, resisting the urge to see how many she could fit in her pie hole like a vegas slot machine. They could in fact, enjoy the afternoon without degenerating to a monstrous feast that frightened small children and revolted adults, possibly leading to arrest for the murder of countless innocent cheeses. At least she hoped so.
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    Phaedrus
    Member Avatar
    Thus conscience does make cowards of us all/ And thus the native hue of resolution/ Is sicklied o'er with the pale cast of thought.

    He felt her lips crinkle into a smile under his. Could have gone much farther than that, really — the grass was soft enough, and she was already on his lap… but devils, she’d come for a picnic. A picnic. Perhaps the heat was overmuch, or perhaps it was the way she cradled up against him like a cat, warm and smelling like summer and a touch of jam. Somehow the fact she was so close made him into a gibbering idiot, springing off anything that so much as popped into his mind — Sayna’s Nipples, truly? — and flailing in the depths of stupidity.

    He cut himself off with his glass of wine before anything worse came out, smirking behind the chipped porcelain. As he drank he stole another look at her face, the splatter of freckles over her tiny nose, the way her hair twirled with a delight of its own and her eyes lit up when she was saying something positively filthy.

    An ugly snort left him and stirred the wine, clashing with the ladylike way he set the cup back in its saucer. One hand fanned in offense over his chest, as if he were scandalized by the very implication of having bitter nipples. Positively unjust.

    “Yours were plenty sweet, as I recall,” he replied airily, plucking up another piece of baklava and eating it with a hum, as if no obscenities had been exchanged at all, and they were discussing the day’s weather. The sight of the next came to him, clear as day — wrenching out a scimitar and holding a caravan at knifepoint, demanding that they send out their bakers…

    “That’s not a bad idea.” The necromancer held up the half-eaten piece, turning it, glistening, in his fingers, eyes narrowing in contemplation. “And you shall be my first hire.” He poked her square in the belly, grinning, the awful grin of someone already setting the foundations for an empire. “You’ve experience taking the contraband over the border. I can speak the language, and set them up on the road, bribe the guards. Bloody patrol doesn’t have to know a thing. We’ll split the boon 50-50.”

    Well, he already went back on his word, because he ate the second half, smiling mockingly as he chewed. It wouldn’t be a terrible setup, he supposed. Much better than his Art or any practice of it, certainly with more benefits…

    She caught his fingers in his, eyes sparking — and when her lips closed over them it put him in mind of something else entirely, the sort of gutter that Councillor Bellamy would faint in. The devil was written all over his face — he didn’t have to comment on it at all. Small wonder a priest didn’t run at them then, brandishing incense and trying to cleanse them with burning sage.

    “I like it here,” he grinned, relaxing into the grass. It sprung up between his fingers, cool and green, brushing his hand with a dandelion. The other twined around Bast’s hair, sending loops of fire swirling around his finger. “Much harder to get people’s bollocks in a twist. Not that we’d run into any trouble.” A cheeky arse of a grin had sprouted up on his face. Secretly he felt glad he wouldn't have to share -- selfish as it was, when she'd gone through all the trouble. Were they really all the way from Ashoka? So she was a pastry smuggler, then, hiding it in her skirts... 

    The image made him laugh, warmly, the thought of her trekking all that way with a box was perfectly endearing... and impressive, for that matter. He wasn't sure he'd have the same willpower out on the road. 

    "Well, alright, if you insist. I'll have to thank you properly later." His smirk left her to fill in just what that meant. The necromancer shifted slightly as she moved, gathering up the pastries and getting up — for a moment he looked up to see her face silhouetted by the sun, flyaway strands lit to a fiery halo; wished she hadn’t, already missing her warmth and presence. His knees felt rather naked now, and knobby besides — the necromancer stretched out his legs with a short hum, gratefully accepting the cheese and crackers.

    “So,” he began brightly, pausing to take a bite — the sweetness of the jam popped with the cheese, mingling pleasantly. “You must tell me of your adventures. How did the motherland treat you? Did you ever get to see the Colossi? Or the City of Oracles?”

    He’d nattered all about it in Eldahar, marked everything she needed—and perhaps things better left undiscovered by antiquarians—on a map before they’d squeezed the life out of each other in a parting hug, and he’d waved from the dusty caravan. In the isthmus of Ashoka he’d scrawled a little loop (that, upon closer inspection, resembled something anatomically unseemly) and left a note explaining how the way to the City once wound through the ancient kingdom of Awat, a proper shite wedged between the arsecheeks of the Origa and the Sedokai—and how the tenth king of the dynasty, Nebbukar II, went mad and built a procession hall adorned with enormous naked statues of himself.

    It stood until the Origa withered to a low trickle in the ravine, choking off the kingdom’s water and gold; the statues crumbled, and now all that remained were stern faces glaring out from the sands, surrounded by muttering clusters of nomads and their cook fires.

    …And one grand granite cock towering out of the sand, if one knew where to look for it.

    The necromancer leaned forward to pour himself more wine, smiling up at the elemental as the liquid gurgled. He was happy to talk about anything — to simply spend time with her, listen to what she’d done and seen, what had made her grin and laugh. Wanted to hear it again, bright and honest, peppered by dirty little snorts that made him cackle in turn, till they sounded like a hog and a hag in a truffle bin—turning frightened heads and only laughing the louder for it. He didn’t care if she thought it sounded ugly. It had become one of his favorite sounds.

    He’d grown tired of his own voice, for once. Sitting there, everything felt so normal, so natural — the sky still blazed a fierce blue, and a particularly fat bumblebee kept humming in their direction, drunkenly dipping around Bast. The blanket rustled as Phaedrus’ hand slid over it of a sudden, seeking hers; his fingers closed over Bast’s, twining comfortably in her petite, perfect little grasp. A content sigh left him, just audible behind his teacup. He drank as she squirreled away little treasures of cheese like a chipmunk, helping himself to a few between sips.

    It was a good wine. Sweet and light, but no less strong for it — a heat had started to prickle in his cheeks (not that he was tipsy, for devil’s sake—it’d been what? One little teacup? Three? Wait, had he drank hers? Ah, it didn’t matter, it was hardly a proper pour between them) and he felt pleasant all over, though he suspected it was his company. To his surprise, the bee landed on him, and the necromancer shot it a distinctly unimpressed look, like a cat deciding whether to swat it or not. It buzzed, its fat fuzzy arse quivering as it explored his shirt, settling a few inches south of his collar.

    “Ugh.” He waved vaguely at it, not unlike a petulant schoolgirl — pursed his lips when it stubbornly refused to fly off, turning mad circles over the embroidery. Belatedly, he realized it could be taken for the same color and shape of a cluster of flowers — to a bee unfamiliar with Ashokan needlework, anyhow. “Piss off.” The last thing he needed was a bee sting right on his—

    It finally flew off, reeling through the air, and landed smack dab in the middle of Bast’s forehead, buzzing. The necromancer stared at it — and for some reason the image struck him as hilarious, the silliness of it, really, the piping flutes and the warm sun and the way Bast’s closeness made him giddy. A stupid little giggle sprung off his lips, became a grin as he shooed it off, noticing a fruity glob by her chin — the necromancer snorted lightly, thumb trailing her jaw.

    “You’ve got a bit of jam here,” Phaedrus pointed out helpfully, then leaned in to kiss it off, smiling against the corner of her mouth. “And here.” Bast’s lips felt soft under his, tasted like honey and jam, her breath hot against his. She smelled like cherries. As he moved, his sharp nose brushed her cheek—always in the bloody way, horrible thing, like a harpoon—and crinkled as he laughed, soft and low in his throat.
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    Bast
    Member Avatar
    'He shall be tormented with fire and brimstone.../And the smoke of their torment ascendeth up, for ever and ever;'

    She smirked in response to the quip about her own nipples, cheeks colouring as she skated her dark eyes away in mild embarrassment. It was all fun and games until someone brought someone else's attributes into the equation. Well...at least it was just between them, Bast would have said that she could give as good as she got but it was on a roughly fifty-percent basis, if it wasn't so mortifyingly bad that she somehow became paralyzed by the extent of the filth. It had only happened once or twice that she could recall to be honest.
    "Aye I suppose ye must be an expert if ye sucked Sayna's nipples so many times."

    Her eyebrows arched and she smiled at him, shaking her head ever so slightly. It was almost as if it hadn't even occurred to him that she might split and go her own way, become a pastry pirate in her own right. Bugger the smuggling, she might just attack said pastry trains and rob them of their sweet treats. The thought of having him at her mercy while she ate his pastries over him gleefully was not an unwelcome one and a devious smile twisted her mouth into a positively fiendish leer.
    "Well sounds like ye hae it all worked out. 'Cept the part where one o' us eats the last o' the jam and starts a mutiny.'

    "What's funny? Dinnae be keepin' jokes from me, Phaedrus, or I'll hae tae tickle it oot o' ye."
    She wagged a cracker at him, her stern tone only spoiled by the idiotic grin pasted across her face. Even if she had been annoyed - and she wasn't - she had half a mind to tell him that he could keep playing with her hair like that. It wasn't too far off the effect of rubbing a cat behind the ears, eliciting a low contented hum to burble in her throat. It was difficult to be irritable with him when he was so prone to drawing sunny smiles and laughs from her, secret jokes or not.

    "Ahhhh, no, ne'er made it as far as the city. Tis a cryin' shame, I really wanted tae but I ran oot o' time. I found what I was lookin' fer in Eldahar..."
    She frowned a little at that, worried her lower lip with her teeth. It hadn't been a good finding, catching the woman amidst the dust and bustle of the gates, wagons and hooves clattering on the hard packed ground, hawkers setting up shop crying their wares, the shouts of people calling to one another, jostling and hurrying as they were checked by the guards, the lowing, clucking, screeching and neighing of dozens of animals..

    And she'd near lost her temper, nose dribbling down her face, eyes like gaping holes when the earth had swallowed the nymph whole and stolen her from the fierce, hungry licking flames that set the greenery to withering.

    "I did go an' see the Colossi though!" She brightened up again, munching on a cracker and savoring the creaminess of the cheese, the tang and bite of the fruit popping against her teeth, a little tart and very sweet.

    She'd wanted to do all the things he'd so painstakingly marked out on the map, truly, but after the time that felt quite...wasted, really, in Eldahar, besides their slightly misshapen adventure, she really had needed to go south. There was just never enough damned time. Even with her learning to move faster, faster, rediscovering those fragments of memory, coalescing like newborn stars from the remnants that had been a whole.

    Bast grinned, leaning back on one hand and wriggling her toes in the grass.
    "Ye gods the size o' that place, the walls were so high Phaedrus, like the sky were just a wee strip o' blue way up high oot o' reach. An' a' these wee holes in the side o' the cliffs like there shoulda been hames there once, all built right intae the rock. All o' them faces were a bit creepy though. Just...starin' outta the sand, at nothin'. No' e'en them cliffs, flat as a witches tit."
    Her eyes glazed as she remembered, the sand skirling with the wind into loose dust devils, dancing over the muddy bed that must have been the Origa once, almost all the light cut and gone, the whole place like a giant tomb almost, a ghost town without residents.

    She glanced up as a passerby wandered across the grass, sparing them a brief smile, covered her mouth conspiratorially, hardly able to hide the snicker forming.
    "Oh an' there was a giant dyck." She cackled shamelessly, winked at him and ran her tongue over her teeth suggestively. "I bet a kiss o' Sayna's nipples ye bloody well ken aboot that one before yeh sent me off there. it were huge. I had tae climb up and stand on the top, the view was greit."

    She sighed, the mirth subsiding to a joyous bubble that nestled within her chest, left her feeling buoyant, all the more so when his fingers slipped into the spaces between hers, and she found herself turning to gaze at him, wondering as she nibbled at another cracker, since the last had mysteriously vanished so easily.

    Her lips twitched into a repressed smile as a fluffy-bummed bee dropped and dipped onto his skirt, investigating the embroidery. She couldn't blame it, it did look a bit floral, maybe he'd managed to get jam on it. The grin only grew in magnitude when he flicked at it, curiously just so that he never actually touched the thing, lest he hurt it. It ignored him of course, eliciting a curse, her shoulders bobbing with mirth as she held the laugh inside.
    It seemed so...innocent, knowing that here was a man that could traverse the icy realm of the dead, drinking wine from a battered teacup with her, and fighting off a nosy bumblebee. She almost felt as though she were allowed a sneak peek through a porthole to the life he'd built for himself, a strangely personal moment, and uniquely touching. It was all very...human.

    "Ah!"
    It tickled, the little feet dancing a jig on her skin as it turned around and around. She couldn't see it, not even to admire the bright yellow pollen sacs on her little fuzzy legs, nor the ridiculously tiny wings that should never be able to lift such a ponderous insect.
    "Oi, off wi' ye, the flo'er were a better choice!"
    Distractedly she reached up, prodding it with one finger to get it to leave, only to have it crawl onto her nose. Doe eyes crossed as she tried to focus on the blurred wiggling abdomen, before it abruptly hummed away, leaving her blinking at the necromancer.

    The elemental lowered her lashes as he kissed the side of her mouth, feeling more than seeing the wild flutter of light under her skin, the subtle tingle of delight and excitement twisting in the pit of her stomach. She could taste the bite of the alcohol on his lips, the sweetness of jam and pistachio, the tip of his nose brushing deliciously against hers. Bronze fingers rested lightly on his chest, bangs tickling his face as they flicked out of their own accord.

    She broke the kiss after a moment, leaning her forehead against his cheek, eyes closed. Foolish, of course, to allow such things to run away with her mental faculties...but she didn't mind. If she had to be a fool forever to live for such an illusion, she thought it might be worth it.
    "Phaedrus...I..."
    She wanted to ask, to breach that cool impasse that they both knew would eventually come up, but the words stuck in her throat, unwilling to leak forth into the light. Instead she just breathed against him in the quiet of the afternoon, not really listening to the sound of the festivities that made a music all of its own, yet only moved around the outside of this strangely preserved bubble.

    Instead she found herself quietly loathing her own cowardice and tightening her grasp on his shirt, deflecting what she initially wanted to ask with petty humor.
    "I thought ye were gonna thank me later."
    The smile in her voice didn't match her face, the serenity fading, even as she clutched at him the very same way she knew she let others do to her before she was off again, giving them naught at all but smiles and the barest warm touches on an arm or cheek, slipping out the windows in the early dusk never to be more than glimpsed again. And all the time one clutched harder, it was because they knew the inevitability, as she did now.

    Dinnae spoil it all. Just stay like this a while, keep yer dark words and stormy tongue..

    Reluctantly she leaned back from him, still close enough that he became a blur in her vision, nose trailing his cheek as she murmured his name half a question, but still couldn't quite dislodge the weight on her mind niggling at her.

    Just let it go, lass. Dinnae cling tae fool's gold.

    She kissed him, the barest press of lips together, hardly daring to break that tenuous soap bubble, her eyes quizzical, uncertain as if treading new ground entirely. Maybe it was.
    "Ye should tell me what ye've been dain here that's so borin'."
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    Phaedrus
    Member Avatar
    Thus conscience does make cowards of us all/ And thus the native hue of resolution/ Is sicklied o'er with the pale cast of thought.

    Mutiny.

    "Civil war over jam," the necromancer mused. Altogether not unreasonable, if he were to think of it. "Generations will tell of it -- so many lives lost over a Helen of Tart."

    Well, he had to get one more atrocious pun in there. A positively dung-eating grin smeared across his face. Satisfied, he fixed himself a cracker, affecting an air of perfect innocence.

    When she spoke he sat in rapt attention, nibbling on the confection like a dainty noblewoman. I found what I was lookin' fer in Eldahar... A manicured brow raised at that, just so, in question -- but he could guess from the look on her face how it'd gone, finding it best not to pry; at least not for now. Later, later, his mind scolded, chasing away the ferreting questions. No need for that now. Instead his hand found hers, gave it a gentle squeeze, a whisper of solidarity -- an invitation to talk if she needed to, or an invitation to stay silent.

    Her brightness soon came back though — like the sun shaking itself of clouds, beaming ear to ear. The excitement in her voice made him smile — lingered even as he stuffed the rest of the cracker into his maw, one side of his mouth quirked as he chewed. Easy to imagine her there, a spritely little thing hopping over the ruins, investigating an old fusty king’s nostril like a curious cat. Though he couldn’t help but wonder, burning with curiosity. I wonder if she saw—

    The description of witches tit punched a laugh rather suddenly from him — gods, why was that so funny? — which had the unfortunate side effect of making him almost inhale half the cracker. A noise that sounded like the union of a goose and a donkey honked from him, startling a passerby terribly; Phaedrus put a dainty hand over his mouth, eyebrows raising in alarm at himself. His yellow eyes skirted away for a moment, as if to pin blame on some hitherto-undiscovered goatbeast just behind them, but no. That was him.

    Hem.” He cleared his throat with impeccable ladylike grace, a sheepish smile creeping past the fist at his lips, sunflower eyes dancing back to Bast.

    “It’s really something, isn’t it?” The necromancer glowed, happy to have made the recommendation — it was worth it for the excitement in her voice, the spark that came to her eyes. If I could show you a hundred places… But the bittersweet thought never unfurled, caught at the bud — pleasantly interrupted by her sudden closeness, the conspiratorial whisper in his ear. Ah! So she did find that marvel. A shiver ran down his spine, quite out of his hands — none-helped by the polite topic at hand, the slow flicker of her tongue over —

    How unseemly!

    He joined the cackling, at points the higher-pitched of the two, tapering off to a burbly little infectious titter that disappeared between his fingertips; he tossed his hand, a positively filthy smile on his face.

    “Rather ruins it for the rest of them, doesn’t it,” Phaedrus muttered past his palm, as if they were schoolgirls leaning in to share a secret and giggle about boys. “Good thing you didn’t sit, or you might not’ve come back.” He returned the wink, fetching another cracker. This one had jam liberally smothered all over it, and he made short work of it with a deft swirl of his tongue, unabashedly flickering perhaps a hair long of human.

    Well, he couldn’t offer much of a view, but he had other virtues.

    He could feel her fingers on his chest, light as a bird’s — closed his eyes so the world fell away to her touch and the graze of her lips, her breaths like step-stones through the pauses; a simpler, kinder place.

    When she broke off he didn’t care to open them right away—reluctant to let Madrid’s sunshine in and burn away the illusion, flood light over its complications. Instead he gave a soft sigh, content as she leaned against him, her hair tickling his nose.

    “Hm?” Slow, syrupy — an inquiry from someone freshly roused out of sleep, polite but not-quite-there; in the silence that followed he knew nothing good could come of it. The unasked question hung like an omen, a ghost tapping the edge of their bubble. Don’t, don’t. He could still taste the strawberries on her kiss — feel her breathing against him, his shirt crumpling under her grip; don’t you see? he would’ve bartered with the future, laid out her smiles and little joys like currency. You can’t.

    Phaedrus’ lids twitched, opened a crack. Blurred greens rushed to meet him — then the sight of her eyes, so warm and full, the smile fading from their corners. The bliss had crept away, edged closer to reality, back to the grass beneath his palms and the hard-packed earth, the far-off shriek of a reveler. The necromancer blinked, taking a deep breath. He rallied a brave smile, begged it would march into his voice.

    “That’s paltry thanks,” Phaedrus teased, bringing his hand up to playfully pinch her cheek, assure himself she was there. There, there, there. As she leaned back he felt a near jolt to fill the space — close the gap somehow, keep her from floating away. Her lips met his again-- as they did his fingers fanned to rest gently against her cheek, cradling it; and then they’d drifted away again, left him with her ghost.

    He needed to hug her. To shelter her somehow, as if clutching tighter would slow the inevitable, push back the future encroaching like a wall. As she asked, his hand slipped away, finding her back; and he held her quietly, loosely, an invitation to lean on him if she so wished, even as something in him screamed to squeeze her and pull her close, away from that precipice.

    The necromancer looked into her eyes, sensed the hesitance there — the tenuous prod at his life, a rap on the door. To his surprise he found it terribly endearing -- her hushed tip-toeing, as if afraid of disturbing his life, prying too deep. Still, it gave him pause, made him mentally recline a moment, pushing back from all that time.

    What had he been doing in Madrid? The years had drizzled by like honey -- they had been slow and yet terribly swift, comfortable, segueing from one wine-haze to the next.

    Getting fat, mostly, he could have jested, speared it off with humor. Taking an extended holiday.

    But no. With her there was no need for pretense, none of the careful social dances he’d learned, the stress of untangling his own lies and recalling who had heard what; discerning which Phaedrus he was today, exactly, and to whom. She knew the truth of him. Or at least--he could be honest with her. Honesty. What a novelty.

    Something softened in him, mellowed in his eyes. Come in, it said warmly, in his smile. Come in.

    "Well." Phaedrus shuffled to get more comfortable -- careful, ever so careful, as if the wrong movement might shatter them, that he might move too far from her warm, soft breaths, the tickle of her lashes on his cheek.

    "I work in the Mystic Occult's libraries, in their rather... ah? ... occultic sections. Antiquities, mostly. I am a scholar of ancient Ashoka." A wink, a wicked titter -- his eyes danced with private mirth, lips cracking into a horrible little self-satisfied grin, as if he'd gotten away with a great heist. Perhaps she can appreciate the depth of that irony. It certainly tickled him. "It is the easiest job I've had in my life, all-told. Plenty of sitting, plenty of tea. Occasionally there is some abomination to banish or blood-seals to manage, but..." He clucked.

    Somewhere, another bee buzzed above them -- the afternoon was slow, heavy, in no rush to be anywhere. The necromancer's eyes half-lidded, quite comfortable in that beat of silence; felt warm and full, everything suddenly quite agreeable again. He let out a breath he hadn't been aware of holding, absently reaching up to stroke Bast's hair.

    "I didn't mean to end up here, though," Phaedrus admitted, exhaling softly on the word. He just watched her for a moment, drinking in the sight of her as he played with the flyaway strands of her ponytail like a lazy, investigative cat.

    "It just sort of... happened." He shrugged. He hadn't meant to stay, not long. But the city had seduced him, lulled him into a feeling of... comfort, was it?

    It was a home. As much as a creature like him could have one. When he first arrived he felt like a wild animal in his own parlor, too afraid to touch anything -- to leave anything out of place, as though he were a ghost that ought to leave no sign of his residence. He struggled to remember the pale, birdlike little man that had inhabited his parlor-- skinny and nervous and uptight, with hair cropped short from the road, his face entirely composed of mean angles and nose, looking freshly startled at all the nice things around him.

    "Before... before, I sort of just -- bounced around, really. Town to arsewipe-nowhere to city. Never lasted, though." Days. Months, maybe, if he felt particularly comfortable. The necromancer pursed his lips at the recollection, brows furrowed as he stared somewhere beyond the grass. "Got tiring after a while. Never knowing anyone, waking up in a strange place every day..." Indeed, being little more than an itinerant shadow, belonging nowhere. He absently picked up the wine, taking a dainty sip.

    "I didn't feel like running anymore," the necromancer admitted, lowering the chipped teacup. Chased like a rat out of a hole, always looking over his shoulder for a shadow of his master. A spider scurrying further and further south, as if distance alone would keep him safe. "And it felt so comfortable here. I thought I'd stay, try to settle, try to... heal." He did not look at Bast, worked at the word like a loose tooth in his mouth -- oddly quiet and careful, hesitantly opening a door. He thought, at one time, he'd be able to forget. But there was no forgetting -- he would live with Alloces forever, but he did not have to live by his terms.

    After a beat he met her eyes again, offering her a smile. The necromancer gave Bast an affectionate squeeze, pulling her close in a hug for a moment.

    "Oh." He mentally leapt away from the subject, lest it turn to darker thoughts; I shan't abide brooding today, mind, not in this company. "And I've taken up baking." A soft laugh escaped him.

    "That is why my neighbor loathes me, you know. For years her apple pie went undefeated in the most vicious of pastry circles. Until she lost to mine." The necromancer fanned his fingers against his chest, and loosed such a wicked, vindictive cackle that a passerby turned to stare, looking faintly afraid.
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