Down and Out [Memory]

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Anaxas' main trade port; it is also the nation's criminal headquarters, home to the Bad Brothers and Silas Hawke, King of the Underworld. The small town of Plugit is nearby.

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Oisin Ocasta
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Sat Jul 13, 2019 1:35 pm

13th of Dentis, 2704
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It was early, still the kind of inverse twilight where the world's colours hadn't quite come into their own for the day. The damp air was cold as ice, a chill that bit at you with salivating jaws, its drool dampening every surface, its fettid breath clouding every pane of glass, only to break free in slobbering trails to chase downwards towards the sill. It wasn't quite cold enough for the frost and the freeze, but when it was the drool trails would freeze mid-flow upon the glass, and mid-drip from the edges of gutters, and the surface moisture would transform into swirling frost patterns as if the autumn mist had somehow become trapped upon the pavements and woodwork.

None of that mattered to Oisin Ocasta though. He had already braved the cold this morning, for now at least, and was barricaded inside the comparative warmth of the Nobody Inn. Perhaps the dawn hours were an odd time to find a man armed with a mop, carving a path through a sea of damp and grime in varying states of dry: but that was when he was paid to be here, a few coins exchanged for a little manual labour, and so he didn't question it too deeply. At least the main room of the tavern was relatively deserted at such a time: those with rooms had managed to crawl their way upstairs, those few who did not had usually staggered back to their ships or slept their way far enough into a hangover to be expelled onto the street with minimal effort. Even the earliest of the next day's drinkers were still hours away, busy with whatever arduous tasks earned them the coin that they spent on drinking away the memory of those same arduous tasks.

The mop squelched its way unpleasantly back into the bucket, and Oisin leaned against it like a crutch for a moment, using a small patch on the back of his wrist to mop a few beads of sweat from his brow. It wasn't the work, so much as the atmosphere that still lingered in the Nobody Inn. The fire had been prodded into embers and left to die the night before, but the tavern's thick walls clung to the residual heat desperately, the muggy air thick with the aroma of stale smoke, stale beer, and stale piss from the drunkards who'd managed to get themselves a little too far gone. It was hardly glamorous work, but a Wick took what a Wick could get.

A shoulder protested as Oisin tried to move in a way that displeased it: another reminder of what a Wick could get. It was the sort of thing that happened from time to time: someone had a bad day, drank enough to feel inclined to do something about it, and set their sights on the very next person who irked them. For Oisin, his very existence was apparently irksome to many. Galdori hated him for his impure field, and for having the audacity to still live in the city he'd grown up in, rather than in one of the out-of-sight travelling Wick communities where they didn't have to be reminded of his existence. Humans on the other hand, they had a whole spectrum of grievances towards Oisin, but most of it amounted to one simple thing: a rare opportunity for the downtrodden to stamp on something society deemed was beneath even them. Deep down, everyone in Old Rose Harbor was a wounded animal, and it didn't take much to compel them to lash out.

Such things were a fact of life for Oisin though, and facts of life were things you learned to live with. Oisin had adapted, and he'd paid attention so that he could learn how to. The weather was turning, which meant that life at sea was getting increasingly unpleasant: best to avoid the docks, then, if you didn't want to be a punching bag for sailors and fisherman having a rough day; doubly so if you didn't want to run the risk of getting upended off one of the docks into the icy-cold Dentis water below. Tavern work was only safe in the transitional parts of the year, though, especially if you planned on working when patrons were actually there: at the height of summer, or the depths of winter, it was either too damn hot or too damn cold for most people's liking, and so people were more inclined to drink than ever. More patrons, mixed with more alcohol, was exactly the kind of volatile situation that Oisin had learned to avoid. Come Achtus, he'd probably have moved onto the stables: the winter months were often their busiest time, with people travelling less, and animals needing more care to sustain them. It was peaceful work, out of sight and mind of most; but trying to drive a shovel through half-frozen horse shit in the dead of winter made mopping up the half-digested contents of strangers' stomachs seem downright pleasant by comparison.

A hand slid beneath the collar of Oisin's shirt and settled onto the offending shoulder, his eyes falling closed as monite words began to mutter themselves from his lips. He told the mona a story, a simple and all-too-familiar fable. Once upon a time there was a Wick: a foolish Wick, who took a wrong turn down a bad alley, and caught a man up to things he shouldn't have been, with a younger man in line to collect a few coins for his troubles. The sight wasn't something that phased the Wick in the slightest, but the older man wasn't willing to risk the Wick's judgement - nor, more importantly, the judgement of his wife - and so he had beat the Wick to ensure his silence, as if a broken jaw would force the Wick to hold his tongue. The Wick had found a healer to help with his jaw, but in the days since, the aftermath of the older man's cane and boots had begun to plague him. Fortunately, the Wick had friends: an entire world of friends, imperceptible to the eye but always there, who had never failed him in his time of need.

As he spoke, Oisin felt the soothing wave of contentment sweep across his shoulder as the pain gently faded. A whispered word of monite gratitude was uttered into the tavern air, and his shoulder rolled and flexed, testing the success of his latest dose of magical healing. Not perfect, but good enough: and besides, he wasn't greedy. His injuries would heal on their own, they always did; all he needed was a little help from his mona's friends to make it through the rest of his task, and then his shoulder could have all the rest it wanted - for a few hours, at least.

Oisin's mind returned to the task at hand, but the universe, it seemed, had other ideas. The Wick caught a glimpse of something before he heard it, movement out of the corner of his eye, beyond the condensation-clouded windows, before the sound of urgent rapping on the tavern door. "We're closed," he called, threading a path between loud enough to be heard outside, but not enough to disturb the floor above; but the knocking repeated itself, and a face appeared at one of the clouded panes of glass. A familiar face, in fact. Tom

"Alioe's pockmarked face," he cursed under his breath, setting aside the mop and crossing the tavern floor with a mix of frustration, resignation, and worry. The door was unbolted and open before Oisin completed his sentiment, aimed at the source of the disturbance directly this time. "What the hell kind of trouble have you gotten yourself into this time?"
Last edited by Oisin Ocasta on Fri Jul 19, 2019 6:08 pm, edited 1 time in total.

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Tom Cooke
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Sun Jul 14, 2019 6:09 pm

Nobody Inn Old Rose Harbor
Early Morning on the 13th of Dentis, 2704
It was early, too clocking early for any of this, but he knew he’d find Oisin at Nobody Inn. He hoped he would, at any rate; he clung onto that hope with his whole soul, clung with scrabbling fingers. Would’ve prayed, if he’d been that sort of kov. They were already most of the way there, but it’d been a long walk from Sharkswell – a long shamble, more like, hobbling through the cold on a trail of blood and gasped breath. Tom was big for a lad of sixteen, already brushing with six and a half feet and built like an ox, but even he was bowed and struggling under Clark’s weight.

“Right, then,” he husked under his breath, “jus’ a little further, hey? Jus’ a little further.”

The other boy was barely conscious, one big arm flung round his shoulder, his feet scuffling and dragging on the dirty stones. His face was a mess of cuts and bruises. Though his swollen lips moved occasionally, nothing but dribbles of blood and saliva came out; he wasn’t all the way gone, but he was going. Tom was just about at the end of his usefulness, his back and all his muscles sore and screaming, and if he didn’t get to the Nobody soon, he didn’t know what he’d do. Drop Clark Cooke in the street like a sack of heavy rocks, he reckoned. Didn’t have much choice.

Didn’t know what he’d do if Oisin wasn’t in, either. Didn’t know anybody else who’d help him, not now, not this time of day.

He knew one thing, though. It was a cold morning, by all rights, preternaturally cold for Dentis: it was that in-between time of the day when a soft grey-blue’d settled over everything, when the world was full of shadows and frost; it was that in-between time of the year, when the days were getting shorter and the nights were getting longer. He wasn’t feeling the cold, though, not right now. His coat was covered in Clark’s blood and so was his heart. Warm blood. His heart was aflame, burning with it.

He knew that the moment he’d got Clark taken care of, he was going to make a kov pay. He knew which kov he was going to make pay, and he knew where that kov was, and he knew how he was going to do it. He knew what he’d be charging into, and he didn’t care; he was a man, now, and that meant he took care of his own. That meant he had to have the balls to stop thinking and start acting. He’d never lacked them, and he wasn’t about to start running away now. This was a challenge, and Tom was going to meet it with a closed fist.

Blood came first, though. “See? Right there,” he hissed between grit teeth. Clark’s head lolled on his shoulder, and Tom knew he wasn’t in the shape to listen anymore. He squinted his raw eyes, squinted through the hazy chill: most of the inn’s frosted-over windows were dark, but there was a light on the first floor.

Tom’s heart leapt to his throat. He paused to adjust Clark. “Floodin’ fuck,” he snarled under his breath, a wince spasming across his face. By the pain that lanced through his back, he reckoned he’d pulled a muscle. Not much further, he thought, holding to it like a prayer, not much further, and he staggered into the shadow of the inn, bent nearly double under the weight of his burden.

He all but slumped against the door, relieved to shift his weight even a little onto something else. Swallowing cold, bitter spittle, he took a deep breath, then banged on the door with a fist. He could hear somebody shuffling about in there, then a familiar voice. Closed, my erse. He banged again, twice as hard. Footsteps approached, but those few seconds felt like hours.

Then a hazy face – Oisin’s – appeared in the glass. He heard the clicking of the bolt. When Oisin opened the door, he just about fell into the tavern; Clark’d finally dropped off, and the extra weight set him off balance. He staggered, the soles of his boots thumping heavily on the hardwood, leaving grimy prints. The smell of blood mixed with the tavern’s natural musk.

“Ain’t my trouble this time, Oisin.” His voice was strained and thick in his throat. “Help – help me get ’im – sat down someplace. Some of Carlisle’s boys,” he stumbled out, “the ones didn’t go over. Jumped ’im. Please.”
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Last edited by Tom Cooke on Sun Aug 25, 2019 2:22 pm, edited 4 times in total.
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Oisin Ocasta
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Tue Jul 16, 2019 6:38 am

13th of Dentis, 2704
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The context that Tom provided washed over Oisin like ocean spray, the instant that recognition of Tom's wounded compatriot settled into place. There were times when you could push Tom Cooke; times when Oisin might play the reluctant ally, might exploit an opportunity such as this to turn criminal misfortune into a teachable moment. Life in Old Rose Harbor was hard, and people took the work they could yet, but while Oisin would not normally begrudge people the desperate measures they adopted in desperate times, it was becoming increasingly difficult to uphold that the closer Tom spiralled into his current circles of employ, especially whenever that resulted in someone punch-drunk and bleeding showing up on Oisin's doorstep uninvited. He was within his rights, as a grudgingly conscripted healer, to throw around a little condemnation and holier than thou dismay in situations such as this; but not this one, not when it was Tom's brother bleeding all over the place.

Oisin slipped into place on Clark's opposite side, helping to hustle his new patient and their next of kin through the doorway - out of the cold, out of the street, and out of view. A cacophony of notions swirled through his thoughts, tossed about like flotsam on a storming sea. Concern for the younger Cooke, and some degree of empathy for the elder was dominant, but there were other concerns. There were patrons of the Nobody Inn, fast asleep - he hoped - upstairs. There were the proprietors too, unlikely to show up quite this early, but certainly not prevented from doing so either. What would they think, walking into the bar to find a wounded street urchin bleeding all over the place? How would they react? What if Tom had been seen, prying neighbours peering through their clouded windows? What if he'd been followed, luring the Cookes' troubles to his doorstep, turning his employment into bystanders and collateral? Worse, what if someone caught him, the wick weaving his mysterious mystical ways? Such things were seldom looked favourably upon. Such things had a habit of leaving him in a similar state to Clark.

He pushed that all aside, sweeping it into the dark corners of his thoughts, beyond view, turning his focus instead on problems that could be more immediately dealt with. Together, Tom and Oisin manoeuvred Clark into the Nobody Inn, settling him into a chair nearest to the residual warmth of the extinguished fire, as gently as their combined strength and Clark's dead weight would allow. Dead weight. Not the best turn of phrase, given the circumstances. Oisin dropped into a crouch beside him, running a mental inventory of the injuries on display; but existing in such proximity to Tom and his emotions in the moment was like standing beside a blacksmith's furnace, and Oisin knew they simply didn't have the time to indulge.

"I know you're angry," he said quietly, keeping his voice low, still wary of alerting anyone from the floors above, "But I assure you, there is no one on this side of that door who you can hit or stab to make this any better."

Clark's face was a mess; the rest of him didn't seem much better, either. Carlisle's boys, Tom had said. Oisin tried not to focus on that. Who didn't help him. What was all that mattered. From what he could see, what was a lot. It gripped him with icy fingers, squeezing on his insides. Despite what Tom and a few other locals seemed to think, Oisin was no healer. At least, not really. True, what he and the mona could do was more than most, but there were limits. He wasn't some endless supply of miracles. Ordinarily, he'd have said that, another stick to poke at Tom with as he grumbled about being dragged into all this business yet again; another weapon in an arsenal that Oisin knew better than to indulge today.

"Tell me what happened. I don't care who you think did it -" The clarification was added quickly, the words tumbling out of Oisin's mouth with a calm urgency. "- but I need to know what it is I'm fixing. How was he hurt, how long ago, and is that blood all his?"
Last edited by Oisin Ocasta on Fri Jul 19, 2019 6:08 pm, edited 1 time in total.
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Tom Cooke
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Tue Jul 16, 2019 7:37 pm

Nobody Inn Old Rose Harbor
Early Morning on the 13th of Dentis, 2704
Soon as Oisin’d helped him sit Clark down in a chair, soon as he was settled in best as they could get him, Tom started pacing. At first, he strode over to the hearth on the pretense of warming himself by the few embers that still glowed there – ’course, he didn’t need warming, not with the fire in his belly, so that didn’t last long. While Oisin took a look at Clark, he strode over to the mop and the bucket where the wick’d set it aside; then he was over by the stairs, then over by the bar, then over by the door again, staring into the misted, dark mirror of the window with murder in his eyes.

All the while, underneath the wick’s quiet voice: thump, thump, thump. The hammer of his old boots on the hardwood sounded out his path.

Tom could be quiet when he wanted to, quiet as a lad big as him could be, but he didn’t want to right now. He forced himself to take deep breaths. He ran a bloodied hand through his hair, brushing a long, black tangle out of his face, and looked back toward Oisin and Clark. Looked away again, just as quick, swearing vividly under his breath. His voice shook a little. Couldn’t stand the sight of Clark, his face just about unrecognizable, a map of swollen bruises. Couldn’t stand nothing about all this. Couldn’t stand the way Oisin was talking all calm and soft and fast, telling him he knew he was angry, implying he wasn’t thinking clearly. Treating him like some wild, dangerous animal.

When he spoke again, Tom’s head jerked up. He stared daggers at the wick, forgetting himself momentarily, forgetting where he was and who he was talking to. “Who I think did it?” he barked, lip curling.

Knew he’d gone too far, though. Knew it the instant it’d come out of his mouth.

“Epaemo,” he muttered, voice softening, eyes downcast. His posture shifted, and he wrung his hands, white-knuckled, like he was trying to abate them, teach them to do something other than strangle. For a second, he looked like what he was: a big, scared, hurt boch, shame-faced because he’d snapped at the one person who was trying to help him. With a brief, worried glance at Clark from underneath his heavy brow, he moved – quiet, this time – back over to the table.

Tom pulled out another chair. It squeaked and cracked with protest as he sank heavily into it. “Epaemo, Oisin. It’s jus’, I don’t know. I don’t know nothin’.” He studied the young man’s face, his own pale and pleading. “I found him like this near the flat. An hour ago, maybe. He’s – I got some talkin’ out of him, before he dropped off. Broken rib, maybe more than one – an’ he’s bruised an’ cut all over. They kicked the shit out of him. All the sap’s his, though, hey? You know him. He ain’t one for fightin’ back, not Clark, not my brother. He jus’ let ’em –”

He broke off, letting out a soft, frayed laugh. Ran a big hand through his hair again, like it’d calm him down, like it helped. Everything in him wanted to spring to his feet again. To do what, though? Pace circles round the tavern? Wake up the whole Nobody?

With a pang, Tom realized what he’d done – what he might’ve done. He cursed himself. For someone like Oisin Ocasta, even a job like this one was tenuous enough, and giving him a reputation as the wick who brought trouble like this into the Nobody wasn’t doing him a favor. More the point, he knew the tsat’d taken some nasty enough beatings himself. If they woke up the wrong kov, he might have another one coming. Based on the way he was walking and holding himself, Tom realized belatedly, he might’ve had one already, and not too long ago.

Fidgeting in his seat with another few creaks, he looked at Oisin with concern. “You all right?” he asked suddenly, voice even softer. His eyes flicked to the wick’s shoulder, then back to his face. “You’re movin’ funny, ain’t you?”
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Last edited by Tom Cooke on Sun Aug 25, 2019 2:21 pm, edited 1 time in total.
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Oisin Ocasta
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Fri Jul 19, 2019 8:20 am

13th of Dentis, 2704
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"We've only got two hands each, Tom."

The words weren't stern - Oisin wasn't capable of stern - but they carried enough weight to be listened to, a careful urging rather than an insistent demand. There was a patience to them, one born of sympathy for Tom's situation, of understanding of the frustrations he must currently be going through; but also a resignation, a hint of a sigh, a notion that perhaps more boot steps might wear out that patience sooner than they wore out the floor, and that a tangent of stray questions was unlikely to slow that process. There was a tension to the words, too, a firmness in their gentle tone that warned Tom to be mindful of his volume and his voice. Footsteps downstairs was one thing, those could easily be shrugged off as the inconsiderate clumsiness of one young wick, but voices? Conversation? Even if they couldn't hear the words, the fact that Oisin had anyone to talk to at all was the start of a slippery slope.

"Lets stick to juggling one set of problems at a time, eh?"

Tugging at Clark's shirt, he managed to shift the fabric aside enough to inspect the injuries underneath. Oisin couldn't speak to the status of Clark's ribs, not from a glance or a monite whisper the way that a galdori might have been able to, at least, and sitting there poking at the problem hardly seemed like a pleasant approach for anyone. But Oisin could already see the bruises beginning to form, the angry discoloured shapes that always seemed to correspond with what Tom speculated. The mention of cuts and bruises, and the lack of no obvious severe wounds was both a blessing and a curse: it meant that he had probably suffered a beating, and that was good for anyone who didn't want to be full of stab wounds and missing more blood than Oisin had the power to do anything about, but it also meant that the trauma was likely blunt and internal, and it made Clark's struggle for consciousness all the more worrisome.

"There's only so much I can do, " he said, to himself as much as Tom, a hand tapping against the side of Clark's face in the hopes of coaxing him back into consciousness. If he were awake, if he could better describe the injuries that he'd sustained, then maybe he'd know what he needed to in order to ask the mona for help. As it stood, he barely even had plot notes, not nearly enough to begin weaving a story for the mona to follow. For now, he focused on the narrative that he did understand, the obvious symptom that he could translate into words. Taking Clark's head in both hands, he began to whisper his story: the tale of a boy from Old Rose Harbor, with the heart of a lion, the strength of a bear, and the mind of a feral pigeon; someone whose heart and body were strong, but without enough mind to spare any on these sorts of injuries. He implored them to take their part, to weave their magic on his behalf, and knit back together whatever cranial wounds Clark's beating had inflicted. Oisin felt their agreement, but he also felt their price, feeling the pain in his shoulder swell like harbor waves, the tide washing in with pain, and taking healing with it as it washed back out to sea. He bit down against his own jaw, muscles bunching as his shoulder screamed in protest; but he felt the shift in Clark, the change in his breathing from laboured to relaxed.

Oisin glanced over his shoulder towards Tom, and instantly regretted it, the motion tugging on a shoulder that ached at best, and agonised over the weight of his arm. Oisin ignored it, pushing through the joint's protests as he escaped his crouch and returned to standing, leaving the offending arm to hang by his side while he reached out for Tom's shoulder with the other. "I asked the mona to help out with his head." His eyes strayed in Clark's direction for a moment. "With any luck, he'll be awake again soon. If he can tell me which ribs are broken, I can ask the mona to help there too, but I'm not golly. I can't snap my fingers and know all the answers, and if I try to incite the mona without knowing the story I'm telling -"

He trailed off, a sigh escaping him as he looked back to Tom. How Oisin felt about the situation was written all over his face: worry, yes, though in its more civilized form as concern; disappointment too, at his own limitations, his own inability to help as much as he wanted to. It was his fault, his failing that he couldn't do more. If he'd not been born a wick, he'd be Brunnhold trained by now; perhaps he'd even be the kind of living conversationalist that could have mended Clark's injuries effortlessly. If Oisin had a real field, there was so much more he could have done, not just for Clark but for everyone. Instead, he'd been born as he was. His soul had latched onto this doomed body in the antelife, lumbered itself with this existence. He'd be able to do more than just heal, too. Gollies were powerful. The mona listened to them in ways a Wick couldn't hope to emulate. A better field, better circumstances, a better life, a better soul - there was so much more he could do, so much more he could be, if he was simply a better man.

At this point, he'd settle for taller; stronger. He knew what Tom was thinking, or at least, he had a good guess. Tom would want to do something. If he couldn't help his brother, then he would hurt the people responsible. That was how he worked. That was how Old Rose Harbor. Of course, if those responsible could - and were willing to - do this to Clark, retaliation was a recipe for Tom running face-first into problems of his own. Another something to juggle, along with all the rest.

"For now, though, what he needs is time and rest," Oisin uttered, that same stern-but-gentle tone as before, "And for you not to rush off and do anything stupid on your own."
Last edited by Oisin Ocasta on Fri Jul 19, 2019 6:07 pm, edited 1 time in total.
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Tom Cooke
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Fri Jul 19, 2019 5:21 pm

Nobody Inn Old Rose Harbor
Early Morning on the 13th of Dentis, 2704
That calm, careful voice, still, with its subtle note of warning. The chair creaked underneath Tom again; he couldn’t seem to keep himself still. If he wasn’t shifting in his seat, he was bouncing his knee. Like he still expected Clark’s weight slung round his shoulders, and now that it wasn’t, he felt light, too light, light-headed, light in his lungs. He crossed his legs just to keep his foot from tapping against the old wood, resting his ankle on his knee. Putting his hand on his leg, fingers twitching, grip tight enough to bruise.

All the while he was staring at Oisin’s hands. He’d parted Clark’s shirt, and Tom winced at the bruises that flowered across his broad chest. Another flare of anger washed over him, so hot it was cold, like a bucket of icewater over his head. He clenched his jaw so tight he worried he’d break teeth, but he didn’t know how else to calm himself down. Was it anger at Oisin, for being so – godsdamn calm? Was it anger at those laoso cowards of Carlisle’s, picking a fight with Clark instead of him? Was it anger at himself, for not being there? For something else?

He didn’t know. He forced the breath in and out, nearly snorting with the effort.

Oisin took Clark’s swollen face between his hands, and Tom closed his eyes. In the seconds that followed, he heard the wick’s voice, but he wasn’t speaking Estuan: he was speaking that moony voo-language, and Tom didn’t know what he was saying. He felt fear prickle at the back of his neck, but pushed it down. Couldn’t wrap his head around the idea of the mona, and sometimes it made him afraid, and that fear made him angry. It was just something else he didn’t understand.

He’d heard Monite before in his sixteen years, and not always for good reasons. He still remembered the beating he’d got from that old golly last year, the one he’d picked a fight with at Greene’s, and the scars still ached. He’d known plenty enough wicks, too, ’course, but he still hadn’t got used to it. He wondered if he ever would. ’Specially not from Oisin, who seemed so – human, sometimes. Hell, Tom talked more Tek than he did.

When the poetry stopped, he opened his eyes. It was just in time to see Oisin’s jaw clench. The wick was good at hiding his pain, but despite his dismissal, Tom had been right. He wasn’t holding his shoulder like he usually did – when he hadn’t been beat, mind, and thinking about it, Tom wouldn’t’ve called that usual, but dze – and that arm hung limp. “Oisin,” he said softly, wincing with concern, but then the wick spoke, and he fell silent.

Silent and still, for once. If Oisin’s tone hadn’t made an impression on him, the sight of his injury had, and the anger’d abated, just for the moment.

“You got to know the story to tell it to the mona.” Sucking at a tooth, Tom nodded, glancing down and away. He seemed to be thinking hard. His grip on his leg had loosened, but it tightened again, white-knuckled, when he looked back at Clark. He couldn’t see a difference; one of his eyes was swollen shut, and his eyeball wasn’t moving beneath the other eyelid.

At the word stupid, the heat rushed to his face again – he shot Oisin another dart of a look.

The words came tumbling out before he could stop them. “What’m I supposed to do, then, hey? You’re sayin’ he could die, if the mona don’t wake him up soon? He could fuckin’ die, could he, an’ I’m just sittin’ here an’ –” His words sputtered, broke off.

Running a hand through his hair, he looked down and away. The anger on his face gave way to something like helpless fear.

“It’s jus’, I don’t know what to do,” he added, trying again to lower his voice. “It was them that went with Marcus, when he took over.” If you knew anything about anyone in the Harbor, now, you knew the King. “The ones that ain’t bendin’ the knee. But it’s fuckin’ laoso, it’s – Clark ain’t got nothin’ to do with it. This is my fault, this is. This was for me. I let this go, I ain’t a man.”

Clark’s breath wheezed gently in and out of his half-open mouth.

“You want ’em to think they fuckin’ cowed me?”
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Last edited by Tom Cooke on Sun Aug 25, 2019 2:20 pm, edited 1 time in total.
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Oisin Ocasta
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Fri Jul 19, 2019 6:06 pm

13th of Dentis, 2704
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Oisin let out a sigh, something adjacent to - but not quite - frustration curling the edges into the faintest of growls. Tom Cooke was a familiar and frustrating story. He let his fists do the talking, and the thinging, and just about anything else that needed to get done. He was no fool, but he acted like one far more than Oisin would have liked. There were all manner of cautionary tales about people who lived their lives the way that Tom did. Warnings to look before you lept, proverbs about reaping what you had sewn, violence begetting violence, in an endless downward spiral until no one had anything left. He wasn't sure how Tom might have defined them, wasn't sure if he should go as far as to say friend; but they definitely knew each other, and there were times like this when Tom found him useful, and Oisin didn't hate having him around. For his purposes, that was close enough; enough that Oisin knew the way Tom's story was headed, and knew that wasn't a future he wanted for his almost-friend.

But Clark was his brother.

Oisin didn't pretend to know what that meant, or how that felt. It went beyond a shared name, beyond shared blood. It was something that could exist even without those things, a word people used for a closeness that transcended any other. Sailors, pirates, criminals, cutthroats, they used the word as if it meant more than it meant. They spoke it with reverence, spoke it as if it was spiritual, spoke as if it was some sacred vow that bonded them together. It was a vow, a word, a concept that Oisin could never understand, and never would. You'll know it when you see it, people often liked to say. This was more you'll know it when you feel it, but either way, it was far beyond reach for someone like Oisin. He couldn't even understand the concept of family. How was he supposed to understand the feelings that existed between Tom and Clark?

The wick wished there was something he could say to soothe the rage and fear he saw in Tom's features, not just for the sake of his emotions, but for the sake of his wellbeing as well. To charge in like a wave was foolish, and folly: you'd dash yourself against the rocks, more often than not. Steering a safe course took skill, and caution. It took attention, wisdom, prudence. You had to navigate carefully to find the safe waters, and steer into the safe harbors. There was a safe course, sometimes several, but you didn't find them just through dumb luck: you had to watch where you were going. You had to not be Tom Cooke.

"Clark being unconscious means he probably got hit in the head. I asked the mona to ease any pain or swelling that he's struggling with. He needs rest, which he's getting, and as long as his symptoms don't get any worse, he'll wake up in his own time, and his body will be able to start healing on its own."

He cast a glance in the unconscious Cooke's direction.

"But when he wakes up, he's going to be confused. He's not going to know where he is, he's not going to know how he got here, and he might even struggle to remember what happened. That's normal, people get punch-drunk and forget all the time: but when he comes to, he's going to want his brother. He's going to need his brother. He's going to need something familiar, something he can latch onto, something to assure him that it's all going to be okay."

Oisin gestured towards the doorway: his bad arm, but it was worth it for the emphasis. The edge in his voice grew, a subtle swell of disapproval lacing Oisin's words.

"If making yourself feel better is all you care about then by all means: there's the door. Go punch things. Go get yourself beaten into the same state as Clark, go prove your strength and masculinity, go feel like you're doing something, with no one there to drag you back to help and healing once you're spitting out teeth and bleeding onto the floor. But while you're doing that, while you're proving how much of a man and a martyr, know that you'll be helping to ensure that they need to dig too pauper's graves tonight."

His arms folded across his chest, defiantly. "Or stay, and help, and maybe we can ensure that they won't be digging any."
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Tom Cooke
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Sun Jul 21, 2019 6:48 pm

Nobody Inn Old Rose Harbor
Early Morning on the 13th of Dentis, 2704
For once in his life, Tom Cooke was shame-faced.

He looked down at his hand, white-knuckled. Tried to relax it a little. The blood all rushed to his face, and he knew his cheeks must’ve been the red of a tomato by now. He opened his mouth to say something, then clamped it shut, grinding his teeth. Grinding and grinding them ’til he felt something pop. He didn’t feel too clear-headed, but he knew Oisin was talking sense, and he didn’t like it a whit. He’d’ve liked it better if there’d been something in there he could argue with. Even just a single thing to which he’d have had the right to say, You don’t understand.

“Ain’t a fuckin’ pauper,” he replied sulkily, but he knew that wasn’t fair. Didn’t quite know what a pauper was, neither; it was one of those words of Ocasta’s. By the context, he figured it meant some kind of poor person, and Tom couldn’t argue with that. But he wanted to argue with something.

So – what, then? You stick to your job, I’ll stick to mine? That wasn’t fair, either. He could’ve tried to explain how important this was, not just to his masculinity but to putting food on the table, but he knew he’d sound like a mean, mung human. What, Tom Cooke, ain’t you got the brains to move up in the world? Find a better way? Barring that, he could’ve found work down at the docks, or for some place like the Nobody. It’d’ve been easier for him, he realized with a sick, sinking feeling, than for Oisin. Easiest thing in the world, in fact. Keep his head down, quiet as a mouse. Use the strong arms the gods gave him to do honest work.

Tom swallowed what tasted like bile. He finally looked up, but not at Oisin. His dark eyes flicked over Clark’s slumped, sleeping form, up and down, lingering on the rise and fall of his chest. It was hard to look at his face right now; if you weren’t his brother, Tom wasn’t sure you’d recognize him. The breath that whistled in and out through his teeth was stirring a strand of hair that’d fallen in his face. He wore it long, like Tom, but it was straight and the color of straw.

He looked down for another long moment, then – finally – up at Oisin. It was hard to meet his eye, and seeing him standing there all high and mighty, his arms crossed over his chest like he was his mother, made Tom feel another flare of anger.

But then anger drained off his face, replaced by something that sat somewhere between frustration and shame. The wick hadn’t convinced him – being honest, no matter what the kov said, soon as Clark woke up, he was going to be out of there and on the warpath – but he’d made him stop and think.

With a slow nod, he said, “I’m sorry, Oisin. Ain’t a man who drags this shit in an’ then treats you like a kenser on top of it.” The apology was quick and reluctant – I’msorryOisin – just about husked through his teeth, but he said the rest of it with genuine feeling. His eyes traced the line of the wick’s shoulder, and then he winced again. “Hell, he ain’t goin’ to be up for – well – won’t you sit?”

Those last words all tumbled out halfway out of order, stumbling – his voice suddenly soft, and embarrassed as hell to be that way. Tom sprang to his feet, the chair rattling behind him, then thumped over to grab a seat from a nearby table. Set it out behind Oisin all careful-like, tottering on its rat-gnawed, uneven legs. “C’mon,” he muttered, head down.

When he started to move away, that restless energy started filling him up again. He couldn’t bear to sit down.

He cast about, then spotted the mop and bucket where Oisin had left them. With a cursory glance upstairs, he said, tentative, “In the meantime, you need a hand? Ain’t nobody goin’ to know.”
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Last edited by Tom Cooke on Sun Aug 25, 2019 2:20 pm, edited 1 time in total.
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Oisin Ocasta
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Sat Aug 24, 2019 9:56 pm

13th of Dentis, 2704
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At any other time, the prospect of Tom Cooke actually working for a living might have been a source of comedy. Volunteering to work, no less! But the circumstances were grim, and Oisin knew that Tom's energy and attentiveness was displaced. When you cared about someone, someone in danger, or harm, or suffering, and you found yourself in a position where you were powerless to act? That desire, that energy, that need to do something didn't go away; it just went elsewhere, misdirected into other things. At least, that was how it seemed to be, how the people that Oisin saw, and knew, and understood always seemed to act. Perhaps he'd feel that way himself one day, or someone might feel that way about him, if he managed to ever find someone to matter to.

Oisin remained defiantly on his feet, keeping himself from the indecisive whirlwind that Tom was transforming into. The offer of assistance was one thing, but the invitation to sit, the idea that Tom was going to usurp Oisin's tasks and responsibilities, have him sitting around on his erse watching someone else do the work like he was some kind of galdor? No thank you. Oisin worked, and Oisin was paid, and that was that. Anything beyond that, any sort of delegation or favours, well-meaning or otherwise, that wasn't how the story worked; that wasn't the story that Oisin knew and understood. Better to avoid it. Better to keep the unknown at a safe distance, and stick to what was familiar.

"You will sit," Oisin insisted, gently but firmly, more like someone trying to calm an animal than soothe a friend. Jabs and barbs danced through his thoughts, sharp-tongued retorts that would be left unused, about how Tom likely didn't know which end of a mop to actually use, about how if Oisin needed the floor threatened, or beaten, or stolen from, he'd let Tom know. For now it was just the words, just the sharpened arrowheads without the heft of the shaft or a bow behind them. That, the judgement and disapproval that would drive the points home, might come later, or it might not. Oisin struggled to know how he felt about Tom Cooke. The man was who he was, and what he was. That was his story. That was his truth. Oisin might not approve of his actions, or his choices. They might not have been actions or choices that Oisin would have chosen for himself. But they weren't his choice, and it was no more his place to judge those choices than it was to make them for Tom in the first place. Tom simply was, just like everyone else. It didn't matter to Oisin what he did, or why. So then why did it feel as if it should?

"If anyone catches you down here, that's one thing. But if someone catches you working?" Oisin trailed off, imagining how that story would go. It wouldn't matter that the Nobody's landlord would be paying the same amount of coin either way: clearly Oisin would have been doing only half the work, so clearly he only deserved half the coin. It was how things worked, especially for people like him. Being paid was a privilege, in a strange way: if you refused to do it, you weren't paid and couldn't eat, and it would take your employer no effort at all to find someone to replace to. You kept on your employers' good side. You took the pay you were given, gratefully, even if it sometimes was a few coins short of what had been agreed. You convinced yourself that there were benefits beyond mere money, that the free warmth and the table scraps were compensation enough to make up the difference. A piece of wisdom was lodged in Oisin's mind about such things: Don't rock the boat, that's how you capsize and drown.

Oisin retrieved the mop for emphasis, knuckles white as he gripped hold of it, protectively denying it from Tom just in case. "If you need to do something, then talk. Quietly. Sit your erse down, put your fists away, and let your head and your mouth do the work for a change. You said this was Carlisle's boys. You're certain? Something personal? Something ordered? Something Clark might have done to provoke it? Something you might have done?"
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Tom Cooke
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Sun Aug 25, 2019 8:04 pm

Nobody Inn Old Rose Harbor
Early Morning on the 13th of Dentis, 2704
Tom’s mouth quivered, set into a straight, grim line. He stared at Oisin like there were arguments on the tip of his tongue, if only he could figure out how to get them across; his jaw slid back and forth, teeth grinding. A little color came into his cheeks. He looked down and away, fists balling at his side, spasming loose, balling again. He didn’t comply immediately – didn’t do anything but stand, stock-still and shut tight like a storm in a vault. One last, embarrassed glance at the mop and bucket, though, and he was moving.

Heavy, reluctant steps thudded across the room, the old floorboards creaking and popping. He moved past Oisin without another word or look. It was the chair he’d pulled out for Oisin that he sank into, the one closest Clark.

He couldn’t bear to look at Clark, either. Not by a long shot. For the first few moments, he kept his face down, deepening puce under tangles of black hair. His hands twitched in his lap.

Still didn’t understand, not really, why Oisin wouldn’t just let him do some work. Let him do something, anything. He felt like shit for how he’d treated the wick, barging in with his half-dead brother, kicking up such a ruckus as’d wake the whole godsdamn Circle. He was sure Oisin was just overthinking things, like he always did. Thinking so hard about everything made you mung, sometimes. Sometimes, you just accepted a favor. Nobody’d catch them, he thought, and if they did – well, hell, if they did, Tom’d make sure they regretted it.

’Course, he wasn’t sure how. Mostly, he just didn’t understand why you’d waste your time mopping floors – for folk that didn’t give a shit about your dignity, mind – when there was better work to be had. Then, it’d always been honest work for Oisin. Regardless of pride.

He didn’t spend long thinking about all that. At Oisin’s questions, he finally looked up, brushing his hair out of his face. He frowned. There were a lot of them; his mind raced to catch up. He thought he’d answered some of them already, but he guessed not. He guessed he hadn’t told Oisin much of anything.

His frown deepened. “Ain’t – ain’t sure, ne,” he replied quietly, sucking at a tooth. Looking away. “’S’got to be, ain’t it? Personal.” He shifted in his seat, resting his ankle on his knee. His foot bobbed, rhythmic, unable to stop moving. “Listen, when Carlisle went over, it pissed Barrett, an’ he’s taken some of the other boys that ain’t so keen on bendin’ the knee. Tried to get me to go, except I’m loyal to Carlisle, ye chen? – an’ Carlisle’s loyal to the King, so I’m loyal to the King. That’s the way shit’s goin’, anyway.”

Tom swallowed a lump. His eyes were flicking about, like they were chasing his thoughts. Suddenly, he looked up; anger cracked across his face. His lip curled back over his crooked teeth.

“Wait a fuckin’ minute,” he snapped, “Clark ain’t done nothin’, are you sayin’ –”

“Don’t be angry, Tom,” came a soft, croaking wheeze.

Tom broke off, attention whipping toward the bruised, battered lad in the chair beside him. There was nobody in the room but Clark, then. Oisin’d disappeared; Nobody Inn, in fact, had disappeared. Tom’s world was a lump of bruises and torn, stained cotton, a mess of wild, straw-blond hair scattered with dried blood.

Both of Clark’s eyes were swollen almost shut, but the right one had opened a crack, and a glistening eye was focusing itself on Tom. That eye, then, became the fulcrum of Vita, and Tom leaned forward. “Clark? Brother?”

“What’s goin’ – I don’t know where,” murmured Clark, fumbling with his swollen lips, “I don’t…” He winced as he took a deep breath in, touching his side with his big hand trembling. He swiveled his head a half-inch, squinting his purpling eye at Oisin across the room.

“Don’t worry,” mumbled Tom, scooting his chair a little closer, “nothin’s wrong, hey? Everythin’s benny. There’s Oisin, remember? Oisin Ocasta, our friend. He’s goin’ t’ help.”

“Hi, Oisin. Why’re you so mad, Tom?” Clark coughed, then groaned again.

For the first time since his brother’d spoken, Tom turned his attention back toward the wick. There was something pleading in his eyes. He felt scared, suddenly, out of his depth. “I ain’t mad at nobody,” he said, “except the fuckers who did this to you, an’ me, ’cause it’s my fault.”

“Don’t be mad,” replied Clark, matter-of-fact, then added, “Thank you, Oisin,” voice even softer. He shut his swollen eye, settling his chin on his chest.
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