[Closed] Too Many Shadows, Too Many Sails

[Lars]

VORTAS 4TH, 2719
WEST-AND-LONG at NIGHT

It all got boring pretty quick, sitting around and watching people work the docks. Not as many people were out and about, not working anyhow (he knew quite well that the taverns were still quite busy at this hour), not now that it was dark. Working outside and transferring things to and from ships didn't lend itself that well to the dark, he supposed, and he couldn't blame most of them for leaving - he wasn't all that focused on them anyhow, save for the occasional glance upwards when someone lifted something particularly heavy, or shouted something too loud.

It hadn't been all that great of an idea in the first place, coming down to the docks in Vortas. In his defense, it had been a little warmer when the sun was out, but it had faded beneath the horizon a bit ago now, and it was... cold. It was fucking cold. He wasn't sure if it was worth it, being out by the water when it was so cold, but he liked the sound of the waves coming in, and he liked the activity near the ships, and he liked the sometimes overwhelming reminder that he was free, and that if he wished it to, any ship in the harbor could take him even farther away from Brunnhold. In the warmer months it had been nicer, but now the cold seeped into his skin and made a home in his bones. He didn't have much in the way of warm clothing; he hadn't exactly needed it when he arrived, and he hadn't even considered that he'd need to buy some. Having to think about clothes was still... odd, to him.

Lars was sitting at the edge of an empty dock, legs dangling over the side above the dark water, an old book in his cold, bruised hands. It was some novel that'd been old when it was bought in the first place, one that he'd taken along with him when he'd left the human family's house and went out to the apartment he resided in now. He wondered, now and then, if they cared that he'd taken it, or if they even noticed that it was gone. They hadn't done much reading while he was there, not that he had seen at least. They had always been too concerned with money, and food, and everything else that Lars had never had to think about in Brunnhold.

It was on his mind a lot, that.

In any case, he hadn't done much with the book besides flip through it, eyes scanning the pages while the sun had still been out and then folding it carefully shut once it'd went down. There were enough lights around to illuminate the pages if he wished, but he'd taken to watching recently instead, eyes following the last of the dockworkers as they finished up their shifts. Plenty of them had coats, and layers. He wondered if they were still cold, too, or if all that movement kept them warm. He'd been warm earlier, at the Queen, and he'd be warm again when he went home, if he ran the bath.

The thought of warm water was enough to stir him, the passive pulling himself up and starting to walk back to the waterfront. Lars held the book over his chest, both arms pulled in close so as to save whatever body heat he could, and he breathed out a shaky sigh as he came back to (mostly) solid ground. It might've been smarter to keep his head low, and keep his chin pulled close to his chest, but a mixture of curiosity and concern kept his gray gaze up, scanning the faces he passed, the hands lifted and waved and gestured in surrounding conversations, anything and everything that could be of use to him or used against him if he somehow stepped wrong, looked wrong - if he pissed someone off, in general. It didn't always take much.

It wasn't until a little glint of light caught his eye that Lars paused, gaze tracking the source of it until he registered what exactly it was -

A ring. It was on someone's hand, sure, someone bigger and probably stronger than himself, but it was a ring nonetheless, and he wanted it. His eyes darted up to the face as it passed; he'd seen him before, hadn't he? Right over... there, at the docks. He'd been working. Tired, then, and either on his way to go get sloshed in a tavern (that'd be convenient) or on his way home (less convenient, but possibly less people around). Right. He could follow that. Lars looked back down to the hand, getting farther away now, and he changed direction to follow at some distance.

He could get a coat with that ring, he thought. A warm one.

Plenty of things were running through his head as he followed after the man - how bad of an idea it was, for one, to be stalking some dockworker and wanting to take what was probably a wedding ring, how he could get stabbed and bleed out in an alley tonight, but also how nice it would be if it worked. Best case scenario, he got the ring, bought a coat with it, and he could steal the ring back later to wear. Worst case... well.

"Hey, sir," he called, once they were far enough from the taverns not to be overheard, "you - you work down at the docks, right? Sorry to bother you, but I found this old book down there, and I'm trying to get it back to its owner. This isn't your book, is it?"

Lars walked closer, no longer allowing himself the comfortable, casual distance of someone not wanting to be seen. He held the book out, slightly, looking to the man with concern, and the slightest little bit of hope.

"Or maybe you've seen someone with it?"

[Clark Cooke]

West-and-Long, Old Rose Harbor

evening of the 4th of vortas, 2719

C
lark didn’t know when it’d started getting so cold, even in Vortas.

It was a clear night, though, which meant you could see the stars, in-between the shadows of the leaning rooftops in West-and-Long. And Vita’d taken some mercy in the breeze off the water, carried in, Clark supposed, from warmer places, places like Bastia and Mugroba, places where the tilt of the year maybe wasn’t so bitter-cold. Though the spray had still been chilly.

Clark’s nose was still full of the salt smell of the bay, and that fishy smell that always clung to the wharf, and the distant whispers of things fried in lots of oil. And strong beer, and piss. Clark supposed those were the smells of the Rose; Clark thought it was strange that a place called after a rose would smell like that.

He was thinking of things like that, as his steps wove a familiar path through West-and-Long, toward the leaning, creaking old Goretti house. He knew he was putting one foot in front of the other, but he was too tired to think of much else.

All of him ached; it wasn’t such a good ache, this time of year. And the cold cut right through his coat, and his wool sweater, and his heavy trousers, such as they were. They chafed, like always.

He’d worn through them right quick since last time, what with all the shifts he’d been picking up the last month. Wasn’t fair, how quick he got all them scuffs and holes. Miss Bentley always said it was because he was such a big strapping man who used all them muscles so much. He didn’t think he could argue with the logic, though he didn’t much like the way she said it.

He was thinking mostly about that as he walked the last quiet streets of West-and-Long ’til home. He’d passed most of the taverns by now, spilling their lights and funny smells; he’d seen familiar faces heading toward some of them, men he knew from the docks.

Always seemed to Clark they talked a lot about them, or places like the Queen. Was hard to get along, if you weren’t the man for that sort of thing. Clark didn’t know, not really, what that sort of thing was. He’d never been to the Queen, and he’d been dragged to pubs a few times, sometimes by the other dockers, sometimes by – sometimes by other folk, and he didn’t think he could think of any combination of things he liked less.

Eyes, faces, voices. Foul-smelling, foul-tasting drink. Too much light.

By now, he’d passed the crowded streets full of eyes and faces and voices. He’d kept his head down through all of it, kept his head down and his collar turned up to the cutting breeze. Most folk avoided a man like him, anyway. Most folk. He had a funny feeling tonight, so he walked fast.

The streets’d got narrower; he knew he should’ve taken the broader ways – Teresa was always telling him to take the broader ways, since the last time he’d got robbed – but he couldn’t stand them, all the eyes and faces and voices and lights. And two names thrummed in his heart, and he just wanted to be home, so bad he could barely breathe for all the wanting.

When he heard the voice, he like to jumped out of his skin.

It was a narrow, dark way. Not far from home, he kept thinking; please, please. Not far. His shoulders were all the way up around his ears. He turned, slowly, to look at the man.

A little man. Clark might’ve thought he was a golly, if he hadn’t been close enough he couldn’t feel a field. But Clark didn’t know many men that small. He squinted, ’cause the phosphor lamp was at the end of the street, and the soft blue light made funny colors out of everything, anyway. But the little man could’ve been a ghost, Clark thought. A strange little ghost, with pale skin and white hair, his eyes just a glisten in the shadow of his pale brow.

He was coming closer, with a book. Clark backed up, slow and easy, watching him. He didn’t look at his face; he didn’t look anywhere near his face. He looked down, at his shoes.

It hadn’t sounded like an unfriendly hey, sir, but Clark’s heart was beating so fast in his chest. He could barely keep up with what he was saying. He didn’t know what to do. He didn’t know nothing, he wanted to say, nothing.

The ghost was coming near him, extending a book. Asking if it was his. If he’d seen anybody with it. He almost didn’t understand. Nobody looked at Clark and thought he was a reader. If somebody had lost a book – Clark didn’t know. Clark wanted to go home, but the ghost just kept getting closer.

“I – I don’t,” fumbled Clark, blinking rapidly. His eyes darted up to the ghost’s, down to the book, then back down to the ground, at his shoes. He took a quick step back, as if the book might burn him. He raised his hand instinctively, as if to ward off a blow. “I don’t got no books,” he mumbled, “I don’t know. I don’t know nothin’ about it, sir.”

[Lars]

VORTAS 4TH, 2719
WEST-AND-LONG at NIGHT

The man with the ring stepped back. He raised a hand, too, and the beginnings of the motion made him think for a moment that that hand would wind up in his face, but it didn't. It just raised, like the passive had somehow threatened him. He wouldn't meet his eyes, either, save for a quick moment before they darted back down to his shoes, but Lars had never thought of himself as looking all that scary. A man half this one's size could take him down easily, but here he was, making a big man nervous. How strange.

Gray eyes narrowed as he looked up at the man's face, at the scar on one side that threatened to overtake it. He knew well that scars meant little in terms of judging a man, unless you knew them well enough to know where those scars had come from, and he didn't know this man one bit.

Lars didn't move to step away or turn around once the man denied him, and told him that no, he didn't know, he didn't know nothing. He even called him 'sir' like he was some sort of man deserving it. Well - that, or he was somehow trying to save himself with the politeness, which sounded even more ridiculous than a passive being called sir. A big, tall man like this didn't need to save himself from anything, did he? But he supposed, if that was true - if he was afraid - then that would make this a bit easier. Lars took a step closer.

"It's just a question, sir," he tried gently, lowering the book so that his arms rested at his sides again. "I just figured I should check, you know?"

What is your plan here?

Shut up, I'm thinking. We have a knife. We're fine.

If... if you think we're fine, can... I...

Lars blinked, pausing for a brief moment after he'd spoken.

You want to do it? You?

The passive dropped the book, then. Part of him was annoyed by that. It was old, and worn, but it was one of the nicer books he had. It fell to the ground with a hard thud, and Lars took that moment to slip his hand to the side, into his pocket, bony fingers grabbing the handle of the knife. The same one he'd killed Tricky Yulis with, a few days ago - there was dried blood on the handle, and the blade curved upward slightly. Looked like it was meant to gut something, he thought, so that's what he used it for.

He took it from his pocket and raised both of his hands a little, as if he was somehow trying to apologize for it's appearance. How was it they did this, again? He tried to remember, but everything felt scrambled.

First time's the hardest. Just get the ring.

Lars gave a smile.

"I just want the ring." He could hear someone telling him to say more, say more, say more. Get the ring. Don't just let him walk away with it.

"Give it to me. Please. Or -"

Not please, don't say please, you're making us look like a moony -

"Or else?"

Gods, he was never going to let him do this part again. At least big men usually couldn't run as fast.

[Clark Cooke]

West-and-Long, Old Rose Harbor

evening of the 4th of vortas, 2719

C
lark’s heart was pounding in his throat. His hand lowered to his side, shaky, but not all the way. He couldn’t make himself look up at the little ghost’s face; he felt those eyes on him, glittering in the shadow of his brow, but he couldn’t’ve known what they meant. The man took a step closer, and Clark stood rooted to his spot, stiff. It was everything he could do not to flinch and take a step back himself.

Just figured I should check, said the man, in his strange soft voice. Clark didn’t know what to say back. Why check with him? Something was wrong about this, very very wrong. He tried to think what Teresa would say; his head was empty.

The man’s hands were at his sides, now, the book — and his other hand — hidden in the shadows. Clark thought of all the things that could be in his other hand.

The book thudded to the ground, and this time, Clark flinched. He jumped back one step, then two, and raised his hand again, just in time to see the glint of something sharp in the air between them.

A knife. A curved, nasty-looking knife, with — it was hard to see in the dark, and Clark didn’t know where to look anymore, but he thought there was some old smear of a stain on the cold metal, and Clark felt light-headed. “No,” he tried to say, “no, no,” but all that came out of his throat was a whistle of air.

He was shaking his head back and forth, back and forth, even as the man started speaking again. He took another small step back, but that was as far as he could go; he was frozen stiff, his shoulders hunched painfully in his coat. If he tried to run, he felt sure the man would come at him with the knife, and that would be it.

But —

His ring!

“No,” he blurted out, without thinking, without realizing what he was saying. “No!” The word tore out of his throat, ragged and misshapen. Both his big hands were in the air, between him and the knife and the pale man’s bony hands.

Please, the pale man had said, all polite-like. Clark stared at him across the curve of the knife, swallowing sour spittle. He stared at the knife, rather, because he still couldn’t bear to look him in the eye. Behind the knife, blurry, the pale face was smiling; Clark could see that much in the low phosphor light.

The gears turned in Clark’s head; they were slow, but they turned. He was silent for a moment, holding his hands up. “I don’t want no trouble,” he stumbled out, trying to raise his voice loud enough to be heard. “Mister — mister, it ain’t been two maw since I got married, an’ it — it —”

The words stuck in his throat. Underneath his coat, the docker’s hook was a familiar weight at his belt. He thought of the flat broad curve of it, the tip sharp as any knife.

His heart beat faster. He didn’t, he couldn’t. He’d never.

“Please.” His voice came out hoarse. “You don’t seem like a bad man. Anythin’ else. I’ll give you my coat. I ain’t got much. Jus’ not my ring.”