[Riot 2718] [Closed] The Unlikely Bonds

[29 Yaris 2178] Saunders' Forge, the Dives. Gale runs into

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A large forest in Central Anaxas, the once-thriving mostly human town of Dorhaven is recovering from a bombing in 2719 at its edge.

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Gale
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Joined: Thu Jul 19, 2018 6:07 am
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Race: Human
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: Artful Gunner
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Sat Nov 03, 2018 12:01 pm

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the forge and the dives | evening
29 YARIS 2718
“The human who knew too much,” It was the movement that made her aware, eyes catching his shape that lurked ever closer; a ghost that peeled out of the darkness and into the light. Pulse shifted too and fro, peaks and troughs in the speed as it sloshed around her innards. They were not sober enough for this, neither was he – the pair trying to work their way around a delicate subject, neither sure where to exactly step. She imagined both had lost their footing long ago, sending them now into a freefall hands flailing to grasp upon something – anything. As the gap closed in part of her recoiled, mind addled by instinct and conflicted it. He was a Seventen, her mind screamed that – a slither of logic warning her to be on her guard. He was also, in some regards, still a Galdor: the patterns of habit and upbringing could not simply be shed in an instant with the coming of a new perspective.

But he was also not a Galdor. In the same breath he was also a Wick who did not know how to be a Wick. He was – in the eyes of society – lesser. Gale was still at the bottom of the ladder, and without serious reform that was highly unlikely to change. The orbs blinked at his broken form, hairs raising instinctually to the shifting in the field, that small tell-tale sign sending a warning. Her fingers knotted, clenched and held onto her clothes – and then released.

They did not know enough about his behaviour. Was he the sort that became volatile while drunk? Easily enraged and prone to lashing out? Certainly did not seem that way currently, but it may have only been a matter of time. He watched her kill, had fought and bled through the streets the last few days himself. The acidic taste of bile rose up, face peeling into a grimace as she swallowed it and sent the heavy weight back to her stomach.

She needed to answer him, force some form of communication now everything had been laid bare. He had his right to question and she could not forbid him answers. She forced herself an inhale, noting the form that took to sprawling next to her. For a moment she thought on reaching out to touch him, the prickling of muscles as if to move – before the heavy weight slammed into her chest. Hot, it sat there cooling and solidified her in place. Her body refused her. Inhaling, warm air filling her lungs she chose to start with the easiest.

“I wasn’t in Kingsway for you,” her gaze drifted over him, never stopping even as it past his face. It inevitably made rest on her hands; people were hard, more so when it came to matters closer to the emotions. It was so easy to be swept up in them, drowned through the waxing and waning of sorrow and anger. Lips were licked, a slither of moisture smoothing over the cracks, “I was with other metalworkers, talking about levels of carbon, reducing slag run off, development of new smelt- metalworker things. Older guy hostin’ it lives near Kingsway, so when we started packing up said I’d get ‘im some food while I got my own. You being there, it… was coincidence. Least, far from intentional.”

Gale swallowed, feeling the hard lump forming in her throat. Hearing him groan there on the ground, a wailing noise that reminded her of some dying animal, provided a different kind of distraction. Her hand reached out into the low light, form leaning into a stretch to grasp upon her coat. It was something she could help with, all be it a poor offering given the circumstance. Dragged towards her, the fingers managed to pinch upon the previously found bread and dragged it over for inspection. She brushed the dirt off it, a small testing squeeze to check it – hard as she thought, but still mostly edible. A chunk was broken off, wrought iron tongs clamping around it before it was poked into the heat. As quickly as it went in did the piece come out, a careful blow upon it as the edges curled in from being toasted. Sheepishly, the smith took it and passed it down to him, “Eat. No arguing.”

It was a poor offering really, but she was not really sure what else she could do to delay the answering. Once more the orbs refused to fix upon him, nervous and skittish in their glamour. It was hard to focus, concentration now being poured into going against the whims of drink and no longer falling apart. The next was a bitter pill to swallow, harder as she realised there was no right words. Her voice dropped into a whisper, crackling along with the fire as it spilled forth, “If you weren’t there, I would not have helped them to begin with at all.” Gale held little love for the Seventen, part of her instinctively curled in as she remembered the received rough treatment from another at the start of the rioting, “I find that despite all the co’peration I give to the Seventen, the majority tend to use force unnecessarily. Something I was personally reminded of recently.”

Finger snaked up to her shoulders, digits pressing into he tendons around the neck and rubbing; as if a bruise still lingered there from the mere days before. Inhaling, her fingers ripped into the bread – breaking a chunk off and repeating the process she did with Rhys’. Eyes drooped, grip loosening as she watched her piece smoulder. Withdrawing it, she picked at the piece of burning on it before idly fiddling with it. A small pattern was drummed out, her lips pursing into a line.

“I don’t know what you’re supposed to do now,” she blew on it to cool it. She was not hungry, the lips refusing to part further than to allow a string of words to come forth, “You could do like any Galdor would do. Curse my existence and beat the stupid human back into submission. You could arrest me, watch me hang and hope I speak to none other about this. To make sure silence reigns,” Her gaze lifted to look at the various tools in her shop, “Who would miss another metalsmith? One with no relatives or friends? No one. You can then just ignore it all, carry on with your life as if this instance never happened. You could do that anyway, no obligations are holdin’ you here. Not really.”

It would have been incredibly easy, too easy really. Humans were surprisingly fragile despite the immediate racial belief. A good push and a fall could break many a man’s neck; Gale was not deaf to the stories of disagreements turning into manslaughter. Besides, it was not as if she was in a position to fight back against him – intoxicated or not, he had shown he was stronger and more combative than her. Perhaps right now the only deterrent there was for him to do such was the cold weight of Liberator. In return, the firearm reminded her of the destructive power she held at her fingertips.

And she wanted to make more of them.

“Guess that’s a half arsed answer,” she was still turning the piece in her fingers, “Though, I’m not really sure what the right one is. Is there even one? Mean, I’ll respect what you want. And I get it if you don’t want any of this. ‘Cause you got stuff goin’ for you and...”

In the end she shrugged, the trickle of self-depreciation seeping into her skull and largely taking over. He did not need this sort of thing in his life, though she imagined he did not want it at all. They were, for all intents and purposes, still practically strangers to each other – she knew nothing of him based on their small interactions and vice versa. Their only shared common ground was one of blood; but blood meant very little. Still, it did not stop the lingering craving for something to fill the gap – to not just be another part of the machine of product creation. Inhaling, she shook her head, awaiting some form of inevitable end to this night and the revelations that came with it.

“What do you want to do, br…”

The attempt to give a smile, the small curl of lips she had seen others do to reassure faltered. The little strength that remained fled her, hissing and disappearing from her bones. She could not finish, did not deserve to finish. And that in turn brought its own, new and rawr frustration.
When the last of us will disappear
Like shadows into the night
The broken ones, the fighting sons
Of ignorance

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Rhys Valentin
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Sun Nov 04, 2018 8:59 am

He shifted uncomfortably at Gale's admission that they'd not been in Kingsway for his sake, aware of what a simple, emotional slip of the tongue had allowed. A mess, just like all of this. Every damn time.

The body in front of his moved, and it was well-trained instinct, a healthy dose of Seventen-induced paranoia, and intoxication-fueled reflexes that forced him to sit up, to flinch, wariness crawling up his spine and lighting a match at the base of his skull. Rhys remembered the pistol, remembered what was left of a man when shot at point blank, and it was with wide eyes and a hitched sob that his bleary blue gaze fell on the bread. He exhaled a ragged breath, relieved, but his heart raced in his chest and his ears rang and he didn't know how to feel about anything.

Yet here they sat in front of the forge, breaking bread together.

As family.

He blinked at the small, toasted offering in his direction, but his hands moved of their own accord and he held the bread chunk without judgment about its questionable origins. He didn't want to eat, empty stomach shouting its concerned refusal with a quiet gurgle, but his gaze flicked down and then back up again, lingering on his fingers, on the crusty edge, so he took a bite and chewed out of pure obedience instead of needful desire.

Rhys smirked at the smith's comment, swallowing hard before he waved what was left of the bread in a drunk form of interruption, wanting to fill the awkward space of understanding that yes she would have fucking left him to die had she not known him as unintentional relations with as many words as possible so he could pretend he didn't hear them. He sniveled, attempting to find some semblance of himself in the shock and discomfort, in the ruddy glow of revelation, "It's not supposed to be that way, you know. That's why I said I wanted to do better. Be better. We're not supposed to be that way. Gollies don't have to fucking be that way: A Seventen officer should use proper and appropriate force when apprehending criminals, no more than is necessary; A Seventen officer should not commit acts of wanton destruction unless it is necessitated by his circumstances; A Seventen officer should protect the weak and always respond to pleas for help; A Seventen officer should be an example of valor, goodness and intelligence to all around him—and so on ... and so forth."

He spoke around more bread, reciting the creed of his position with more than a couple of slurred words in a mechanical tone that implied rote memory was enforced at one time or another in his training, but there was an underlying sense of belief in those syllables that his broken, unfiltered self couldn't hide from his tone, "Those are the rules. Just like you've got that fucking gun, not everyone in uniform cares about the godsbedamned law. Not anymore. Since Arazmus' been High Judge, recruitment's gone to the gutter. In the five years I've been out of training, things have changed—gods. No one can know. I'll go to prison for sure."

The young Valentin choked out some strange hybrid of a sob and a laugh, and it was bitter. How easy it was to slip into the comforts of opinion and history, of the familiar, in order to attempt to forget for even a moment the truth as it'd just had told to him. He hissed the end of the sound through grit teeth, wiping his face with his palms, digging the heels of them into his eyes and ignoring how much his battered, bruised face hurt while he did so.

He refused to cry more, holding it in, a pain sharpening between his temples and creasing his face into a scowl. He could have hurt her, sure, and he could haul her erse off to prison and let her stand trial. He could have done any number of things, and as prone to roughness as he was when out of his comfort zone, when pushed beyond his normal limits, Rhys couldn't bring himself to feel angry at Gale. Betrayed by his father, yes. Confused about the consequences, yes. Clocking knackered out of his mind, yes. But violently pissed off? No.

"I don't have any reason to do any of those things. I have reason to arrest you, sure, but to what end? You had nothing going for you, you still don't, in keeping me alive. But you did—" His eyes had strayed for a moment, but suddenly they snapped back to Gale, to the young human who he was now unable to see as a stranger, "—ah, clock it all—you do have a relative, though. Me."

Rhys let that hang there, wresting with it—visibly, on his flushed, tear-stained face—before he added quietly, losing himself for one intoxicated moment in the waterfall of his wild thoughts, tracing every rabbit trail, "No one can know. I'll lose everything. My job. My house. My claim to my father's property. Fuck. Charity—her godsbedamned father—No one can know—what? Wait. This? You mean us?"

A sharp inhale and a brief, puzzled look, the young Valentin attempting to understand what Gale was attempting to imply.

Brother.

Say it.


His expression shifted at the hint of a smile, something curious and almost sad, begging her to finish the word but Gale did not. Rhys leaned forward again, his voice quieter, softer, wobbling as he did so because his head swam and his bloodstream was full of alcohol and exhaustion, "This is hard to work out, you and I, but I can't just walk away and pretend it's not true. I'm not going to pretend it's not something. The closest thing I've ever had to family besides my osta's Charity and she's a clocking mess, but I love her. She's my fault. I didn't have the balls to stand up to Captain D'Arthe. I'm not going to make the same mistake twice. This—us—what do you want? What can we have that isn't fucking dangerous? There isn't a Kingdom I can call you sister on the street while playing a galdor like I've been. Sister doesn't sound bad, though. It's wick that's gonna fuck everything up."
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Gale
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: Artful Gunner
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Mon Nov 05, 2018 8:51 am

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the forge and the dives | evening
29 YARIS 2718
“Like I’m not supposed to go around with a fuckin’ gun,” they toyed with the bread, brow furrowing as she studied the various holes and texture. Stomach knotted, twisting as they brought it to their lips. Shaking their head they withdrew, “But, ‘ere we are with things being this way ‘stead of that way. Guessin’ a Seventen officer also shouldn’t forcibly hit, shove and drag a complyin’ civilian across the street too?”

He was warbling, words slurred and her mind still thick with fog. A resentment to engage, but with what? On what? The state of the world? How everything was merely waiting to implode in on itself? All it would take was the smallest spark, and the years of those who dwelled beneath would ignite into a deadly inferno – one way or another. It was a bloody hill to climb, and the corpses of either side would be left to rot beneath the victor. Anything after was a blur, a distant dream for the years to come. It still did not help the bitter taste that rested in their mouth, “I have opinions. On the Uncles and the Gollies as a whole. But now ain’t the time for ‘em. Drink blurs the lines.”

She let him talk, quietly nodding a long to his words. Now still with the heat easing from burning to warmth, the whiskey worked its way through to settling. It was soothing in its own way, luring into a false sense of security. With effort, she brought herself to chew through a chunk, grinding it down before forcing herself to swallow. Grimacing, the smith toyed with the rest, “World looks different when you’re in a place of privilege. That the right word? ‘nd I don’t just mean from your point. You see things that have changed on your side, my side I keep seeing the same angry faces – no matter how many years go by. And versa vice.”

“In the end, it’s the same shit, different day,” Gale snorted, a weak attempt to laugh in the weight of the forge, “I’ll race you to the gallows.” The vision drooped, blurring as the thoughts settled, “But, I won’t tell unless you do. Mostly know how to keep my mouth shut. Mostly. Still, you’re right on me not havin’ much bar this.”

They tapped the side of their skull as if to emphasize the point.

“This is safe, that much I promise.”

And Gale always did their damn best to keep their promises.

But it did not stop the lump from forming in their throat when he spoke. He heard the question, the unspoken word. Sheepishly she looked at him, writhing beneath the skin once more – a lingering sense of discomfort. It was easy to speak of what they were, but doing something about it was hard. It meant living, it meant communicating and forming the bridge between two different people. She looked at him, not properly mind, her orbs settled on his chin – unable to currently lift to meet his gaze. Fingers cracked as she clenched them into fists, finding herself hesitating upon the threshold of something new.

Part of her wished he would leave it. It was the easier option, let it drift away and be forgotten. It was what she did with numerous of her relationships, kept everyone at arm’s length and professional. Having a bond left you exposed, left you open for manipulation.

“Wassit, courage. Courage. Never too late. Or something like that. No wrong or right time to start, to be who you want to be,” she shrugged, “You can either stay the same or change. Grow. Do what you gotta do to…” Her face creased, mind filtering through the various snapshots of their interactions, their past, the people they knew, the city and its inhabitants, before finally returning to him and the crumpled mess he was, “Well, to make the best of it. Got to live a way that makes you proud and the courage to start again if you’re not.”

“Because there isn’t a place,” she sighed, the frown growing deeper. She leaned closer, if only slightly, the rough tones becoming smoother, rolling and lilting as she tried to focus through the words, “There isn’t a place that isn’t dangerous. It goes two ways this street. The danger goes for me too. And the way it all currently stands?”

Her hand shifted, all be it briefly, as if to reach out to touch him. They hesitated, withdrawing back to the safety of their space. It was not that Gale struggled with courage, but it was the stark contrast of what was wanted over the reality. The other part of her craved some form of relationship beyond the professional, something to cling onto and call her own. But that was not possible, despite all the emotions that screamed and demanded otherwise.

Fuck. There isn’t. Not now. Not to keep… I don’t know what I want. I want something. Something beyond a future for everyone. Where we don’t have to scratch and scrabble in the dirt for scraps. Where our kids and their kids don’t have to go through what we’re goin’ through.” Their gaze lifted, slowly, “I want to not have to live a lie, a half-life every day of my existence. But this?” Their finger pointed between them both, “I dunno. I want it to exist, I think. Why else I’d tell you? But…” They forced her eyes to meet his, green catching blue. They bit her lip, inhaling roughly as they tried to balance sensation with logic, “But first, we must be safe. That must always come first, no matter how hard it is to do otherwise. No matter how much it hurts.”

Their gaze darted away, already feeling uncomfortable with the eye contact, “Sort out the things you need to do. The important things. The Charity things. And then explain, why you're so smitten. Because once we decide to walk this street properly, side by side, it’s gonna be…” They shrugged, forcing the final word out as she did, “Then, maybe, one day it’ll all work out. Eh, brother?”
When the last of us will disappear
Like shadows into the night
The broken ones, the fighting sons
Of ignorance
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Rhys Valentin
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Thu Nov 15, 2018 4:22 pm

"No, all of that chroveshit treatment is not what Morde expects of the Seventen. Most of the time, my squad knows my rules, but I'm an Inspector, not a clockin' Patrol. I can't change everyone's opinions or tell 'em to behave, and folks in uniform seem to forget that everyone's a civilian, golly or not."

Respecting life wasn't something he could enforce, and he wasn't innocent of mistaking social status for martial privilege. Rhys made efforts to be kind, but even now as he understood so clearly why he'd struggled against his magical peers his whole life, he also understood better his propensity toward physical expression. Where a spell would do, the young Valentin often stepped in with his body instead. Sure, they were given the rules in training in Numbrey, told to be respectful, and yet also handed blanket permission to be the law they felt they needed to be in any situation, which every galdori he knew took advantage of and twisted to suit themselves.

Perhaps the uniform was just an excuse, and not even Rhys was exempt from having those moments of weakness. He was very aware of his own shortcomings, and the particular revelation that Gale had presented his inebriated, traumatized mind wasn't entirely computing correctly just yet, "I've investigated and arrested just as many ersehat galdori as I have humans and ... wicks."

That word felt different on his tongue and he had to pause, turning it over in his mind because its meaning had begun to sink into his bones, meander through his veins, and leave an aftertaste of truth on his tongue. He frowned, disliking the flavor.

Another bite of bread did nothing to make that go away.

He looked down at his hands the human had so strangely taken time to clean, brows furrowing as if somehow the facial expression could bring his scattered mind back into focus. He thought to comment about Gale's firearm. He thought to ask questions, the well-trained Inspector part of his mind turning it over as a form of distraction.

He felt suddenly desperate to bury all of this new information, but it stubbornly floated back to the surface like ducks in a pond.

"Clock the Circle—I can't say things have changed for the better, though." Rhys leaned back on his palms and tried to keep his head steady, sloshy and full as it felt. It tilted precariously to one side and his eyes fluttered heavily, the weight of all of his social observations crashing into his intoxicated thoughts, the social implications of his revelatory heritage making it hard to breathe, "I see all of this. As a Seventen, I see it, I'm stuck in the middle of it, but I'm just one gald—no. I'm even less than that now."

The blond Sergeant groaned, capitulating to his inability to fully process, but it was a strange sensation to hear the other blonde admit that she didn't tell him what she knew to blackmail him. Nor did she tell him to push him away. That realization made his stomach lurch and the cavity of his chest fill with a strange heat: this sort of family situation was impossible. Everyone else would call it disgusting. Wrong.

But, well, Rhys understood he was no longer right.

A hand reached up and tentatively brushed over his bruised face, curling fingers into his hair as he attempted to make words make sense, watching Gale warily while she continued to speak about a unity with the kind of philosophical slant only Resistance rhetoric could produce. He winced, synapses blearily making the connections he didn't want to consider. The Seventen refused to let his thoughts wander that way, suddenly too aware, suddenly far too awakened to what he'd just fallen into the middle of when it came to the younger human in front of him. Her life was so opposite of his own he held his breath for a few minutes too long, lungs burning, mind writhing against everything he'd ever been told he was and should be.

He blinked, coming into focus with a sharp inhale and her last word—

brother.

"Oh gods. I've got nothing in this conversation anymore."

The young Valentin whined honestly, a pathetic sound more than actual words, "I don't know how Morde hasn't given up, to be honest, when it comes to keeping the peace. It's a losing game, as a Seventen, when peace is an illusion. But the alternative? Fuck, I don't want that either. An uprising, a coup, a political revolution led by the lower races won't be any better than this godsbedamned riot. Just more blood. Just more wasted lives. I don't want that—but this? Some kind of family connection that's either illegal or immoral according to those I've called my peers my whole life? Sure. We can have dinners and drink on the Feast of Saint Grumble and everyone else can clocking mind their own business—"

Charity.

His somewhat enthused countenance fell at her reminder. He'd just found her again after almost a decade, and here he stood on the precipice of losing her again. A galdor with an ersehat Captain for a father. How fast would she flee from his grasp again if he told her this truth?

Rhys' words got stuck in his chest for a few moments, just a slurred, confused noise of too many thoughts at once, and his frown returned, ignoring the sting of inebriated tears that burned along the edges of his blue eyes,

"I've loved her my whole life. Charity. At least since I was thirteen. Her father said I was a nobody farm boy and forbade us to be friends, let alone for me to court her for marriage. Good lady, that's the only thing that ersehat has been right about. I'm a nobody now, if I wasn't already. Dirty halfbreed—if he ever finds out, I'll be dead. She's got some complications, sure, but inside somewhere, Charity's the same woman I joined the Seventen for, just to prove Captain D'Arthe wrong. All of it—and, well, now it won't matter. Shit. Will it work out one day? Will it really? You're all I've got now. My sister. I'd better make the most of it—fuck 'em all. Social convention's all croveshit anyway. Anyone in uniform knows the truth."
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Gale
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: Artful Gunner
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Sat Nov 17, 2018 1:06 pm

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the forge and the dives | evening
29 YARIS 2718
What else was there to even say at this point? Was there anything to throw out? To throw into the open and expose themselves to? Rhys was the more tormented of the two, least that’s what Gale told herself. The knees came up to the chest, chin resting on the top of them as she watched the expression change. Alcohol made people more honest, it was the same for all no matter the race – an inhibited and enabler to pull down the expectations of society and to simply be. Chin slipped to cheek, the half closed lids focusing on the ochre streaks of colour that danced across the forge floor. She heard his words, but remained silent as he threw down his views on the state, the seventen and the people who dwelled within it.

“And that’s how the Galdori win,” she mumbled, voice lost momentarily, “When that’s all you hear, when that’s all you’re told when growing up, when you are taught to know no better...” Gale shook their head, “Never mind. Doesn’t matter. Nothin’ matters. Only matters...”

Gale rubbed at her face, she needed to stay awake.

“Then I’ll be sure to tell all the lesser races, my kind, to lay down, get fucked and trampled beneath the boots of the blessed chosen for another one thousand years and onwards until the end of days,” she gave a wan smile, brow creasing. There was no point discussing such things now, it would only make matters worse – if they were not worse already. Come morning all that was said and done could just be forgotten, he was his own man and a citizen of the kingdom; if he himself did not arrest her the it was only a matter of time before it got reported up the chain, “Because everything is so certain, and you are so set on what you see before you.”

Claude Oreau, her father knew the man well – and was responsible for banding the core of them together. He had died when she was a child, but she was aware of his words and her own stood as a mirror to his in that moment. Her arms hugged her knees, a final bit of strength put in to squeeze them. The comfort was needed.

Nothing is certain.

She snorted. It was all, pointless. The eyes closed, the rest curled inwards now as forehead rested upon knees. The idea of being a family made her uncomfortable, the uneasy sense of fear beginning to take bloom. She was already beginning to get too deep. He on the other hand? It was as if he had dived into it without thought or question – almost too eager to drag her into his life. It was an addictive thought, but one full of poison. It was a slow descent that would inevitably destroy her from the inside out.

And one day she would have to make a choice.

“I’m not a seer, I don’t know what the future holds. But I know somethings for certain,” she groaned, letting the toxic hiss out from her in a breath and ooze back into the earth where it belonged, “Firstly, I’m knackered. Second can’t you just… go punch the bastards lights out or whateffer your so called Galdori fisticuffs is. Third, does it matter? Nothing is gonna change, and I’ll probably end up strung up long before you do. Maybe you got a chance, maybe you ain’t. Fuck it all, what is with everyone and only ever seein’ in the black and white. They forget the meaning of shades and colour over the years or...”

Everyone forgets the rest of the deck.

The smith shook their head, “I missed a point. Love’s a bitch. And welcome to existing among the nothin’. Because look, I’m an dirty human scum, an individual in society who’s nothing more than than a cog in the great industrial machine. And now?” Her hand snaked out into the coal bag, clumping onto some of the powdered remains the hand and promptly threw a spray dust in his general direction, “You’re also a dirty filthy halfbreed nobody. Just like that.”

Hand shaking out, the tone turned into slurred sarcasm, “But you’re not nobody, not really. We’re all somebody, and it’s as a somebody we got to make the best of what we’ve got. But hey, that’s above us now – best leave it to our benevolent leaders.”

Sighing, the smith wiped the last of the dirt upon their leg, “Because there is no other way. But, that’s enough excitement for now,” they stiffled a yawn. Uncurling themselves they forced themselves out of their ball, “You should probably get some shut eye. You’re gonna need it. Make a space by the furnace, keep you warm that way.”

Dragging themselves away, they took a position up by one of the nearby table legs – a position that allowed a small turn of the head to gain a good view of the door. Leaning up against it, the smith watched him with a bemused expression, “I’ll keep watch. Fear not, only idiots come bangin’ at my door.”
When the last of us will disappear
Like shadows into the night
The broken ones, the fighting sons
Of ignorance
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Rhys Valentin
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Mon Nov 19, 2018 3:17 pm

"Gale, no—wait—win what? We haven't lost anything, yet. Er. They haven't. I'm not—shit." Rhys gurgled in his disturbed, intoxicated state, blearily aware that he'd shut something off in the blonde human in front of him with his own personal rhetoric. He was uncomfortable with the idea of the Resistance, but he was also uncomfortable with the way the society that raised him treated those they'd long ago decided where lesser creatures.

He was living proof of what impure half-breeds were capable of.

That thought alone dragged another sob from him, eyes widening for a moment and breath hitching sharply.

"I'm sorry. Knackered is a fucking understatement for me, I think." The young Valentin managed after a moment, thoughts congealing slowly, heart a furious creature in the cage of his ribs. The alcohol in his system wasn't entirely sitting well, even now, and instead of lightening his burdens and detaching him from this situation he'd been shoved into, it made his bones ache and his mind linger on each word as it was spoken.

He frowned—an exaggerated expression made either horrifying or comical depending on one's perspective in life given the bruised condition of his face—and attempted to string together thoughts that were at least remotely coherent in his defense, regardless of how he didn't realize in this moment such thoughts were both useless and moot, "That's not what I meant. Listen, yes, I've got a galdor's perspective, but my position in the Seventen puts me in touch with a lot of different people. I can't pretend that I've ever been able to call a human or a wick my friend—who would be friends with a galdor in uniform? no one—but I've truly looked out for some of my contacts and informants because I've liked them. Because they've been worth caring about. I'd rather work alongside other races, not trample them beneath any boots. But that's not what anyone wants—is it?"

Was he implying that wasn't what the galdori wanted or that wasn't what the Resistance wanted?

Both.

Rhys was not in a position to navigate the complicated landscape he'd staggered into in his current state of traumatized intoxication. He could blearily note that he'd said the wrong things, but at the same time, he was somewhat offended that the younger woman had jumped to her own conclusions without him. Between the two of them, any conversation on social justice and the future of Anaxas were somewhat useless and potentially violent, and so it was all the tall blond could do to wave his hand and mumble a few slurred things that probably included an apology or two more.

He could have punched a lot of people, but he tried not to until it was absolutely necessary—

"I'm clearly not a nobody, no, and neither are you. While I didn't do it willingly, I'm sort of a good case for everyone being able to be somebody. I think. Maybe. Maybe not. My success and existence under the noses of galdorkind would probably cause an entire department in Brunnhold to fucking explode, let alone most of the offices of the Seventen." This thought amused him and he snorted, obviously agreeing with the blonde smith who he did not seem to mind the compelling interest to call his sister. He sniggered at her commentary, biting his tongue—literally—at her use of the phrase benevolent leaders. He thought of Arazmus, of D'Arthe. He thought of a few of his professors. He thought of those who held land titles and owned businesses whom he'd arrested for crimes. He thought of his own peers in uniform who used their position as an excuse to express their superiority.

The wave of self-loathing felt a lot like nausea, and Rhys did not hold in the sour belch of bile and bread and too much whiskey that rumbled through his body before Gale was changing the subject wearily, attempting to admit that they were more than just injured and drunk, they were traumatized and exhausted. The smith before him had shot three strangers nearly in front of his face. Rhys had barely managed to escape combat with a bleeding officer in his squad dying against his back. He glanced at Ensign Ward, watching her chest rise and fall with breath, and wondered what he could possibly do about her.

His ears rang and his head swam with a vertigo that wasn't just alcohol, but he didn't argue about crawling closer to the warmth of the furnace. Did he want to sleep? No. Was there a moment of pure terror at the memory of the younger blonde's firearm and the awareness that she'd shot more than once with the thing? Yes. It churned his insides and clawed through his thoughts, but there was something else between them now. Something different.

Rhys should not have been alright with anything as it had unfolded—he should have been afraid and angry, he should have been full of doubt, and he should have leveled a lot of doubt at everything Gale said. But, it made sense.

At least he couldn't really feel how much it hurt, too numb and too tired and too confused. At least he couldn't entirely process the revelation ... not yet.

Would he ever? He wasn't sure.

Bloodshot, bleary blue eyes regarded the young woman with unhidden caution, the evening catching up with him with liquid slowness as he found some way to settle that was at least a little comfortable and yet not entirely vulnerable. Not that it would matter if he was asleep. Gale could have killed him several times over already, could have left him on the street for anyone else to pick off much more painfully. She hadn't wanted to, and it was perhaps that revelation that was far more terrifying than the threat of the pistol he'd seen in all of its gruesome glory.

Not that she knew what she wanted. He wanted. They wanted.

"Fine. But I need to check on Aliendra again in an hour or two." Clearly, the young smith was just as confused as the Sergeant, but here they were in a place where they'd barely managed to set aside their differences in all of the most unexpected of ways:

Family.

Never mind everything else: This fucking riot.

Or his injured Ensign.

Or, gods, anything else.

That word—that one fucking word—was an unraveling of a tapestry, a smashing of dirty windows to let fresh air into places he had no idea needed fresh air, a shift in the world as he knew it.

And it was far more terrifying than sleeping against the forge of a felon who'd most likely rubbed shoulders willingly with the Resistance regardless of that gun.
 ! Message from: Muse
This thread has been reviewed and approved for Character Progression for Gale Saunders.
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