[Closed] Pigeon on the Roof

[Emiel Emmerson]

the rather blustery day, a pub

too damn early for this spitch on Bethas 17, 2720

A sparrow in the fist is better
than a pigeon on the roof
-CHZECK PROVERB

For the second day in a row, the sun rose too damn soon, too damn bright, an' jus' a pina mana earlier than the day before, creepin' through curtains, dancin' over messy sheets an' too much skin as if it were bright enough to sort through the tangles. Well, ne. It weren't too much of anythin', really. It were jus' enough in Emiel's opinion, but only 'cause he were biased about whose skin it was warm against his in his bed, even if he could do without mornin' for a few more hours. Sometime in the strange hours of the night, the purple-haired wick 'd even been kind enough to open his door, which had proven itself to be both a boon for his lil' flat an' a curse for sleepin' arrangements. Curled on his pillows, tiny claws precariously near his face while his arms were ridiculously occupied around the dark-haired galdor he'd hardly let out of his sight since she'd breezed into his bar with some clockin' ersehole, save for, well, those several hours he spent in jail for smashin' said ersehole's face.

A gentle knock on his door while Em dozed, curled as close as possible 'round Cerise even though he were well aware he had to work an' the Arts Fair weren't enough of an excuse for her to miss any more days on campus was only slightly out of place, though one of the neighbors did deliver milk an' the paper every day. With a sigh, he slid away, carefully excavating himself first from one young woman with a few kisses and then from one teacup drake with a few scratches, watching as the terribly selfish beast simply poured herself right into his warm, previously occupied space with barely a glance, ruffling metallic feathers in contentment.

Stretching tugged at the scabs down his back, between his shoulders, and he did his best not to rake his fingers too roughly too far through his hair. Em at least had the presence of mind to fumble for trousers, to light the stove and put the kettle on as he crossed the little flat, old floors clockin' cold on his bare feet. A few locks an' a lil' peek through a crack an' there on his front steps were two lil' glass bottles of milk an' a folded up paper, as expected. One of the bottles, though, had a sticker on the cap—a lil' purple bird.

Emiel knew what that meant, an' maybe he was hopin' he'd have another day to himself, but ne. It was what it was. Bringin' everythin' in all quiet-like, more careful with the paper than he would've been now that he figured there were more tucked inside. Settin' the milk on the kitchen table still littered with last night's dishes, last night's empty bottle of wine, he peeled the little round label off and shoved it in his pocket while he riffled through the paper for the coded, hand-scrawled note inside:

The Rather Blustery Day Pub, 2nd hour after noon.
A sparrow in the fist is better than a pigeon on the roof.

Fine.

Tossing the note into the stove, Em set about washing dishes, making breakfast, brewing tea. He let Cerise sleep as long as she wanted, and even if Sish joined him first at the scent of bacon, he didn't begrudge a few more hours with both lovely ladies before he finally, reluctantly turned the pair out of his flat and back onto the street, but only after clean bandages, a few more needful kisses, and the sharing of one old key—there weren't any way in all 'f Vita he were goin' to let one dark-haired galdor disappear a second time, ne clockin' way. Consequences be damned.

The purple-haired wick, once alone, removed gold rings from his face an' hands; tucked his foe'd locks into an old, worn brown cap that stung against the cut up, sore back of his head enough to make him wince and curse; an' then spent too much time fussin' over whatever his less flashiest vest was that were clean. All part of the costume, all part of dressin' up an takin' on his brother's persona, now his—Wren.

He looked back over his notes, resistin' the urge to curl back up in bed for a few hours, if only 'cause he'd rather bury his face in sheets that smelled like one Miss Vauquelin than try an' remember every damn vowel in a Gioran's ridiculous name.

But, whatever. This were for a good cause, right? The greater good—did it include beautiful Brunnhold students or had he jus' fucked up all over again?

Better to walk those thoughts out of his godsbedamned mind, Emiel realized, leavin' early to meander his way through the back alleys an' tight side streets of the Stacks he'd called home his whole life. Weren't much 'bout the neighborhood he didn't know—where safehouses were, where the drains were jus' wide enough to crawl through in a pinich, an' where all the rusted ol' ladders were to get on the rooftops so Collies couldn't chase a kov.

He arrived jus' early enough to sidle up to the bar an' order a drink. It wasn't a big place, just a narrow sliver of a pub tucked between two much larger buildings as if it were too stubborn to sell out an' be overrun by the new construction. It had once been a house, apparently, and the interior was somewhat still set up as such: there was a foyer and a staircase that led upstairs to more private rooms. The rest of the first floor'd been gutted, save for the kitchen, and made into a beautiful pub with the shelves behind the bar that were enviably stocked with expensive spitch that he tended to enjoy. When the ol' barkeep—Hector, if he remembered right, an' he usually did—asked him if he were here waitin' for someone while pourin' him his shot, Wren smiled,

"Ne, I'm here 'cause I heard a sparrow in your fist be better than a pigeon on the roof."

"Oh, aye. I heard that one, too. 'Specially on a windy day like this one, eh?" The grey-haired older wick didn't smile, an' his expression didn't even falter, but he reached up and rubbed his face while his other hand pointed, indicating the hall to the side of the bar. It was dark and narrow and probably led to the cellar, which was always a sensible place to hold secret meetings between folks who weren't supposed to exist discussin' things that they weren't supposed to know, as was Wren's new hobby.

He knocked back his liquid courage with a hiss, left a hefty tip on the countertop, and waited a few extra moments in the barely occupied place before slippin' away, makin' as though he needed to take a piss already, but totally wanderin' too far. He'd been here once before an' knew the game, slippin' into the office next to the kitchen instead of down the actual cellar stairs, closin' the door silent-like. In the floor was a hatch that dropped right into a carefully partitioned section of the cellar and could be locked from below.

He didn't knock, didn't care if he weren't there first, but he sure as hell hoped there were some matches to light the lantern 'cause he didn't want to waste his own this time.

[Tom Cooke]

 Morning on the 17th of Bethas, 2720 

n

eat,” he said, smiling pleasantly.

“Yes, sir.” The wick looked at him under drawn grey eyebrows, though the expression on his face was careful-neutral, somewhere down the path to a smile. He smiled back, undeterred, sliding onto a seat. There wasn’t anybody else at the bar, and the one other patron was an old human drifting off in the chair by the staircase.

It was a close, comfortable sort of place, the Rather Blustery Day; a little creaker and less well-appointed, and it’d’ve reminded him of the Moldy Quince, back in Lionshead. Something about the barkeep, maybe, with his faded old glamour. The whisky was good, and he took his time as he’d been told, quiet. The stool was tall enough his feet didn’t quite reach the ground.

He tried to put the last week out of his head, but the waiting didn’t help. None of it touched his face, and his field was indectal and smooth around him.

The barkeep didn’t trouble him, nor spare him a second glance. He set about to cleaning, though he never quite disappeared. It was the human by the staircase, he thought, that was watching. He let out the occasional tear of a snort; he watched him in the corner of his eye as he nursed his whisky. His chest rose and fell evenly, and from here, his eyes might’ve been shut.

The whisky loosened his nerves; it tickled at the back of his head, too. One drink, the missive’d said. One drink was enough, or a quarter of an hour at the bar. It was like an itch. If he knocked this one down, he could fit in another.

He looked down at his hands against the dark, polished wood, and thought of Silk. He sipped slowly and steeled himself, though he knew such an itch would not go away after an hour, or two, or three; he knew what he’d pay for this drink later that evening.

“It’s a windy day, isn’t it?” He broke the silence finally, his deep voice smooth and easy. He’d held his field apart from the wick’s glamour the whole time; there was nothing like a caprise to be had, not here. He glanced at the barkeep with that pleasant smile still on his face, then glanced down at his glass, running his fingertip round the rim with affected disinterest.

“Aye, sir, that it is.” If he caught the sharp, curious glance it was only for a moment; he was wiping down the bar.

“There’s a saying, isn’t there?” he went on cheerfully. “How does it go – a pigeon in the fist – no, no…”

The barkeep scratched his jaw, meeting his eyes. “I don’t rightly know, sir.”

“A pigeon wouldn’t fit in your fist. A sparrow in the fist, I suppose, is better than a pigeon on the roof. Or something to that effect,” he drawled idly, shrugging his thin shoulders underneath his expensive jacket.

“Especially on a windy day like this one,” the wick said after a pause, in his own disinterested tone. “That’s very wise, sir.”

“Would you mind pointing me in the direction of the, ah –”

“Right that way, sir.” The wick gestured with his hand, but his eyes flicked – briefly – elsewhere.

He slid off the stool, taking a few moments to pull out his wallet and flick through; he left a reasonable – if not particularly generous – tip. Wordless, he inclined his head and shoulders and moved off in the direction he’d indicated, because he did, in fact, already need to piss.

When he came out, he was disoriented a moment; he prayed to all the Circle he knew where the barkeep meant as he ducked down the quiet, narrow hall, past the empty kitchen. When he creaked the hatch open, he hesitated a moment, looking down into the dark. Godsdamn, he mouthed, then lowered himself in.

Leave the door unlocked, he had been instructed; wait, the note had said, in the dark. “Damn me,” he muttered under his breath as he shut the hatch, and shut out the last of the light.

It was like wading through pitch, and he felt the edges of rough wood barrels with his fingers, breathed in that familiar winecellar scent. As far as he could tell, it was a tiny room, separated off by the barrels and racks of bottles. There were shelves, too; his hand skimmed over cold glass, and he cursed under his breath, careful not to break anything.

And so he waited.

He didn’t have to wait long. He squinted, blinking, when the hatch opened again and a figure lowered itself down through. The light shut out again; the back of his neck crawled. He felt the brush of a glamour and swallowed tightly, and the sound of a man reaching round in the dark.

A match hissed to life, and then a lantern, throwing out light and warped shadows through the glass. It lit the lad’s face up from underneath, long and fine-boned and scattered with freckles, with the dark bloom of a bruise along his cheek. There was a spark of gold eyes.

He squinted, too, in the sudden brightness, frowning a pinched frown and clearing his throat. When his eyes had adjusted, he raised his brows, blinking. “You must be – Wren,” he said after a moment. He didn’t reach out for a caprise; he knew better by now, and he wasn’t sure, not really, what was expected of him here, or whom this Wren had expected to meet. “My name is Risha.”

He did bow, and deeply. When he rose, he studied the lad, quiet.

[Emiel Emmerson]

the rather blustery day, a pub

too damn early for this spitch on Bethas 17, 2720

It was only a sharp inhale that kept him from sputterin' a mant choice curses, feelin' that wall-like sensation of a galdori field scrape against his glamour like moist stones scraped his palms an' the dark that followed him shuttin' the hatch pressed against his ears. He'd not thought fast enough, Wren chided himself while clenchin' his jaw—he should've looked 'round a bit before shuttin' that fuckin' hatchlike door.

Such an unseasoned cadet, weren't he? Jus' a mung dumberse askin' to get hung—

"Couldn't find the light?"

He muttered, whispered, almost teased. Fumblin' for the box of matches that were thankfully in the same place they'd been last time, he struck one, usin' that flash o' light to let his amber gaze flick over toward the slim silhouette that shared the small space with him, sharp features an' gracefully delicate age lines confirmin' what all that monic signature already hinted at when unseen.

A godsbedamned jent. 'Course it was.

Who were Wren to fuss, though, havin' jus' spent a solid day findin' as many excuses as possible to keep a golly in his bed? Exactly. Weren't anyone. Weren't anyone at all now that he were here, stabbin' that pretty rosh in th' back with her own kind for—what were it again? oh, that's right, the greater good.

Were this golly a politician, then? Or maybe had an Incumbent's ear waitin' for the information he had to share?

Gods, it weren't his clockin' place to care, jus' to tell.

Dutifully, he lit the small oil lantern before he let the match burn down to his fingers even though he used them to snuff the little flame out anyway, reluctantly slidin' his eyes away from the other man an' doin' the task in thoughtful silence. Cerise's voice whispered with the rhythm of his pulse, but she were soundin' out Gioran names instead of his—his distraction an' his duty tangled, jumbled together in that rush of adrenaline that came from arrivin' last instead of first. There were somethin' 'bout the way the oil lamp's sputterin' flame danced off the golly's face, somethin' about the turn of his nose an' the glint in his eyes—he felt some flutter of nostalgia an' he didn't understand why.

Weird.

He must still be tired.

"Oes, that's me. Junta, Risha." He smiled, tippin' his cap then, a hint of freckles and a lil' wince 'cause he forgot smilin' made that bruise along the side of his face sting a bit. The light were ruddy an' soft, but it did nothin' to dull the features of his contact. Maybe he'd been jus' close enough to another golly for jus' the wrong amount of time, but he let his glamour do the hand shakin' with a surprisingly well-practiced sort 'f caprise, unintimidated because who they might've been when not wearin' their aliases didn't matter down here—they'd left all those normal social expectations upstairs, right?

Here were jus' two men, unfamiliar, unknown, but equal. It were only right to greet someone proper-like. He seemed to know what he were doin' with his glamour, as if he'd spent quite a bit of time 'round gollies an' knew what kind of brazen rebellion it were to act as though he were even on par with 'em,

"Hope you weren't waitin' too long." The wick added while he found a couple of stools, while he settled into slightly supported squat, feelin' the tightness in his shoulders that pulled at crusty, burned skin, "Maybe one day I'll convince Hector to put some decent chairs down here."

The stool creaked while he settled an' the barkeep's hands restlessly stirred on his knees. He needed a cigarrette. Would it matter down here? He fidgeted instead, unsure, ne wantin' to impose his habits,

"I were told I'd be sharin' a bit of information with someone, so you're it. Got some news 'bout some Gioran unrest that may cause problems in the changin' of seats, an' I'm guessin' it'll effect the Cause a lil', too. Hopefully I won't butcher all the vowels—"

Wren snorted a very quiet chuckle then, snuffing it out quicker than he'd done with that match, self-conscious, amber eyes wide for a hot second.

Nope.

He couldn't do it. He were more nervous than he should've been.

"—y' mind if I smoke, though?"

[Tom Cooke]

 Morning on the 17th of Bethas, 2720 

h

e’d never caprised a wick, much less had a wick caprise him. It wasn’t an unpleasant surprise, for all it threw him off. It was a polite caprise, not too deep; he returned it all the same as he rose from his bow.

Before, he’d known glamours were different from fields, but he hadn’t realized how much. It wasn’t just, wasn’t even, that it was weaker. His own field was a little thin, though the mona stirred and breathed with all the casting he’d done in the past few months.

The wick’s, though, was something wild. He couldn’t disentangle static from physical, clairvoyant from perceptive; the mona didn’t sing to those tunes, or any tune he’d ever heard. It was fraying and soft at the edges, and slipped his grasp the more he tried to think about what exactly it was. It was bold for all that, bolder because of it, like a thing that knew exactly what it was.

He was grinning, briefly. He’d laughed softly at that couldn’t find the light, though he tried to keep his face straight and solemn now. Best not let him think the golly was laughing at him. He wasn’t sure how to do this, being honest; he’d done it once or twice before, but with Vienda natt or tsat who kept themselves decently far away, and their heads rather more downturned. He often tried to think about it, about what he was and what they were, as little as possible. He had heard Wren’s gasp, too, sharp and startled.

But there was no drawing-back, no intimidated shift in the wick’s glamour now. So he pushed a little deeper, still politely: he felt out the edges of the glamour just as boldly as Wren’d done, and watched his face in the low, flickering light.

His eyes lingered again on that laoso bruise, mottled skin gleaming in the lanternlight when he smiled. He could imagine too well how that must’ve felt; his own cheek tingled with the memory of a hundred knuckles. He wondered where he’d got it. The lad tipped his hat, but he didn’t take it off, which struck him odd; he shook it off. He thought he caught a hint of glossy purple, before the hat came back down.

Junta, he almost said right back, before he caught himself. “Well met, Wren,” he said, the last of his smile still lingering wryly on his face before it sank back into seriousness. He cleared his throat.

“Not too long.” He stood still, his hands clasped behind his back; he cleared his throat, feeling a little awkward. He moved to take one of the stools from Wren himself, dragging it into place beside Wren’s. “Worth waiting for, this,” he said quietly.

His hip hurt where he’d been standing, and damn the weather for it. It was an awkward crouch, too, and the thing wobbled and rattled on one leg, but it didn’t look as awkward as Wren’s. He thought to crack a joke about the shitty stools, too, but then remembered who’d be making it – well dressed enough even here, in Anatole’s long dark coat – he couldn’t find the words.

The stool creaked. Wren’s hands twitched against his knees; his shoulders looked tight. He raised his brows at the mention of Gior, though he wasn’t, he supposed, surprised. His expression sharpened; he sat up a little in his seat, watching Wren, like he was about to memorize a line of monite from a lecture.

Wren broke off, chuckling. A smile twitched at his lips. Don’t worry, he wanted to say, or – he thought of that joke Corwynn’d once cracked about telling a Gioran opera apart from an orgy. Immediately, the thought of saying it made him want to crawl into a hole and die. Again.

Wren looked damned nervous. More than his caprise’d let on. You could’ve cut it like butter, that awful tension.

At the question, his brows lifted higher; his lip twitched again. “Er – no,” he replied, “not at all. Actually, ah –” He reached into his coat pocket - slowly, slowly, so as not to rouse alarm. Then he clicked his teeth and swore under his breath, forgetting himself. “D’you, uh, have one to spare? By any chance.”

He cleared his throat. He held the caprise like he’d’ve held any golly’s; it was uneasy, but he didn’t draw away.

[Emiel Emmerson]

the rather blustery day, a pub

too damn early for this spitch on Bethas 17, 2720

Ah, oh, this jent weren't even gonna flinch 'bout it, weren't even gonna get indignant or frown or even shove back in that magical display of dominance Wren'd learned were the usual reaction to him remindin' them he had a glamour an' he knew what to do with it. Wicks didn't usually go 'bout feelin' each other up with their mona, ne in the way gollies liked to show theirs off to each other, but at the same time, he'd been a tsat here under Brunnhold's shadow for his whole life—he served gollies their drinks, cleaned up their vomit, an' listened to their chatter. He also felt their fields an' paid attention to how they communicated without words.

Maybe he'd jus' had too much personal experience 'round golly fields to be intimidated, to cower when he didn't have to. There were times, sure, he had to play the proper tsat, an' there were times he probably should've—th' other night came to mind, there—but, for the most part, the purple-haired wick felt pretty comfortable bein' mostly himself around his so-called superiors.

Most of the time.

Maybe he'd jus' been too personal jus' a handful of hours ago. Maybe he'd tangled too much 've his glamour 'round a familiar field to remember how it jus' weren't somethin' you did with everyone else. Well, more than jus' his glamour, honestly. Whatever he wanted as an excuse, it didn't matter 'cause this curious kov greeted him back. He even chuckled, this one. Risha, he said with the hint of a knife's edge smile—

Ne, stop, the barkeep chided himself behind that fading grin, Stop bein' distracted by where you've been an' remember where you are.

"Sorry the old man didn't feel like lettin' you know you there were a lantern down here. Now you know, though, in case you get called down here next time for a bit of coded whispers, ye chen. The only thing missin' are yats, really—uh—snacks." He murmured in tune with his own sense of humor, correcting his Tek 'cause he weren't sure what the golly understood, assumin' none of it. He arranged the pair of rather questionably supportive stools an' delicately attempted to balance on his. He really should've known he'd be sharin' secrets with a galdor since he lived in the city crawlin' with 'em, since he lived in the academic armpit of politics, stinkin' with their agendas, drippin' with their magic.

He definitely needed a smo—

"Oh, oes? I can spare one, sure." His amber gaze studied the older jent's face in the ruddy, sputtering oil light, watchin' the way shadows played over the incline of his nose an' the cut of his chin. Snappin' back to what he wanted to do with a slow blink, his fingers wandered over his vest, into a pocket to pull out a well-cared for silver cigarette case. It were beautifully engraved with miraan an' flowers, an' he sorta held it between the pair of 'em when he opened it, offerin' Risha the last already hand-rolled one before he made himself a new one.

Had he smoked that much yesterday?

Ah, ne. He'd shared then, too. He'd shared quite a bit—

Freckled features twitched into an almost-grin, snuffed out jus' as quick, "Here, uh, let me get you a match 'f mine so we don't piss off Hector usin' his."

He winked then, snappin' his case shut again for a moment while one hand shifted up to a smaller pocket in his vest an' dug 'round for the matches he always kept there for all of his favorite bartendin' tricks. He rolled the stick between all of his freckled, calloused fingers like some street magician, the movement fluid-like before he struck it on the pad of his thumb an' lifted the lil' flame in the jent's direction, unable to cup his other hand with the case in it.

The leanin' in made his stool creak an' he managed to keep his balance, ignorin' how much more obvious their closeness made the bruise on his face. Between his shoulders stung with the movement, burned skin tight an' angry. Maybe it were jus' the press of this kov's field, still very much still pressed just so with his glamour, but still ne in a way that felt oppressive. The friendliness of it—a rare thing, 'specially considerin' only Cerise'd ever really—

"Ent any rush while we're here as far as I know, anyways."

[Tom Cooke]

 Morning on the 17th of Bethas, 2720 

h

e tried not to smile when Wren corrected himself; he tried not to have much of any expression, and he didn’t altogether succeed. I could do with some yats right now, he thought to say, feeling the ache in his stomach, but he didn’t say that, either. He felt himself on uncertain footing. Wren was looking at him funny, but he didn’t blame him; he wondered if anybody’d warned him who he was to meet with.

“Well, next time, I’ll know to make it properly cozy.” He couldn’t quite help it; nor could he help the flash of a grin, which he snuffed like a match when Wren looked up at him. There it was again, that funny look.

And that flooding awful bruise, he thought, trying not to watch him so closely as he took out his case. He’d a handsome, tekaa sort of face, scattered with freckles where the purpling didn’t reach; lit from below, the line of his jaw and his cheekbones was strong, broken up only by the swell of his bruise. His eyes caught gold in the light.

The case caught, too, and drew his eye. The swirl of a miraan’s tail glinted, embossed, with blossoms spilling out around it; he rued that his perceptive’s eyes couldn’t make out much more than that. He caught the divot of one beady eye, the shape of one sharp snout, and felt an itch of familiarity. The back of his neck prickled, thinking of it. He tried to put it out of his head; he wasn’t sure why he ought to be thinking of her right now, anyway. Dangerous, something in him whispered, and he thought of her watchful dark eyes.

There was one spur left when he opened it up, and Risha took it gratefully. It was hand-rolled, and he blinked down at it for a moment, turning it over in his fingers. “Thank you,” he said neatly. Wren was grinning in the corner of his eye, snapping the case shut and rolling another with deft, callused hands. Then he fished round for matches.

It was a quick motion when he lit the match – and how he lit it made both Risha’s eyebrows spring up. He almost snorted, and a little bastly tickled out into the clairvoyant mona. Reminded him of some of the spokes that rolled through the Rose and Vienda sometimes, or the tsat street performer that’d lived near the house in the Fords. He wondered what this kov did, after all; he thought him a tsat by his accent.

The match threw yet more flickering light over both of them, and he couldn’t quite squash his smile down as Wren leaned in to give him a light.

Damn, but that was a laoso one. And recent, too, still purpling-black in patches, edged with sickly yellow; the swell of it gleamed in the fire’s light, and he tried not to look too close at the other man as he leaned in to let him light his spur. Wren seemed stiff as he leaned in, too, the stool wobbling underneath him.

The first drag settled his nerves more than it ought to’ve, all things given. He eased back, smoke curling white in the dark and mingling between them. Wren hadn’t pulled his caprise back, and so neither did Risha; it was a little less uneasy, now. A little.

He laughed again. “I suppose not,” he said, waving away the smoke with a sigh. “What I’d really like is a stiff drink; it might help us both with the Gioran.” You all right? he wanted to ask, glancing over the stiff set of Wren’s shoulders again, but he didn’t think it would be welcome.

“That’s a lovely piece of work, though. The, uh –” He gestured with the spur between two fingers at the case still in Wren’s hand, not sure why he wasn’t quite able to help himself. His brow furrowed, he glanced up at the wick, curious.

[Emiel Emmerson]

the rather blustery day, a pub

too damn early for this spitch on Bethas 17, 2720

He'd never been able to say he'd ever hated gollies, ever really despised 'em. They gave him a writ. They paid his bills. They fed his fami. Sometimes, they weren't so bad to talk to, but most of the time, he could honestly say he'd only liked a few galdori in his life.

An' he'd only ever loved one.

Ne now, Em—now ent the time to think on her, ne matter how hot an' fresh the rekindled coals were, ne matter how unexpected their reunion, an' ne matter what he were sure the consequences would be. Especially ne in front of a jent he didn't know, a jent he weren't s'posed to get to know beyond the name Risha an' the rather important political chroveshit he had to share.

"We're in the wrong part of the cellar for a drink, I'm afraid." Wren weren't sure whether or not he should be uncomfortable 'bout how easy humor was with this one, but he chuckled anyway, noddin' his agreement that maybe bein' a bit on the slide toward guttered would make slurrin' a bunch of vowels together an' callin' 'em Gioran names clockin' easier. His bright eyes flitted 'bout the dark anyway, though, the barkeep readin' boxes, scannin' labels for names an' maker marks he knew while his fingers slid for that familiar weight of his silver cigarette case,

"Then again, looks like ol' Hector's got a few goodies stashed in here. Mayhaps his favorites. Couple of expensive Bastian wines, I think—over there, ye chen." He didn't mean to wink when he tilted his chin toward the edge of the lantern's reach, but he did—a bit of Badger showmanship slippin' into his demeanor once he'd produced that lil' silver box an' offered the last of his already rolled spurs. He didn't mean to reveal jus' how much he knew 'bout alcohol, neither. Oh well. Too late now. It were quick work to make a second, to tuck it jus'so between his lips an' mutter 'round it while he made a production outta findin' a match an lightin' the jent's end—

The bright lil' flame caught the sharp-hewn features of the older golly's face, the edge of his nose an' the razor-edged curve of his lips an' for jus' a pina mana the wick felt a warm sorta familiarity crawl down from that animal part of his brain he'd been usin' too much over the past thirty hours 'r so, spendin' too much time clockin' close to some other (admittedly prettier but ne less sharp) face in a bit of hazy dark, too—

Shit.

Leanin' away, he shook his head to clear the mant moony feelin' of whatever stirred in his freckled chest. Gods, as if seein' Cerise again in the tempestuous whirlwind of feelin's that had never really faded an' flesh that had never really forgotten hadn't already stirred up so so much confusion, here he was left feelin' a mant mana weird 'cause some jent were jus' as pointy-faced as the rest of 'em.

Right?

Right.

Focus, dumberse.

He blinked, hearin' the words but ne makin' the connection right away—

Lovely, what?

"Should've seen th' other ersehole—oh—"

He weren't talkin' 'bout that bruise on his face. He weren't complimentin' his features like some dark-haired golly'd spent the past day doin'. He were talkin' 'bout the silver now warm against his strangely sweaty, nervous palm, "—oh—oes, you mean th' case. Mujo ma. It's, uh, it's from Bastia. At least that's what the kov at the pawnshop said to me in hopes of gettin' a few extra tallies outta the thing."

There, Wren were grinnin' again, turnin' the case toward the lantern light, amber gaze skimmin' over the miraan an' the flowers only to notice there were scratches on his freckled wrist, scabbed over gouges from one particular Destroyer of Hours—Fuck, that lil' beast really had her way with him, eh? Well, they both did, an' he didn't mind. N'one bit.

Godsdamnit.

Jus' like that, he were tuckin' the case away. Was he blushin'? It fluttered through his glamour like someone'd just let go of a handful of butterflies. He hoped it were dark enough that Risha couldn't see the heat that had spread along his neck an' threatened to drown the freckles on his cheeks in too much pink. He'd yet to light his cigarrette, hangin' an' bobbin' there in his slack lips while he blabbered like a clockin' stupid kenser, so he busied himself with fishin' for another match, leanin' further away, puttin' distance between the pair of men who were supposed to be meetin' in secret instead of actin' like they were out for a drink.

Serious business, Emiel. Ne, serious business, Wren.

"Anyway, uh, Risha, maybe if we get this work over with, we can catch another drink, eh?" Pausing to spark another lil' flame, once again on that calloused pad of his thumb with a snap, he inhaled deeply, takin' a moment to tend to this much-needed smoke even if it did nothin' to calm his nerves. N'one bit.

"So, Gior—" He exhaled a thick, spiced cloud while he spoke, other elbow heavily leanin' on his knee. There were somethin' 'bout the way the jent held his cigarette, the way the end of it met his lips jus'so, that really held his attention, that really made it hard to shake the racin' out of his pulse. He cleared his throat, mocking a seriousness he jus' couldn't seem to feel,

"—there's been a few whispers 'round Brunnhold that Gior's formin' a more than political alliance with Hesse. Uh—there's a Heyne—a Whoannn—a Huane. A Da Huane kinda in charge of it—" The name held very little meanin' to the wick who honestly knew nothin' of the mountainous kingdom save that they were warlike an' albino an' hated his kind existed. Galdori politics were all jus' smoke an' mirrors to him anyway, all outta his reach since he didn't have a say in things—at least, ne as Emiel. As Wren? Well, here he was, sayin' shit, "—Jolly-somethin'. Joliken."

Maybe those syllables meant more to Risha than to Wren. He jus' took another drag an' shrugged, less uncomfortable in his ignorance than he were with the angle of the jent's fingers when they held that damn spur.

[Tom Cooke]

 Morning on the 17th of Bethas, 2720 

h

e laughed.

It was abrupt and embarrassingly loud, or leastways messy. He hadn’t meant to; it ended in an undignified snort, and he was scratching his jaw and clearing his throat. He’d nearly tossed his spur, but it was still between two fingers, shedding a thin curl of smoke in the lamplight.

The other lovely piece of work, he almost said, before Wren caught on. Had worse myself, and done worse – he almost said it, but it didn’t go with the cover, he supposed. Must’ve been recent, if it was on Wren’s mind; he wondered again who’d done it. The way Wren was sitting, that stiff neck and all, made him think there was more bruising out of sight. Reckoned he’d taken a proper beating.

“Bastia,” he grunted, nodding. That accounted for the miraan, anyway.

Another little smile flickered at his lips, thinking of that long coiling gold tail; he shoved the thought aside. What the hell was wrong with him? Nothing, that was what. None of it meant anything to Risha; he wouldn’t’ve been sitting here if it did.

More distracting, anyway, was the way the other man seemed to stiffen, and that funny flicker of a thing through his glamour, just lapping at the edge of his field. Embarrassment? He watched Wren curiously through the long, wavering shadows of the lantern. If he’d been able to believe it, he would’ve said there was a flush darkening underneath one of the lad’s cheekbones, and he was sitting there with the spur, looking for all the world like he was fumbling. One of Risha’s eyebrows raised, sharply, at his talk of a drink.

You in the habit of going for drinks with my kind? he wanted to joke, but with the way the kov edged back on his stool and fumbled hastily for another match, he didn’t think it was such a good idea.

Perhaps he should’ve told that joke; perhaps that would’ve lightened the – mood – whatever kind of mood this was, and he wasn’t altogether convinced that he knew anymore. He shifted, taking another much-needed drag on the spur, crossing his legs. He glanced out over the cellar, or what he could see of it with his poor eyes: he caught the glint of bottles over in one corner, just barely visible at the edge of the light.

Well, it might not hurt. He knew better than to let his guard down, but damn if he didn’t need a drink. They’d have to clear out of this cellar quick enough after the message had been passed on, but a quick drink to settle his nerves wouldn’t hurt. If he thought it odd Wren knew his way round the stuff – and the cellar – he put it down to Resistance business and tried not to think too hard on it. Tried not to think too hard on anything, and failed, sucking at his tooth, watching the light creep over the floorboards.

He took another drag, catching a note of spices and herbs in the smoke.

Huane, he knew Wren was going to say, before he’d got his mouth around it; that one, at least, he knew. He was leaned forward now, sharp-eyed and ready. Jolly – Joliken, Wren pronounced, shaky.

“Hesse,” he murmured when he thought Wren had finished, smoke curling from his lips with the word. He grunted again, settling back with a wobble and creak. “I’m familiar with Ethseeda Joliken,” he said finally, nodding slowly. “As familiar as anyone in Vienda is. Hesse,” he murmured again, frowning.

He knew better than to ask questions; he knew to whom he’d be taking the information once he was in Thul Ka for the Vyrdag, and he knew where his qalqa began and ended. He tried to douse his curiosity: Who’s doing the whispering? Who’s the lucky Hessean –

Upstairs, there was a loud thump, and a soft sound of voices. More than just Hector’s.

He glanced up – sharply – when one of the voices raised; it was sharp and toff-enunciated, but his perceptivist’s ears still couldn’t –

“... examination,” cut through the floorboards, “if, Mr. Culver, you wouldn’t…”

“Huh,” he said, swallowing tightly. Then, looking back at Wren: “Huh.” He took another drag on his spur, oddly urgently in need of the smoke. He realized, frozen, he hadn’t a clue what to do in a situation like this.

[Emiel Emmerson]

the rather blustery day, a pub

too damn early for this spitch on Bethas 17, 2720

"Ent ever been myself—to Bastia—but, anyways." He liked miraans. They were interestin' lil' drakes, an' while he'd never been as close to one as he'd been jus' yesterday—jus' today, really—once he finally managed to sleep for a few hours, Sish curled on his threadbare pillows almost possessively once he'd finally decided to open his door while blue light crept through his windows remindin' him of the time, well. They weren't so bad, those miraan.

Maybe they should've started drinkin' first after all, for even after sharin' the names he knew, there were somethin' 'bout the way Risha's sharp features stood out to the wick's curious gaze that really unsettled him—that stirred up a reminder of just how hard it were to fall asleep at all today, starin' at Cerise's face in those afterglowin' vespers before sunrise.

"I don't have Hessean names, ne yet, but I'm workin' on—" Wren would've kept goin', spur hangin' off his lip while he spoke, but he heard the thump, too and his mouth became a tight line, grippin' that paper, "—shit."

The wick's glamour dampened almost by instinct, the well-built barkeep's hunched stature coiling tightly as he reached up and pinched his cigarette, snuffing it out with calloused fingers used to the bite of a bit of flame.

"Ol' Hector ent gonna squeal." He whispered, amber gaze flicking back to Risha's pale hues, quite sure they should've been familiar, ne likin' the deja vu they drew not from jus' his mind, but from somewhere lower still than his skull, "Put that out an' let's sit tight a moment, eh?"

It were a waste of a good smoke, he knew. That tobacco hadn't been cheap an' he tucked what were left of his into his vest pocket, fully intendin' to finish it later. Leanin' forward, he slid off his stool, pressin' closer to that weird, unusual feelin' field this jent had, pressin' in to reach for the lantern an' lower the hood. He didn't cast 'em into darkness entirely, but it got plenty dim.

If he looked up at that sharp chin from his angle, well, he were jus' checkin' in,

"The rug's surely over th' hatch." He whispered one last time, tilting his head, straining to listen.

Footfalls sounded from above, but not directly above them—probably above the basement whose wall they shared to one side of this special, secret addition. The voices were still mostly muffled, but a few words carried through:

"You certainly wouldn't mind us going down ... a look, then, would you?"

"Ne, sirs ..." and "... but jus' mind the bottles 'less you ... replace them ..."

Not wanting any chance of either of their magical identities noticeable, Wren hissed and slipped past Risha, beaconing him to follow to lean against the farthest wall—the cellar wall that would've probably faced the back alley behind the pub had it been at street level.

"Should be fine, eh."