RP:Measure Every Grief

Part of the The God of Undeath Arc

Summary: Lanlan, Kasyr and Valrae meet over the bones of Cenril’s ruined estate and discuss how they plan to move forward against Caluss. They fall into the familiar routine of bitter arguments despite coming to an agreement and parting gifts.

Balcony

Lanlan :: The hour is late, and a nearly cloudless sky hangs over Cenril. The clouds that linger, smoky cirrus wisps, seem to hover only over the scorched manor. Lanlan can see them from the darkened shadow of an alley, considering them like a cruel joke. He elegantly floats over a quickly erected wooden fence, a perimeter separating the husk that Valrae’s manor has become. The fence was also the line where civilization seemed to end. The relatively clean (except for the black dust and ash that shifted) cobbled streets on one side of the fence. On the other, scorched rubble. During the day it was worse, because debris hailed and smashed after being unceremoniously smashed and tossed by any of the platoon of laborers who by day cut away the necrotic flesh of the old abode. But their day was over by hours, and it was just Lanlan and his kaleidoscope here now. He looked through it warily, because if there was some part of a house that he would like to place a hex, it would be on the bones that would be covered up in days to come. In one eye he saw nothing more than black dust, splintered and scorched lumber, and crumbling stone. The parts of the home that were nice were here too. Sometimes they lie only under a layer of ash and dust. Much of the glory was the ash and dust. In his other eye, he saw a magnificent and full spectrum of mingling colors. It was enhanced once by the translucent beads in the rotating chamber cascading over each other, and then again by the divining magic the scope was blessed with. A swelling eddy of silvery dust led him to a scar-striped pillar, still standing strong despite the wreck all around it. Behind it was a glyph, that he could only see in one of his eyes.

Kasyr's arrival may as well be an omen, for on a rainless night- a single thread of lightning traces it's way through the sporadic clouds that dot the sky- coaxing a groan of protest from the evening. That said, whilst those elements may be a distant warning, there are more present elements to take heed of- like the faint scent of ozone building in the air, the whiste of wind in an otherwise still breeze- or the whoosh of a curled up piece of parchment aimed to bap at the back of the archmages head. "I got your message, jackass." The swordsman releases the page, hit or miss- and directs his attention to the manse- a morbid sort of fascination etching across his features. "I was expecting it to be more... subtle." What a mess. No wonder the journalist had sunk his teeth into the story so hard. With a shake of his head, the swordsman begins to pull away from Lanlan's vicinity, bowing so low that his trenchcoat scrapes against the ground, "Anyways, I leave you to your- whatever that es and see you inside. i have appearances to maintain, and that involves being here for as little time as possible." As he begins to pick his way over piled stones, and the scorched husks of once luxurious furniture- the swordsman can't help but tilt his head backwards, "She es expecting us, right?" A bit late for that question, really- and it doesn't really slow down his steps as he ventures further in.

Valrae || While small portions of Cenril’s estate had remained untouched by the fire, save the pervasive and acrid lingering of smoke, the home was widely uninhabitable in the living quarters that had housed the Mayor. She’d been generously offered to stay in the Inn, however due to security concerns, it had been decided it would be best for the witch to spend most of her time between the Mage’s and Devout’s guild. For the first two nights after the attack, she’d spent it floating between the relief of potion induced sleep and the hazy consciousness that was edged with agony and confusion in Lanlan’s coral castle. She’d yet to ask him if the floating, glowing jellyfish she’d seen had been clever magic or milk of poppy induced hallucinations. Or thank him for the hospitality… Returning to the manor had stirred something she hadn’t quite expected in her chest, a small and nameless thing that fluttered on broken wings. It was surreal and bittersweet, seeing the home that hadn’t quite yet felt like home so hollow and ruined. To return while the walls were still black and the contents of some of her most treasured possessions still sat in water soaked piles of ash. She’d arrived early to walk the empty halls alone. As Valrae stepped carefully over the desolation she lifted her skirts, careful to keep the black ash from staining the soft blush colored hem of the gown, the wrap style fashionable in Chartsend this season and surprisingly comfortable against her still healing injuries, she’d worn. It was dark, the light of the moons waxing and waning as clouds pushed in from the sea rolled over them lazily. Unwilling to risk the light of a spell, the witch made her way by faulty memory. As the darkness settled around her and the familiar taste of ash burned the back of her tongue, her heart began to beat too quickly against the cage of her chest, the shallow fluttering of her breath catching in her crowded throat. Feeling as if the room was both spinning and closing around her, Val lifted her skirts higher and dashed toward the opened doors of the balcony. Her blood, Quintessa’s blood too, still marred the once gloss shined white of the marble floor. It had dried to a coppery, ugly brown. If there had been flies and stench, both were gone now. The night rose up around her again, salt and the sea greeting her as the breeze lifted the tangled curls of her hair. She’d just tipped her face to the sky when lightning broke the uneasy and oppressive silence, causing her to scream.

Lanlan is doing the work to untangle the weave binding the glyph in place. A delicate procedure, only because of the spite he wields to alter it. It’s delicate work, and while he thinks he’s alone, he focuses on it. A paper ball bounces off his head and rolls by his shoe. Remarkably, his nostrils flare as he inhales deeply, but he keeps his composure and continues the subtle job. His gloved fingers curl and stretch on one hand and pluck and tuck on the other, until he’s deftly coaxed a nifty little stinger in place, to teach whomever a lesson. If they attempt to spy through this glyph, they won’t see anything of this manor. They’ll be flooded instead by the bilious smells, squelching sounds, and haunting visions of a particular style of ogre-party. The intensity of each sensation greatly exaggerated to punish. “Oh I don’t believe it was Tessa that caused all this damage,” he says to Kasyr, openly contradicting his edict published only days prior. Then Kasyr moves up the stairs. “Inside…” Lanlan says with a shake of his head. They probably move from one roofless floor to another. “But yes, if she’s here, she’s expecting us.” That’s when he hears her scream. In a second, he was up the stairs, without ever touching them, leveling his wand, staff, and a swarm of humming balls of force (some of them real!). They vibrate with power, appearing unstable, like their most natural inclination was to explode violently but it was only a thin and frail barrier that keeps them. He threatens all the available corners and shadows that an ambusher might hide in. There are none, and he lowers his weapons as the bombs shrink. It’s just the mayor. “Valrae!” He hisses at her. Already she was drawing attention to them! He twirls his wand up, and brings it down. By a thin and invisible thread, comes a misty curtain that falls around them in a wide dome. To anyone outside of it, the three of them would appear as motes of dust and ash. A pair of shrieking cats tussle below the balcony, their violent tango sounding eerily similar to the cry that Valrae just made herself.

Kasyr can hear Lanlan's voice behind him, drifting through the air- and he's not entirely sure if he believes it. Perhaps, in part, because he imagines that Lanlan ascribes some of the blame to him. To the mercy that he'd granted the changeling. Self blame can wait however, the shriek which tears through the evening hastening his steps in a manner that sees him crossing the expanse of the house in a moment, skidding to a halt within the ruins of what had once been a regal living space. And in the midst stood val, transfixed within the echoes of that bleak evening. The swordsman isn't sure what he's seeing, uncertain of the residual panic that slithers through the air, the ghosts of a tragedy looking for a fresh host. As though he might part air thick with emotion, he waves his hand through it, before directing his attention towards Lanlan as he skirts through the door, "I thought you said-" But the drow's already casting, and the kensai isn't risking the possibility of their tenuous attempt at discretion being curtailed this early on. Instead, he leaves the archmage to his orchestrations, and begins to move towards the witch, his voice coming out as the last of the thunder dies down, "It's us. Not- It's just us, d'accord?" There's an uncertainty there now, as he sees the cracks in her composure.

Valrae was still clutching at her chest, the rush of her blood beating in her ears, when Kasyr appeared. Lanlan arrives only moments later, accompanied by violent light. Her eyes darted between them. They were too wide, too glossy as she searched between them like a cornered animal and a moment spins by before recognition replaces the wild fear that had marked the soft features of her face. “Lan,” She breathes his affectionately shortened name even as he hisses hers. “Kasyr,” She says next as he waves his hand as if to dispel the fear that she’d been caught in, nearly disolving into the floor as the tension that had wound her shoulders tight releases. She drops her uninjured arm, the other still wrapped and slung close to her body to limit motion, to take hold of the rail behind her and steady herself. Her hand trembled, or perhaps her entire body, and she did not know if it was from fear or the toll of too many potions. “I’m sorry, sorry.” The witch apologizes quickly, color blooming on her cheeks in the darkness as embarrassment burns away the fear like mist in morning sunlight. “I…” Valrae makes an effort to right herself, tilting her chin a proud fraction. The motion was half hearted at best, her face was a vulnerable picture of an exhausted and wounded woman still, and she offered them both a watery smile. “I hadn’t returned yet. I didn’t know I would still… It’s silly…” There was an awkward pause that followed this admittance. In a fashion typical of her, she attempts to fill it up with her own chatter. “The renovations below are coming along quite nicely though, and I’m told it should only be another moon or two before I can return… But why did you call us here again, Lanlan?”

Lanlan scowls at Kasyr for even beginning to accuse him. “Thought I said…? I sent the same letter to her as I sent to you. Approximately.” He snorts a little smugly. A quieting and obscuring veil is over them now, and Lanlan pretends to inspect it while Kasyr moves to console Valrae. Fine, let him be the hero while Lanlan does what actually needs to be done. The air has become almost cloudy with his magic, murky. Even just a few yards away, he can only spot the brightest spots of their clothes and skin. Beyond that, there would be no sign of them. But Valrae calls his name gently, and they should be safe from causing a scene, so he meets them in a few reluctant steps. He doesn’t really understand, but he tries to be sympathetic anyway. “It is much worse than it seemed, isn’t it.” It really was. He slides past them to look out of the balcony and toward the street. No peepers. As he turns his vision back inward, there it is. The stains. Even after the time and the rains it was a pretty bold stripe. She probably didn’t know if she was going to live when it happened. He faces them again, and grows a little impatient at her attempt to smooth things over with the absolute bleakest optimism. “Why haven’t you had that healed yet,” he says, noting her arm hanging in a noose. It was bleeding at the coronation too. He moves as if to poke at it, to test it. Looks at her face, then back at the wound, and decides better of it. “Why isn’t it healed yet.” He doesn’t ask the question so much, more like announce the concern. But it’s her question for him that turns him quite fearful. Of course he knew why he brought them here. Because no one would be here, because it was topical, because it was poetic to him. But suddenly he doubted himself. All that blood, Valrae really could’ve died. And the wound still hasn’t healed. “The reason I’ve asked you both to meet me is because I’ve met with Quintessa.” He pauses as if for dramatic effect. But this time, it’s because he’s still not sure what he’s going to say. What if he was wrong to trust her? He did implicitly, but that was a dream. He didn’t know if that made it more true or less. “She has something we need,” he says, playing conservatively. “So we need her alive.” He looks directly at Kasyr.

Kasyr matches Lanlan's scowl with a roll of his eyes, but for the most part, his attention rests on Valrae, as she sifts through the wreckage of her home and trauma alike. The illusion of safety, now a smouldering skeleton- and with only the pair of them here as a safeguard. He's honestly surprised she can offer them both a smile- and it's all he can do to force himself to reflect it, to latch onto a thread of something so he can go through the motions, "Memories are often stronger than the people who make them, cherie." They certainly last longer. His attention flicks away before the frown takes hold, as the Kensai steps away so Lanlan can begin his scrutinizing. Though it's not long before the revenant begins to further the distance between himself and the mayor, taking up a spot along a wall, adjacent to the scorched facsimile of a shadow. After all, whilst he was now aware, and able to set his focus towards preventing it- he did have a rather uncanny and unpleasant knack for drawing free flowing blood to his person- and if Valrae was still soaking through. The witch is offered something like an apologetic look if she glances in his direction, though Kasyr is otherwise silent- allowing the archmage to take center stage. With- mercy on the cards. It's difficult not to laugh, some choked acrid sound slipping from between his teeth, even as he tilts his head back and tries to avoid the animated manner that no doubt accompanies the speech- or the pointed regard leveled at him. "...Do you -really- not get it? ...Really?" There's that familiar disgust again, curding in his stomach as yet another 'comrade' regurgitates that same sorry story. Another brick on an ever growing foundation of animosity. But he didn't get it. None of them had- save for Valrae, for Khitti. They'd been given a glimpse. "You mean the stone granted to her by Caluss, so it can observe her, non? The one I had -separated- her from?" And which she'd likely scuttled back after like a beaten dog, retrieving it's masters thrown switch. "Don't. Even-" When his focus returns to Lanlan, when it -truly- moves to mirror his gaze, it's not empty, nor controlled. For a rare moment, there's a flood of all those emotions that lay percolating within him- unchecked, and oozing out courtesy of his empathy. "If I'd wanted her -dead-, I wouldn't have healed her from the brink. I wouldn't have contrived to give ensure her master didn't have an excuse to smite her on the spot. Et our reward for that- was her deciding to try et murder Valrae. My only regret is I didn't stomp the life out of her while she lay dying."

Valrae doesn’t answer Lanlan when he comments on the state of her home, her lips tilting downward into a pout. Kasyr’s words had been gentle but the softness of them made her feel just as weak as the knowledge that she’d allowed her home to become a shell of its former self. The shame she felt was like salt in the more invisible and still bleeding wounds that she’d poorly hidden. She didn’t follow Lanlan’s eyes as they moved toward the pools of her blood. She was afraid the room might spin beneath her feet again. Guessing what he might be thinking as she watched his face, that perhaps she was weak and foolish as they’d both suggested the last time she played hostess, and she turned her face away from him. Kasyr had moved away from them so she watched his face instead, his features muddy to her human eyes in the darkness and the spell Lanlan had cloaked them in. “It’s been stitched, medicated.” She protests, looking back at the arcmage as he nears and questions her condition. She didn’t flinch away from him, even as he lifts a gloved hand, stubbornness and pride propped up by milk of poppy staying the anticipating pain that his touch might cause. But there was relief in her eyes when he dropped his hand again. Her head jerks, as if Lanlan had landed a physical blow as he utters Quintessa’s name. She recalls what he’d been quoted as saying in the papers then, ‘No, I didn’t get a good look at their faces.’. Betrayal burned like heavy coals in her heart. The witch scowls at the drow. Kasyr was speaking again but she didn’t follow all of it. She didn’t know what Tessa might have that they needed, knew nothing of the eye the revenant spoke of. And she didn’t care. “But wait, Kasyr. We don’t know who nearly killed me,” She begins, her tone saccharine suddenly as she crosses her good arm around herself, “It seems there wasn’t enough time to get a good look at their face. Right, Lanlan?”

Lanlan :: It’s Lanlan’s turn to roll his eyes at Kasyr. “Memories are…wow,” he mumbles. They were working together hopefully. He could keep his spite buried for now. But, it wasn’t enough. Kasyr attacked, as expected. Somehow, it only reassured Lanlan that he was right. “And what am I not getting,” he says smugly, knowing the answer is ‘nothing’. Lanlan is the only one who gets it. And Kasyr continues, and ultimately blows Lanlan’s mind. “You separated it from her…” he says, looking at Valrae for confirmation, then back to Kasyr. “And then…you let her get it back?” He diverts to Valrae and back again. “What a weird thing to do!” Lanlan meets his gaze again, and the emotions Kasyr empties into him spill out into the obscuring field that lingered over all of them. It sizzles and pops in places, setting to burst with energy. “Oh right! The paragon of restraint just like with Odhranos! You heal them, so you can keep hurting them.” He could handle Kasyr’s attacks, but when Valrae joins in too, he’s momentarily gutted. “Valrae I–you didn’t even let me explain.” He heard his voice become pleading. It was disgusting. Then he snorted to himself. “You’ve both done much worse to me.”

Kasyr is used to the back and forth between himself and Lanlan, the familiar odium that roils, unable to ever truly settle. But he was never expecting the bittersweet venom that trickles out from Valraes lips, and momentarily puts an end to his deflections. While he may mirror Lanlans act of looking at Valrae, the expression on his face is less incredulous, and more an air of being impressed. ..And then he starts back up. Gods damn it all. "I -thought- she would take time to recuperate, et not crawl in the mud searching for an object that supposedly tormented her." There's a pause, and then the kensai casually glances over to Lanlan, "Et I would have thought you'd appreciate the idea of me not picking up a gods unknown relic- et potentially endangering you, given the bond we share. Maybe I -will- go find her, et see about sundering it. What's the worst that could happen, when whatever es contained within writhes out. We can find out together, non?" The swordsman heaves out a sigh, his arms folding across his chest, "Anyways, what's this brilliant plan that seems to hinge upon me ...doing what I'm already doing et sparing Quintessa. I assume whatever accord you made, es why she was courteous enough to leave you out of the paper, when she was listing myself et Valrae as collaborators."

Valrae could feel exhaustion dragging her down, even with the emotions that charged the air, aimed at Lanlan like a weapon thanks to the revenant’s unique abilities. She nearly misses the look on Kasyr’s face then but it was secretly thrilling to see the surprise there. Her shoulder ached like a rotted tooth, the pain familiar in the worst way now as she reached up with her free arm to touch the quickly blood dampening bandage as the pair of them began to argue anew. She felt trapped between them again, pulled in either direction as Lanlan donned his armor of victimhood and Kasyr wielded his words like a sword. Her eyes narrow on the drow as he accuses her of worse but says nothing for a heartbeat. “Yes, I’m certain you’ve convinced yourself that is true.” She finally replies, her tone clipped and careful. “But please, by all means,” She moves her hand from her shoulder in a sweeping, dramatic gesture to dip into a mockingly low curtsy that causes pain to cross her face and sweat to bead on her brow. “You have the floor. Explain why you’re protecting the woman who nearly murdered me and destroyed my home,” The carefulness of her tone wavered, tipped toward revealing the betrayal she felt. “When, not long ago, you painted me as some soft witted, weak woman for suggesting she might be redeemable.” And then Kasyr was speaking and she was quietly agreeing. The witch takes a step backward, still trembling. “Right. Kasyr the disgraced king, my role the wicked witch plotting with him from the shadows. Lanlan, the paragon of tempered responses and hope filled messages for the same woman I was made a fool for defending.” She laughs but it was void of any true humor. If Lanlan was asking her to trust him, she would. She didn’t know why she needed to rake him over the coals for this, this blood thirsty need for a pound of flesh born from the unexamined and fear rotted places that grew each day a new think piece painted her as villain or victim. Both of which were deeply wounding in different ways.

Lanlan couldn’t be Quintessa’s defender. He didn’t believe in her enough. Fortunately for her though, Quintessa wasn’t actually the one being beaten right now. Valrae may have momentarily stung him, but fortunately, the poison is comfortable. And Kasyr gives him something to latch onto, admitting an error. “Oh she recuperated, Kasyr, I think we can all see that,” he says while spreading his arms out to the mayoral rubble. “Unfortunately, there’s no redeeming that mistake. Add it to the list,” Lanlan says, almost enjoying himself. “What’s one more casualty!” Lanlan wasn’t sure, but there must be enough regrets in the kensai’s life to build a castle from. A big dark and lonely castle. “If you want to get yourself killed by subjecting yourself to whatever threat Caluss has for Quintessa, good. Just wait until Valrae severs this connection we share, it’s clear that she doesn’t want to die any more than I do.” He knew Valrae was going to love the implication that she might be concerned for her life. But he was slightly off-put at her indifference considering how their actions affected him. It was a wound last time. Now it was a scar, dark and twisted and hard. “Convinced myself?” He chuckles angrily, “Valrae, I was present for all of it. And from where I was standing, it looked like your green fire burning. Did you burn your own house down?” Lanlan didn’t believe she was soft witted, but he let his tone lie for him. But as she continues, scorn colors his face again. “And now you think she’s beyond redemption why? Because this time she hurt you?” He spots her trembling a bit, and he has to look away. In fact he doesn’t need to contend with them about any of this. He shows his back to them and takes a few steps away, saying poisonously, “Maybe you should sit down Mayor Baines.” Using her title to add to the distance. It was clearly aimed at her self-reported weakness. At least that’s where he hoped she would feel it. Then he actually belly-laughed. “I never called Kasyr a disgraced king!” He looks at Kasyr joyously, and nods. It fit, fine. “Wait, let me see.” As he continued seeing Kasyr, an illusionary crown that seemed to me made from bent cardboard floated from the heavens down toward Kasyr’s head. He actually feels a little better after this. Apparently his message to the people had exactly the intended outcome, and it was hard not to accept that compliment. Especially when it was meant to be insulting. “I only came here to ask for help in separating Quintessa from Caluss’s eye and blocking it from doing…whatever she’s afraid of it doing to her. After that you can both quench your bloodthirst in whatever way you feel like. Is that a fair compromise? Talk it over! Let me know what you think.” He goes a considerable distance away from them now, that they could whisper to each other and he wouldn’t hear. Of course the entire point of giving them the chance was to acknowledge that they were on their own team, and he was on his.

Kasyr isn't quite sure when those bitter feelings start to turn inside. He couldn't deny the spiteful sense of satisfaction that accompanied Valraes invitation for Lanlan to take the floor- but, that wasn't the moment his irritation started to recede. No, the drow even manages to stoke a bit more, a twinge of acidic frustration coaxed up with his agreement at how problematic Quintessa's survival had been. Only- now he was advocating for just that. Simultaneously cursing the Kensai for endangering his life, while raging that he hadn't taken a gamble with an unknown artifact. As lanlan continues to talk, the Kensai simply tilts his head down and begins to tune out- drawing a small flask of bloodwine out from his pocket, and taking a small sip as the words keep coming. Pointed words, all bitter spite and exagerrations- a performative tantrum that actually starts to nudge the swordsmans expression closer towards Disgust, and even some slight shards of pity, however muted, "If you're done helping me understand why Gevurah's left you to your own devices-" And by extension, the rest of them. "You can take your own advice, et take a seat. I'm sure you'd prefer the sound of your own voice, anyways." Two fingers crop up a slight salute to Xalious Archmage (gods, help them), and discreetly poke at the illusiary crown in order to see if it could be shifted to be askew- before his attention drifts over towards Valrae, one hand reaching over towards her in quiet invitation, "I've already said my intention, to a degree. Tessa's actions are slowly but surely catching up to her- but you have my attention for what you'd like to do here, in the moment and the aftermath. Et I can certainly understand if you feel the need for reparations." His head tilts slightly in the direction of her shoulder, and the ever present scent of blood, "Especially when bearing a constant reminder of her actions." There's something about his expression there, more inquisitive then anything- if only because of Valrae's state. The mayor, if anyone, should have access to the best medecine Cenril could provide- so why did that wound still smell so fresh, and yet, decidely -off-.

Valrae’s pouting frown deepened as Lanlan continued, feeling something akin to tearing in her chest as he said, almost gleefully, ‘What’s one more casualty!’ As if he didn’t care that the casualty was almost her. As if he might not have saved her if it wasn’t just saving himself. As if maybe he regretted it. The hurt sank deep, deeper than any blade. It only twisted when he suggested the reason her home was now in ruin was her own fault, her own stupidity. A hiccuping sob almost escapes her, one she covers with the back of her shaking hand as tears slip down her cheeks and ruin the dark lines of her makeup. Kasyr responds to him but she doesn’t hear it. Suddenly, she’s stumbling forward. Her heels click on the marble, uneven sounds to match the steps, and she’s leaning forward. The movement cost her, she could feel the useless stitching of her stubborn wounds screaming as she reached out and took hold of the ashwand that had been discarded and lay useless since the night Quintessa’s blade ran through her. When she stands again she’s ignoring the black spotting vision, the floating crown that Kasyr knocked askance. Through the haze of dancing vision, pain and milk of poppy, Valrae focuses solely on the back of Lanlan’s head. There was no magic to call too, no spell that would spring to her lips as she drew back and released the wand as if it were a skipping stone headed squarely for the archmage’s head. Despite her condition, she was an admirable shot. As it left her fingers she screamed, “You’re an unwashed ogre’s ass!” The witch doesn’t wait to see if the wand lands. She moves again, stepping over the broken glass to take the seat he’d told her she needed. Because she did. Her head was swimming, the delicate silk sleeve of her dress now ruined by the blood she could no longer afford to lose. She reaches into her bag as Kasyr speaks to her, still trembling as she searches for the potions waiting somewhere in the endlessly enchanted space. “I-” She stops to look up at the revenant, frustration and confusion painted on the mess of her face. “Whatever he wants. If Lanlan is so concerned for her, he’ll decide then and whatever happens is his own fault.” She doesn’t understand the look he’s giving her now, so she only frowns at him and lifts her uninjured shoulder. “I just want… I want to go home.” Wherever that was now.

Last time Lanlan was here, it was with the same people, each who found that anything he might say was ultimately worth as much as a wooden penny in a foreign land. Now it was the same. The only difference this time was him; he wouldn’t lament, he is liberated. He can say whatever he wants and it doesn’t matter, he decides. A slight regression perhaps. “Gevurah’s dead,” he lies nonchalantly, correcting Kasyr. “Not many know, but she has been for months.” Whatever the truth is, he doesn’t know. But neither do they, he’s sure enough. They don’t actually care enough to investigate. Then, while they discuss Quintessa’s fate, his back remains to them, his focus away from them, choosing not to hear. Not to be tempted to vainly defend himself.

It takes commitment, but he remains still and focused on his shoes even as Valrae closes the distance. He can hear the anger in her steps and the sharp motion that results in her own wand bouncing off the back of his head and clattering to the dusty ground a few feet away. He confiscates it in a quick motion, intending almost immediately to do something with it. He isn’t sure if he’ll break it or use it. But in the course of several violent breaths, he calms. Deciding merely to hold it. He calls out, “Thank you!” Still, he doesn’t look at them, deciding that the only reason he’s still present is to know his next course.

Kasyr isn't quite sure -what- he was expecting as a retort from the illusionist, but the abrutpness in which he delivers this parcel of news . . . disconcerting, to say the least. That's not to say it feels insincere- there's a distinct thread of sorrow and bitter anger which winds it's way through the words, and lends it credibility. And yet, something poisonous taints the whole. A spiteful self-satisfaction that makes Lanlan a little hard to look at, to even listen to. Had she tried to wash her hands of him, only for the favor to be returned? There's so many missing details, and he wants none of them, not now, "My condolences. You, " Empty niceties form and dissipate on his tongue, and it's with some effort that he can provide some truthful kernel of something, "You've tried your best in her stead. ...Es there anything else?" And yet, the swordsman is aware that he still exists within a framework of being an obstacle to navigate- a position they mirror, really. And one which sees his attention sliding away to Valrae as her condition worsens- as her clothes are gradually dyed a specific shade of crimson, and she falls short of finding what she wants- and can't seem to find what she needs. Worse, is that some bestial part of him at the back of his mind almost relishes the sight- the way faint scarlet beads pull themselves from the fabric to linger between them like morbid fireflies. It makes her plea for normalacy, for somewhere safe, that much harder to face, "If you need somewhere to go, you're still my honoured guest." He draws his hand between them, in part to shoo away the spectacle that's formed in the air, "...You should get that wound tended to, however. If it," There's a tinge of something foul underneath, a familiar rancor within the wound, an otherness that didn't belong with the witch, "Before it progresses. Or J'imagine your options may narrow."

The frantic search of her bag was halted as Gevurah’s name was mentioned twice. There was an aching burn of bitterness and annoyance in the back of her throat whenever that particular drowess was mentioned. Hearing Lanlan say that she had met her death did nothing to change it. She believed in Lan almost without exception. When matters of Gevurah were discussed she always assumed he was lying or hiding something from her. The witch turns her face away from Kasyr and pulls an iron curtain down around herself, an emotional blankness that serves as her as a shield to guard this secret as the revenant shows unusual compassion for the archmage. It didn’t surprise her, grief and loss were where the unlikely trio shared common ground. Valrae offers him a smaller kindness. She felt as if she were a wounded animal, ready to bare her teeth and cause him the same pain that he’d bestowed upon her, so she says nothing at all.

Valrae’s mask nearly crumbles when Kasyr opens his home to her again. Her lip trembles but she manages to give a weak smile and the smallest shake of her head. “Thank you, I couldn’t impose upon you that way now… Not after…” She waves her uninjured hand. “The papers. The sanctions. It would only complicate your position and mine further.” There was regret in her tone. Most of the decisions had been out of her hands. Yes, she was Cenril’s Mayor. She had power and influence, but unlike the time of Hudson and Uma’s reign she’d relinquished the chokehold of the republic’s politics from the rule of its darker underbelly. There were councils and parliaments in place. She’d given the Captain of the guard his teeth back and allowed him and her defense team to outvote her because she’d had no interest or energy to pilot a dictatorship. It was his next words that caused frustration and hopelessness to roll off of her in waves. “I’ve tried,” She answers him, pleading and sorrow turning her voice nearer to a whine than she had meant. “I have healers. I-” The witch closes her mouth again, her free hand moving to where the blood soaked through to her dress. “I don’t know why it’s not healing.” She didn’t know what options he might mean but fear trilled along her spine and despite Cenril’s late summer heat she felt suddenly cold.

Lanlan is well aware of the effect his relationship with the matron of the underdark has with certain groups. Just the mere fact of it cursed him with an unsightly and untrustworthy slant. It was wise for him to breeze past it, though that wasn’t why he did. Burdensome feelings lie beneath a fragile trap door. He skips over it rather than crash through. Still, Kasyr did maybe touch on something he hadn’t even considered. Though it happened to be true. “Yes, I have been doing my best,” he says bitterly. “Sometimes that means doing things I don’t like.” The bitterness came of course from their reaction. Blaming him for circumstances beyond his control that he merely adapted to. And unifying against him for this?

As they continue to talk, he can hear only their sweetened tones for each other. He could only imagine what was in the content, but it was all generosity and kindness and concern. Things they spared only for each other and never for him. And how graciously they took him up on his offer to speak amongst themselves! A test, he realized. That they failed. ‘They mistook your offer of collaboration as a plea for help, Lanlan. Do you need their help?’ Lanlan shifted his shoulders as he leaned with his back to them. Finally he called out, “I should clarify. This is happening either way. You either help and have your voice on the final outcome considered, or you don’t and you can read about it in the papers.”

Kasyr, despite the severity of the subject, couldn't help but muster a certain degree of humour at her words, "Prolonged negotiations between aren't unheard of, madamoiselle." There's a pause, and he leans forward to mischievously add, "Besides, I can be discreet." Still, whatever small amusement he might have been able to pull from that exchange is muted in the wake of the more present problem. A wound that resisted healers. Tessa had outdone herself with this one. Really, the changelings only failing here, was choosing a mark who could afford consistent care. "If it progresses, let moi know. I-" Lanlan's voice is a reminder that their business is as of yet unfinished, though it once again fails to present him with what he was searching for from the man. Instead, there was simply a fresh wave of ire to color their interaction.

Ire the swordsman still isn't quite sure how to navigate. The illusionists emotions shifted as easily as his guises at times, leaving the Kensai uncertain how much of the barbs were meant for them, or the situation. All of them, maybe. But, there was a certain part of his speech that felt like a lie. A bluff. "Considering how outspoken you've been about hating moi, monsieur, et your thoughts on my efficacy in the matter- I'm certain you -wouldn't- be asking, or perhaps -telling-, me to help. Not if it wasn't necessary." There's no anger in the swordsman's voice, just a tired sort of resignation at this point, "I don't even pretend to think that it's something akin to common cause, or professional courtesy. If you had the means to omit me from your plans, you would have." There's a pause, the words allowed to hang in the air between them, before he finally adds, "So- if you'd be so kind, tell me what it es you need done. If it es ensuring Tessa has less avenues to retreat to, or es hindered from mobilizing defenses so you can enact whatever plan you have in mind -without- dealing new allies? That's done. If you need Shishi out of the way, I can likely distract him. Just say what tu need." It's here his arms extend out to either side to punctuate his final words, "Simple, non?"

The witch’s pale cheeks bloomed with color as Kasyr leaned in, her mouth opening though no sound fell from her parted lips. She was beyond anticipating one moment from the next when she was in the room with either man and still the slight flirtation caught her off guard. It doesn’t linger long, the revenant’s eyes move back to the stubbornly unhealing wound and before he could finish speaking Lanlan’s raised voice halts him. Her lips close and bow into a pouting frown. Valrae felt a wave of exhaustion roll through her as she recognized the tone the drow took. It shielded her from further injury this time, even assuming that he’d aimed his comment about reading the papers towards wounding her again. She lets Kasyr speak and remains silent. Turning her face away from them, Valrae searches through her bag again. There was a moment of awkward one armed searching, but eventually she produced two small boxes. The smaller of the two was wrapped in fine, shining silver paper and violet ribbon. The second one, slightly larger than the first, had been wrapped in delicate violet paper and silver ribbon. She stood carefully, favoring her uninjured leg, and offered the smaller of the two out to Kasyr. The little box held a signet ring nestled in soft black velvet. The stone set into the face of the ring was an oval of golden and scarlet dotted carnelian. The band was silver, the setting a metal crossing over the gemstone partially in a stylized filigree fashioned artfully to represent the crescent moon seen in House Azakhaer's heraldry. She blinked expectantly at him, watching his face with wide and dark eyes. “It is more than a trinket,” The witch promises, making no further explanation before moving away from him. She approached Lan slowly, the violet wrapped gift held carefully. She moved beside him but did not tilt her face toward him. Instead, she regarded the dark night.

The view from her balcony was breathtaking, even in the humid darkness of night. The illusion of the ocean’s closeness was painted in indigo and black. The space where the sky met the sea was a line of cerulean so thin that if the gas lamps of the manor had been lit one might have missed it. If she closed her eyes, Valrae could imagine she could hear the waves falling in a rhythm against the sand. Her hand trembled as she offered the gift out, her voice a whisper as she answered him simply, “I’ll do whatever it is you’re asking of me.” Inside of Lanlan’s box there was a silver armlet resting on green velvet. The thicker band was made of masterfully crafted silver, the front of it shaped as a peacock moth. The wings were open wide and curved to fit around his bicep, jeweled with verdantly green peridot and dusky blue apatite, the eye patterns appearing unique in that they were closed instead of opened wide. “Iintahquohae made these. I enchanted them.” The witch begins to explain, knowing that the pair of them might have already sensed the unusual power that emanated from the unassuming items. It would have been unnoticeable until the silver met skin. “As long as you’re wearing them, it should be all but impossible for scrying or any other magical means of spycraft to be successful. I-” She hesitates for a moment, wondering how they might feel about carrying an artifact borne of what she would be admitting, “I used the crystal skulls to do it. The power is hungry,” Valrae reaches out, steading herself with her free arm on the balcony railing. “I’m almost certain, for I tested them a little, that if anyone tries too not only will it notify you by glowing but… Because of the nature of the skulls, it will begin to parasticially leech away whatever power is being wielded against them.” The breeze was cool on her face, it lifted the curling golden ends of her hair and they snapped behind her like ribbons as she closed her eyes. “They do not harm the wearer.. And Inks was clever enough to make them subtle, something you could wear on your person without drawing attention.”

Lanlan simmers beneath a veil of aloofness as he passes time peering into the dingy Cenrilian streets. His hands were laid on a charred remnant of an ornately decorated wooden railing. Its embellished grooves were still present, but they were brittle after absorbing so much heat and smoke. A heavy hand could turn it all into dust. The impatience doesn’t wither as Kasyr addresses him again, to pretend to cooperate while blaming Lanlan for their usual lack of it. “I’ve been outspoken about your nature as I and more recently Quintessa have come to understand it. And now I’m telling you to suppress it, at least until Caluss’s eye is severed from his will.” He shifts on his feet. “That’s all.” He continued staring out into the distance, not seeing any of the beauty that Valrae saw. The distant horizon spun toward them, urged on by monsters waiting for him to turn his back. They concealed themselves behind clouds or just beneath the surface of the boiling sea. Or behind a closed door. Or in good intentions.

He considered Valrae without an eye in her direction as she landed next to him cautiously. As if he was the monster who would dash out a person’s life for an imprudent word. “Leave it there,” he said curtly, angling toward the brittle stretch of carved and charred wood on the side of his hand. He didn’t say anything else immediately, stung too deeply by curiosity and puzzlement. After she explains the gift, he’s impressed, but also burdened by knowing that it’s not something that he can decline to wear just because it’s ugly. It would be too useful. So he takes the box just to know what type of punishment he was about to endure. He opens it, glances briefly, and closes it. And then opens it again, and this time his stare lingers upon it, and he can’t help but smile a little. “It’s beautiful, thank you.” He closes it again, reluctantly, but he can still see it in his mind.

“Quintessa holds an object,” Lanlan says, hand laying over the top of the box so nothing can happen to it, “that Caluss uses to see through her eyes, but also to control her. If she steps out of line he can use it to kill her. In the book I’ve read, it tells how long ago, a monstrous entity which was utterly unkillable was defeated through the use of several objects and a ritual. One of the objects was a piece of the creature itself that was enchanted to be used against it.” He trusted they would know what he was getting at. “Caluss’s eye will serve that function for us, but we have to nullify its abilities somehow. Blind it and trap it and turn it against Caluss. I’m meeting Quintessa soon. We need to have the method ready by then.”

Kasyr watches as that moment of uncertain vulnerability is brought to an end and Valrae centers herself once more, in order to address the matter she'd no doubt contacted them for. And yet, it's his turn to be surprised when the box is delivered to his grasp- his expression unreadable not for its neutrality, but the manner in whch it briefly flickers between a series of expressions, before finally settling on something close to fond. "A bit forward, non?" The deflection is automatic, and he tries not to linger on his own stupid comment for longer than he has to- the box snapped shut and stuffed into his pocket, as though not looking at it would make it easier to do just that. "Sincerely, Merci. Thank you, even. It's-" Better than he deserves, enough so that his thumb grazes the box to make sure that it's actually there. That Inks had been working on this amidst all her other errands. Well- she did seem to insist he look the part of a ruler. Still, they were here on business, and it seemed like Lanlan was finally willing to get into it properly, as he iterates Quintessa's position, but also adds a new twist to the whole- in how they might weaponize her current predicament against her supposed slaver. "The contents of my book aren't apt to help you, monsieur- but if you're asking for insurance, in case she's obligated, or succumbs to some feral impulse, I can promise to- " protect is what he wants to say, but he can already picture the drow bristling at the idea, and starting a fresh tirade about how he'd need protection from the Kensai, from their bond. So instead he can, "offer assistance. Just keep moi posted." His thumb grazes the ring box, awkwardly clicking it open and closed as he awaits the reply.

The witch’s lips had curved into the first and only true smile of the evening as Kasyr’s joke landed. Her laugh was out of place amongst the ash and blood and ruin, light and musical as a bell as it bounced around the balcony. “I hope you’ll accept it all the same,” She replies, her dark eyes teasing. Without his gifts, she could not understand the passing looks that crossed his face. She studied him as if he were a very interesting painting, or a particularly difficult passage in a book, but by the time he was slipping the box in his pocket she was no closer to gaining insight to what she’d seen and the moment had passed them by. “You’re welcome. I hope you’ll wear it.”

The small moment of joy had died in the face of Lanlan’s frigid response. Valrae had placed the gift beside him without knowing if he’d even open it. Disappointment clawed sharply in her chest as she thought of the carefully selected gift collecting dust. She’d already turned away from him by the time he’d deemed it worthy of his attention.

She doesn’t speak again, not even to reply to the drow as she crosses back toward her seat. The men speak and she listens with her eyes downcast. The coppery scent of blood surrounded her, filled the back of her throat and mingled with the sting of acrid smoke and the burn of unshed tears. Kasyr finished speaking and the quiet rose up between the three of them. The sounds of Cenril were dampened by the manor and the garden. Distant murmurs of the life that continued regardless, or perhaps in spite of, whatever disasters had come and might yet await. With her free arm, Valrae reached out for her bag. With trembling fingers she gripped it tight, her knuckles whitening around the strap as she pulled it closer. “If that’s all.” But she doesn’t wait for a reply from either of them. Magic springs around her, absolute and nearly palpable as it crowds the balcony and crouches there, charged as a thunderstorm. In a span of one heartbeat to the next, Valrae fades from the bench. She left behind only the scent of blood and lavender.

When the world faded to cold stone from bright burning stars, she was alone on the floor of her office of Devout sanctum. She did not bother to move as she wept, opening herself to the sense of self pitying loss that carried her into a dreamless sleep.

Did Valrae not hear him? She must not have heard him. “I said it’s beautiful. Thank you.” She had no excuse to be rude, but if she was going to be, she’d better commit to it. That’s what he decides, as he considers what stylish way he should take his leave. He turns around briefly only for the sake of etiquette, something which he cares for very much in this moment that it’s been disregarded. “I’ve survived much worse than her,” he says, very efficiently landing a blow on three people. It’s then that he sees Valrae dissipating without a word to him. “Hm!” He spins around and seems to disappear into a cloud of smoke and thunder.

Kasyr, despite the haste in which the others had departed, decides to eschew the caution they'd undertaken in their meeting- lingering upon that ruined balcony in the sullen aftermath, staring out at the nightsky with little in the way of company, save a freshly lit cigarette at his lips. "Daedria, preservez-nous, meme si on ne le mérites pas."