RP:The Gift of Food and Shelter, Repaid With the Stories of a Life
Outside Frostmaw Tavern
Zette scavenges around the side of the tavern. There's trash, she's found, just outside one of the windows, something expelled by a careless patron or Frostmaw's equivalent to a drunken fool, perhaps. She is easily visible in the snow: over her frame lies a thick, dark blanket, pulled around her shoulders like a cloak, grasped so tightly around her neck by one bony hand that the faerie's pressed fingers grow white at the joints. Her other hand, gloved, roots around in the snow. She doesn't have to bend too far; her four-foot frame is not too much taller than the snowbanks, here, after all. Not much else of the little fae is visible; Zette's back is towards the path. Is it safe to assume from her height that she is a child? Perhaps, if one governs oneself on the appearance of height alone. Eventually, having seized her prize, the girl would turn, revealing a face framed by thick, matted, dark hair. She blinks back a shiver of cold as she sits and examines an apple core in her lap, pulling her blanket closer around her body, and successfully hiding much of her body from the surrounding cold. She turns the core over in her hand and a smile flickers across her features. Green eyes light briefly, ethereal in happy beauty, and the little thing chirps a small song into the air around her, a tune governed entirely by emotion, leading trills into the air before devolving quickly into laughter, which sounds more like bells than anything else. Though the creature is childlike in both demeanor and mannerism as well as height, her age might be harder to determine, now her face is revealed. Happily, she bites into the apple-remnants. The frozen flesh in her mouth is sweet, even as it makes her teeth ache with the cold.
Svilfon had only returned to Frostmaw a day or so ago, after spending almost a week laying in bed after he tore a hole in the very fabric of Hollow itself to free the trapped gladiator from his imprisonment in the nightmare realm. It took all of Svil's power to hold open the portal, and the wizard knew it would be safest for everyone if he stayed back in Xalious for a few days afterwards. Sometimes when he's too tired, things around him spontaneously combust, so it's best to leave that in his highly fire-resistant room in the Mage's Tower. Nevertheless! He is back now, and with a throat drier than a vulture's armpit, he decides it's time to visit his old pal Drargon, to share tall stories and drink fine ale. But despite his desire to be inside, and the lingering exhaustion which stains his beard-hidden face – a beard which hides it more now that it's half coated in snowflakes – he still notices the child-like creature. He pauses to see what she'll do, skulking around outside as she is, but when all the little fae does is pick up an apple core, laugh with almost as much euphonious musical joy as the lady icicle, before eating it, he realizes she's probably just demented. Usually, he would step forward and give her a swift kick – see if he can score some points over Kasyr by sending someone else flying off the cliffs. But today, instead, he pauses, clears his throat, before tipping his hat. “You know, there's easier ways to find food.” The wizard extends one of his hands, before, with a flourish of course, he pulls from the very air a chunk of bread. “All you have to do is pluck it out of the air, didn't you know.” He grins, flashing fangs with rest beside gaps in his teeth at the woman.
Zette is so engrossed in apple-eating that she hardly notices the approaching footsteps until the feet in question are within her direct line of sight. She's devoured, hungrily, the remains of the core - even the seeds and the stem - and is licking her fingers when she looks up. In a fluid motion, she is on her feet again, though the blanket around her frame threatens to make her stumble backwards. She finds her balance again, easily enough, and takes a step back. A flicker of fear in her eyes betrays an otherwise blank face, as does a suppressed shudder when she is addressed. She takes another step back. He sounds happy, she thinks, except this is not a good-for-her kind of happy, and that smile is not a good-for-her kind of smile. Her eyes dart to Svilfon's grin, then to the bread he has pulled from nowhere, but she dares hold her gaze upon neither for too long. Rather, she fixes her line of sight at his shoes. A soft hum of agreement - more of a musical whimper, really -- is accompanied by a quick illusion: a replica of the exact same bread which Svilfon now holds. Her eyes dart to the real bread once more, and then back to the ground as her stomach rumbles an interruption in her song. When her tone fades so, too, does the accompanying image, and Zette shifts her weight from one foot to the other.
Svilfon doesn't seem too worried about the flicker of fear he saw, or the lack of conversation. He continues to grin as she creates her replica of the bread, and he even goes as far to nod his head in appreciation, before, with the stomach rumbling acting as a bass to her song, he flicks the real chunk of bread at the fae. His pale gaze remains on her, watching what she'll do – he did aim it at her head, after all, though not hard enough to hurt were it to hit – and he's quite interested in how she'll react. Regardless, he speaks again, seeming comfortable in the cold, even with his beard collecting the lazily falling snow. “Also, you could probably do with a better blanket. The animals which live her are suited to this cold, and others like us who are not simply adapt.” The wizard nods more to himself than the fae, before his own voice shifts from his normal jovial tones to a whispering sound which drips with archaic might. The spell is a simple one, a few lines, a gesture or two with his hands, before, with another wizardly flourish – he can't help himself! - he produces the pelt of one of Frostmaw's wolves. “Try this.” He holds it out to her. This one she could take herself if she wanted it, and once again his pale eyes remain on her – curious as to what she will do, and how she acts. Svil has learned rather painfully that the quiet, weird ones can be the most dangerous of all... he doesn't want to take any chances with the war between exiles and Frostmaw raging still.
Zette flinches as soon as the man moves his arm to throw the bread, throwing her own arm up instinctively to shield her face. The movement reveals a rather scarred length of limb, which has a thick, dark circle of a scar surrounding her wrist, and what might be noticed to be a length of barbed wire embedded in the flesh, the skin healed around and over it. Despite the defensive measure, she seems confused when the bread hits her arm before bouncing off into the snow at her feet. Did she expect a blow, instead? She opens her eyes, which had closed in preparation for the assumed-attack, in order to look down at the bread. Her eyes dart to Svilfon's face, and now it is her whole face that shows fear. Her eyes shift to and from each of his eyes, as though searching for something, before falling to the piece of bread. To reach it, she'll have to make herself vulnerable to this man, to squat and leave her back - and subsequently, her hidden wings - open to attack. Her stomach rumbles, louder, and she purses her lips; her eyes narrow in determination. With quick movements, she squats, grabs the bread, and straightens again, hardly leaving any time for hitting. With the movement, she loses some of the grip on her blanket, and it falls to pool at her feet, revealing an all-too-thin frame, a lopsided chest beneath a tunic, and other limbs which are similarly scarred as her arm. Zette doesn't allow much time for examination, bending again, just as quickly as before, to pick up her blanket in her free hand. In the process, she also reveals wings, which flutter ever-so-slightly for balance, behind her, casting iridescent green shadows in the white snow as the moonlight casts itself through the thin, intricate latticework that pattern the fae's wings, which also shimmer in other hummingbird tones: pinks and blues and purples and reds, depending on how the light hits. She straightens and pulls the blanket tight around her frame, struggling a bit with the cumbersome cloth, refusing to release the bread clutched in her fist. She jumps when his tones again pierce the air, and eyes him cautiously. She's not good at reading not-dangerous emotion, at least in the sense that she views all things as a threat, and so it is with great trepidation, and an accompanying wince, that she views the flamboyantly-proffered cloak. Her eyes rake over the thick fur with an unbidden shiver, as the man's explanation sinks in. She bites her lip and takes a step toward the wizard. Before she extends her arm, though, questioning eyes search Svilfon's face and another hummed illusion penetrates the air between fae and man. The song she hums this time is plodding, deliberate, like slow footsteps. Into the air, a mini-wolf appears, its coat quite similar to the pelt which is now held before her. It takes circles in the air until the song fades and question-imbued-greens seek Svilfon's face once again, their intended question: -Was it a wolf?-
Svilfon remains entirely motionless throughout Zette's internal struggles with her fear and anxiety, fighting so viciously as they are with her need for survival. He is glad when the desire for food wins out, though as she stands and loses the blanket, his pale and all-too perceptive gaze misses very much about her. From the gossamer wings to her scarred body, all is taken in quickly, though the man's bearded face betrays nothing of his internal thoughts over what he has seen. As she sings once more, bringing to brief life the illusion of a wolf, he places the pelt over her arm while nodding. "It was a fine wolf, too. I called him Scar, for he lost his left eye in one battle and his right ear in another. A strong wolf, he was, out-lived most his pups until at the last he died after fighting off another wolf who wanted to take his position as the leader of their pack... never was he beaten, not throughout his life, and even in death he was victorious. So I took his pelt, to honour him, and ate the rest of his meat." The wizard smiles at that, once again flashing the fangs in his mouth, though there isn't any menace in the look, despite those pearly white predator-esque additions to his otherwise gap-filled mouth. "His cloak will keep you warm, and though it was unintentional, it seems you and the wolf share quite a bit in common." He motions lazily, though slowly as to not scare her too much, with his hand. "Have you seen many battles,lady fairy? Or merely lost the ones you've been in?" He attempts a final smile at those words, though it never quite reaches his eyes. Too many has the wizard seen maimed and broken on the fields of war. It was not something he overly enjoyed thinking about, though he does manage to add at the end. "And I can pull that out for you, if you like." Again he motions, this time to her arm which is imbedded with the wire. The wizard isn't a healer, and his offer is quite literal. He's again more just curious as to what she'll say, than thinking she'll accept his proposal.
Zette can't help but smile her own sweet smile at the wolf-story, the corners of her mouth flicking upwards little by little, in spurts, until the story progresses to the point that the smile can't help but spread across her face, happier, even, than in her apple-core-winning moment. Her eyes dart again to the pelt, now draped across her arm, and she dares to pull it closer to her chest, to wrap her bread-hand around it as well, and, while hugging the soft fur (in what might seem to be an I-am-proud-of-you,-dead-wolf kind of gesture), finally takes a bite of the bread, convinced, now, of its worth as well. She fixes upon the gesture with his hand and, as she does, she mimics nearly exactly the pitch and timbre of the wizard's voice, his speech pattern, wordlessly weaving his wolf-story to life in the air before her: the wolf, earless and eyeless, his pups, and Scar's Last Stand. He speaks while she sings, but she hasn't ignored his words, merely put her answer on hold, at least until his question more fully sinks in, at which point her song changes immediately. The fae can't separate emotion from music, not now, not in this, and so it is shuddering sadness and flickering fear that spirals from her throat. There have been no battles, not really, not like those the wolf has seen, but a quick version of her tale is thrust forth in sequential still-shots more like pictures than life: Children playing, none with wings, in the front yard of a house, vividly detailed, a sign: -Home For Children- painted bright white with blue letters. Inside the house, now, children visible through a window, frozen in one game or another. A basement, a lady standing above Zette, wrists and ankles adorned with shackles, limbs bound individually by cruel wire. Zette's song, near violent in intensity with the last is ripped from the air, replaced by a penetrating silence, the whole story over in seconds. Zette hugs the wolf-fur tightly, ferociously to her chest, but not before pulling her blanket closer, tighter, to soothe a trembling body - trembling from what, now, fear? Anger? - with uniform pressure. Her eyes dare the Wizard's chest to try something, her gaze meant for his face, but she can't bear the eye contact, and without moving her line of sight, she shakes her head, firmly. This is the only response the man will get for his offer to remove the wire, other than one more small step, governed sub-consciously, away from the man.
Svilfon very nearly adds to the story he tells a wizard, just so he can see her bring it to life. But even now after the old wolf's death, the vampire has far too much respect for the proud animal to belittle this sharing of his life story by amusing himself. Added to which, it's the first time he's seen the illusionist smile, and he's not quite ready to shatter that expression of joy. As the fae's tones shift, and the story of her early life flashes before his eyes, the wizard has to reach out and brace himself on the wall of the tavern. Usually, he would be well defended against all illusions, and careful enough around a known illusionist to separate what is true from what is created. But the images which flash quickly past, showing the torture of the winged Zette from within the supposed sanctuary for young ones, come too fast for his exhausted mind to truly process, and for just a moment he feels like he is the one trapped in the wire-made shackles; made a whore to the sadistic wants of another. But it passes quickly, and with a ragged breath that his deceased body no longer requires, he falls into a contemplative silence. His pale gaze watches Zette, though - he would not let her escape just yet, if flight was on her mind - but there is only a sadness in his eyes. When at last he speaks again, his voice is soft; so much so it should not travel even as far as the fae, with the wind's eternal howl and the sounds of the tavern occasionally drifting out to the two. But even with these things, she would that his voice very easily reaches her ears, "I am sorry, lady fairy. We all have scars... perhaps you should be thankful yours are worn on the outside, rather than within." A sigh escapes Svilfon, then; something which he would allow few to ever see, though he doesn't seem to mind Zette hearing it now. Thoughts of Emiur bring this out of him, and never once has he forgiven himself for the couatl's death, despite the fact there was nothing Svil could ever have done to prevent it. It is a wound the wizard will never let heal. "Does this... place you showed me..." He waggles a finger at the snow, causing a brief tendril of steam to lazily float up until it's snatched away by the breeze. When passed, the words of the school's name are melted into the snow, though the water within soon feezes over once more. "...still exist? Ask it, lady fairy, and I will burn it to the ground and destroy everyone within." He smiles at those words, but it's like the rays of the sun glowing behind a dark, menacing cloud filled with volatile energy; hardly comfort to those stuck in the path of the storm. But his gaze stays upon her, watching to see how she responds. numinious
Zette watches the wizard's chest rise and fall, hears his breath as a song, and suddenly looks rather apologetic. Does she know he is tired? How would she know; is she so perceptive? A bite of her lip later, her eyes flick further upwards, to meet his sad gaze curiously. His soft tones are mimicked in much the same way as his earlier story - a wordless song matching in tone and pattern - and then the man's sigh, heavy and sad. Zette's response: an ever-so-brief flash of pure white in her eyes, and a hazy illusion, barely vivid at all, a shadow of a shape - is that a couatl? Wings and a snake and…the little fae shakes her head, as though clearing an inner cloud, and confusion mixes in with another apologetic glance. She follows the pointed finger, watches the snow melt and freeze. Unease courses her frame even before she turns back to regard that smile. She nods her head, then shakes it, then nods again, and then another shake - a quick -yes-no-yes-no-. Her own song, this time, her faced forced into a blank. Zette's voice cracks a bit. She clears her throat and tries again. Again, it cracks. The thick fur is released by her bread-bearing hand, the remnants there swallowed entirely by the little fae. She reaches into a pocket, pulls out a crude, hand-carved flute, and presses it to her lips. She'd need two hands to play anything complex, and she realizes this quite quickly. She refuses to put the pelt itself on the ground, the thought hasn't even crossed her mind, and so she swallows down crumbs and swallows again for good measure, before dropping her blanket to the ground and letting the wolf-pelt hang from her shoulders. The flute is raised to her lips and played, evoking images even sharper, somehow, than previous. The house appears in miniature, revolving slightly in the air, and instantly one might notice it has changed: now it is worn down, windows broken, sign nearly unreadable. Inside, now, and down the stairs, a tinier replica of Zette sits, her form different in an un-pinpoint-able way, and she tears her fingers at a rusty chain - the last binding her to the floor. An elderly lady, who bears a striking resemblance to the abusive lady from before, makes her way to approach the faery, a loaf of bread and a bowl of water in her hands. The chain breaks. Zette races at her and then past, making for the door, running and running though dizzying images until they flash to a stop with a sad trill upon the image of Zette in a Frostmaw garden, the wire binding her wrists tangling her in a bush, not-too-far from a certain carnivorous plant. Zette manages to remain composed. -It exists, but it doesn't- she thinks, and she doesn't know better how to portray it, than this, the tail end of her story. Her own eyes darken as she contemplates watching it burn, but another glance to the man's face has her shuddering. A quick whimper, two notes hanging pregnant in the air. Another illusion, another question: A mini-Svilfon floats in the air, and an even-tinier Zette. The replica-wizard moves to hit the respective-fae. Over as quickly as the whimper, Zette dares another questioning glance to Svilfon's face. -Are you going to hurt me?-
Svilfon remains still while the fae brings forth her illusions; the smokey one of a couatl, followed by the more detailed images of Zette's escape from her room of suffering, followed by the scene in the Frostmaw Garden, a place which the wizard holds very dear to his heart - for it was there he was found, bloodied and broken, by the snow queen Satoshi after he almost killed himself in destroying the lichdrow's body during their battle at the Xalious Tree. As the illusionist weaves the image of a wizard moving to harm the fae, Svilfon shakes his head, before dropping down onto the snow and adopting a cross-legged position. He's too tired to keep standing, and perhaps this position will ease the worried fae... though, in truth, it makes no difference to the wizard whether he's sitting or standing, he can call upon his potent magic either way. "Listen well, lady fairy." His voice seems calm and composed, as are his pale blue eyes resting beneath the brim of his wonderous hat, which is tilted back so he can ensure he's looking at Zette's face. "If you ever intentionally harmed this city or Xalious, its inhabitants or any of my friends - including those in the Mage's Guild - I would tear you apart without a hint of remorse. But until that day happens, you have nothing to fear from me. We are in Frostmaw; I gave you food and shelter," He nods to the wolf-pelt she has wrapped around her shoulders and the few crumbs of the bread. "We are not friends, lady fae, but until an action is done by you to insult the hospitality I have given you this day, you are in essence an ally of mine. I do not destroy allies unless I am forced," He leans a shade forward then, resting his elbows on his robe-covered knees as he once again ensures he has her attention. "If you force me, I will not hesitate to kill you. But until that day comes, if ever it does, stop being so frighty. You're worse than Josleen and Ezekiel put together." The wizard grins as that image flows through his mind, robbing any perceived menace from his body. "The choice to return there is your own to make, but if ever you do, I will come with you. I dislike the harming of children and will not allow it." Which is one of the very rare things Svil cares enough to do something about, when it's not effecting Frostmaw or Xalious, the two places he calls home... even though it's a shade contradictive, considering the wizard's sure he's eaten a child or two. Whether that counts or not.. well.. that's just semantics. "And you can trust me. I am a wizard, and wizard's never lie." He nods at that, despite the fact it's a blatant lie.
Zette does indeed listen carefully, falling completely silent and staring at her own feet with an intent gaze, inching two steps closer, and then seating herself upon her blanket, pulling the wolf pelt against her body. She is so light that she hardly sinks into the snow, though she does drop a bit. The little fae would never willingly harm one in this city - not unless they harmed her, first, that is - and would be too frightened to taken on anyone, anywhere, in truth. She barely knows what a mage is, and has had neither friend nor ally in a very long time, if ever. And yet, despite all this, a look of increasing guilt crosses her face, even when Svilfon smiles. After he falls silent, she remains silent a long while. She isn't sure about the boundaries of this territory, or the one he calls Xalious, but she -has- harmed another, recently. A soft song is hummed, regret in its highest and lowest notes, and an image of Zette repeatedly kicking a small rabbit in the middle of Sage Forest, until the rabbit is barely recognizable as anything that had ever been sentient. She takes a deep breath after her song is over and turns her head a little to show three scratches upon her neck. -A rabbit scratched me, so I hurt it -. Another shuddering breath, another brave glance to Svil's face, and away again, another song, this time by flute, plaits seasons into the air. Summer-winter-summer-winter, at least a hundred times, notes becoming more and more repetitive, the only constant in any image is one of Zette, the same size, features aging in merely the minutest of ways. An admission, perhaps? Another confession? - And I do not know if I am a child --.
Svilfon cannot help but quietly laugh at the image of Zette kicking the rabbit. He ponders very briefly casting his own illusion magic, to show the many, many times Svilfon has destroyed things which have attacked him... his favourite being the skull which he gave to Tenebrae after killing someone who threatened her. It was a good ventriloquist doll. Though, the wizard is known for being jovial, he is also a merciless enemy when irritated enough. Nevertheless, as she finishes, after showing the images of time barely touching her flesh, the wizard nods and speaks again. "If something attacks you, you should kill it. Quickly, slowly, it doesn't matter. This is a harsh, cold world - there are predators and there are prey. One must ensure they rise above those who will bring them down, so none can destroy that which they love." He nods a little too vehemently at that. "As for your age..." He grins at that, too. "...you are not the only one untouched by time's passing, but a child you no longer are. Fearing the dark like one, perhaps," His look becomes crooked at those words, "But there is much that hides in shadows throughout this world." He shrugs lightly. "I would not advise freeing yourself from your fears, for perhaps they are grounded, lady fae. But I will advise you not to be controlled by them. Fear is like a fire; treated right it can keep you warm and alive, but mistreated and it'll turn into a burning inferno which devours everything. You must learn to control that which is inside you." He nods sagely at those words, before shifting his gaze to the tavern. "But for now, lady fae, I must continue with what I set out to do this day. If you get hungry, go tell the giant behind the bar in there," He motions to the tavern, "That Svilfon the wizard... err... show him, rather, that I said you are welcome in there. He will give you warmth, food and shelter for free." That said, Svil lifts his hand and tips his hat. "I will find you again soon, though, lady fae. There is much else I wish us to discuss." That said, and without further gesture, the wizard simply vanishes from in front of the Fae, leaving in his wake nothing but a large boar's leg in his wake. Left there for the fairy... it's Svil's favourite food, a final gift for the fairy... one he hopes she eats, because if she gets any smaller, she'll be blown away in a Frostmawian storm, and Svilfon is not quite finished with this illusionist yet.
Zette watches Svilfon's mouth carefully as he speaks. She has decided -- at around the same time a carniverous plant looked very much like it would like to eat her -- that she never wants to be prey again, though old habits take breaking and subsequently she has been made prey too often in this land, already, for her liking, by aggressive rabbits and drunken fools and the like. She doesn't know what love is, but she knows well survival, what it means to survive at all costs, and she'll not give up her ability to survive. Not ever, she thinks, and one hand snakes out to another wrists, to stroke a thick scar with fingers that tap out rhythmic drumbeats into the skin-and-bone underneath. If she seems disappointed that the wizard is leaving, she doesn't show it. Her face is again a blank -- at least until the man disappears entirely from the world, at which point her mouth falls open and her eyes go wide in wonder. The boar leg, left in the wake of the wizard, is eyed curiously, a guarded look thrown over each shoulder before Zette finds a stick and proceeds to prod at the meat, and the ground underneath the meat, for the next hour and a half, just to make sure that it is not some kind of trap designed to make a little fae disappear into the night, as well, sucked into the ground or else eaten by the air. When she decides that she doesn't -care- if it's a trap, that this is something that smells good and recently things that have smelled -this- good have resulted in pleasant feelings in her stomach and an end to otherwise persistant rumblings therein, then she grabs it, in two hands, drags it over to the side of the tavern, runs back for her blanket, which she had left on the ground, and curls up next to the tavern. She contemplates going inside, but buildings have bad connotations for the fae, and she doesn't trust the wizard enough, despite her newfound wolf-warmth and soon-to-be-completely-filled belly, to not believe in her heart of hearts that if she goes inside another building she will be once again trapped, once again chained. Should the wizard pass through the area some time later, he might find the fae still there (she -likes- this wall, you see, has quite decided that this is her -favorite- wall out of all the walls, ever), covered in two warmth-bringers and cuddling with a half-eaten boar's leg.