RP: OPEN POST

[archademode]

I: pick a character
II: write a prompt or pick some visuals

Comments

[poleaxed]

Jone has lost the teeth needed for bitter words in the meanwhile. She savors the future, cutting down fat merchants who wasted the potential of states that wished to be free. The image succors her while she bides her time, making her way through clammy dungeons. There people were sold out not by Archadia, as they so feared, but by their own. Archadia's revenge-- and it is that-- on their behalf will almost be sweet.

But mostly, it will be painful.

The proffered cloak breaks Jone from her reverence. It takes her a moment longer than it ought, considering it, before she takes the thing to wrap about herself.

"Thank you," she says out of habit, though she's sure he'll answer with it is duty or some other nonsense. Maybe one day, Jone will become as she dreams, an automaton who functions only on protocol, sickened memories forgotten, disappointment displaced, until she is content only with necessity. Until then, it's all rather silly, isn't it? "I am sorry for whatever hit this causes your dignity to suffer. You will regain it; I am sure."

[archademode]

He has been endured to this for so much longer. Perhaps those dreams of hers are not impossible to grasp, but the toll of them—

"It is nothing to be worried over." He counters, dusting out his own cloak before fitting it high across his shoulders. Something similar to the drape he'd worn as a boy, though that knowledge does nothing to elicit a response in him now as he strides forward in search of lamplight so late in the evening.

Instead it is his own glance towards her that seems to be searching for something. The faintest flicker of uncertainty— or sorrow.

"How fare you?"

Here, now, in the deep shadow of their ruinous work.

[poleaxed]

Jone does her best not to sneer. Cold anger always suited her better. "I hunger for its conclusion. Not from weariness," she says quickly, sharply, turning to face him. "I want to see their faces, when their petty fears are confirmed."

Will he think that too personal? He seems a creature of detachment. Should she care at all? Probably. But her soul is a pyre, and she wishes it to burn high, so it may for once be marked and respected.

She will never be the docile child they wanted.

[archademode]

“You shall have it. Let that still your rage for now.”

It doesn’t offend him, doesn’t inspire a lack of faith or confidence in her ability to perform: whatever enmity lives white-hot within her bones is her right to possess, he of all people would argue no less.

But it must have its place.

He finds a dismal, abandoned little building at the edge of a narrow side street, rotted door falling off its hinges, open and useless. He pushes it aside, making one preliminary course through its empty expanse before deciding it’ll suit until morning.

“There is no bed nor mattress to spare.” Not even a meager frame, but disciplined as they are, he imagines they will persist the night with little trouble.

[poleaxed]

Jone nods. When they are inside, she drops her voice low, "we are hoping to find a posting with the Clucarin in the morning, if anyone asks." She doubts anyone will ask. She doubts anyone will look at Gabranth and think conversation with him is safe.

"I will take first watch."

[archademode]

He’d intended to offer his own service as first watch, and her swifter offer prompts a narrow twitching of his lip. Something imperceptible in the darkness, though he spares no lingering thought for it.

Instead he finds some miserable, cold corner to press his back into, upright in his seating, and— drawing his thin cloak around his shoulders— lets his eyes drift shut after a moment or two.

And wakes sometime just before dawn.

[poleaxed]

The watch makes her weary. She had thought she could do it all alone, but over her life she has thought she could many things, many times. The world exists to prove you wrong. That's why it has gravity.

Yet she cannot bear the thought of waking Gabranth, singularly beautiful in his sleep. He looks like a painting, one breathing slowly, face a memory of anger. She had not known what to think of him at first, and for some time, until he covered himself in darkness thus. She thinks she would die for him, now. It would uphold her oath. A thing beautiful for its impossibility, harsh in its touch; what is he, if not Archades?

Still, she's grateful when his eyes flicker awake.

"Allow me a moment's rest," she says quietly. "Five minutes, no more, and we may move on."

[archademode]

They have time to spare. Their forces lie in masked wait, small enough an automated contingent— part of Archadia's deadliest strength, its peerless fleet, its ability to strike without sight or warning— to alert no one until he gives signal. He grants her a nod as he rises, studying the depth of the hollows beneath her eyes in a quiet calculation of how much rest he imagines she'll need to perform adequately in battle.

A number he keeps to himself, once concluded.

"As you would." He says, inhaling crisp morning air against a broken sill.

And leaves her to sleep for as many hours as her body would take on its own.

[poleaxed]

Jone's sleep is not the repose Gabranth had. She twitches on the floor, jerks, always looking as though she is about to wake, but doesn't. It is all rather quiet; she learned long ago that loud sleepers were unfavored children. It lasts an hour before she kicks herself awake, blinking away confusion.

She knows she overslept. Gabranth was supposed to wake her. So this was his choice? So be it.

She stands quickly, dusting dirt from herself, she stands. "Right," she says, voice hoarse from sleep, "our armor, then the doors."

Jone can just barely see it from here, but those tall and looming fixtures are as rotted as ever.

[archademode]

He is watching her, not the horizon, when she rouses— the moment her eyes begin to twitch that attention rerouted towards streets now clotted with sunlight and distant, passing figures, none of them seemingly attentive in regards to a sunken section of housing still cast in deep shadow.

"No." He counters, lifting one gloved hand to still her eagerness.

[poleaxed]

She dips her head in deference to his seniority-- or perhaps simply his unquestionable grandness. She notices she doesn't feel embarrassed when he disagrees with her, or angry, anymore. Just calmed, knowing she's being allowed to see a better way to accomplish their goals.

Their goals. Archades' goals. Maybe she isn't so alone, anymore.

"What plan have you now?"

[archademode]

“To eat.” He says, knowing full well by now that she’ll cede to his every command, regardless of their nature. Still, he explains himself anyway, stretching out through his shoulders when he stands— inhaling once to shake off idle weariness.

“If we are to fight, I intend for us to be at our best. And I’ll hear no argument against my ruling.”

[poleaxed]

The smallest of laughs escapes her. She holds up both hands. "Wouldn't dream of it, m- sir." Her old accent sneaks through in her comfort, and she smacks it down as quickly as possible.

She searches their pack for rations, biting into some jerky. She offers him the same, jerky and pickled greens, a small skin of water.

[archademode]

The offer is far from unwelcome, prompting the slightest shift in his expression: momentarily smoothing out the harshness in sharper countenance and bearing. His lips curl, he waves off her offering in a way that’s only stern— not cruel, nor disparaging.

Her accent shift does not go unnoticed.

“We are Judge Magisters, even here.” he muses softly, perhaps with a bit of stolid humor tucked away in there. “We can do better than rations. Come.”

[poleaxed]

"I-" packed them myself, and was that wrong? Perhaps. Gabranth is a better, stronger creature than she, and her admiration for him only grows. He's not taking her under her wing, the don't do that, but he's letting her grow by example.

She, who had pushed him away at first, mocked him. Capricorns are capricious, foolish creatures. She'd meant it as a warning. Ram's horns, for stubbornness. A capricorn, for nothingness, living fully in neither land nor sea.

"Do you want me to tell you where the food stalls we can afford are, or have you scoped something out already?" Afford. But they need to look their part, landless and jobless, searching furtively for work.

[archademode]

“I’ve kept my eyes on the populace while you slept. Those whose appear to own little favor a few nearby streets in particular.”

And if he knew what was running through her mind, he would tell her she thinks too much of him: he is arrogant in his confidence, too certain of his own victories, even when caution ought make itself both his standard and shield.

But that would make him too much Basch fon Ronsenburg, and that likeness— that wretched, intolerable line— is one he has no stomach for. Not in thought, nor in practice.

“Our work is nearly finished. I doubt a single soul would take notice were we to seek out a finer venue than some ill-fared stall.”

There are too few chances, after all. To venture away from Archadia’s needs, to play the role of a man, rather than a judge.

He does not mean to tempt her, only that he is sure in his own footing now: departing from shade into sunlight, though he keeps his voice low.

[poleaxed]

Jone opens her mouth to disagree, but cannot find the words. Surely he knows better, and even if he does not, she will not make a scene from argument. She packs the food away, tossing the rations to a nearby beggar. She takes them with thanks, and she makes the Videreyn gesture for silence. Her compliance is enough.

"Let me order, at least," Jone says, walking by his side. "It's traditional."

Her smile says she might be teasing him. She isn't, but that's for him to decide. How well can he read her? She feels like an open book.

[archademode]

It is a gesture missed by Gabranth, who recognizes none of its subtlety. Jone's smile, however—

He makes a faint noise in his throat in response, masking the almost imperceptibly upturned edge of his mouth by glancing away: the door to some narrow restaurant occupying the whole of his focus instead, stooping slightly to enter its slanted frame.

He imagines Jone will have more trouble.

Once inside, the woman at the counter flashes a meager grin— one he seemingly ignores in favor of fitting himself nearer to the wall beside the entrance, a clear sign of deference to Jone’s own presence.

Go on, then. You’ve staked your claim. Tend to your traditions.

[poleaxed]

And all at once, everything is familiar, Fedlhelm never imploded upon itself, and she is ordering food to sneak back to whatever hovel she's claimed for herself this week. She is no scion of justice, she is no hope to the downtrodden, she is just as she was before everything unbalanced.

She smiles at the waitress, who has the same shade of hair as she. "Two fry ups," Jone says. Her accent is back. "Bake the veg in his. Likes it healthy, he does. Over easy. Thank you."

The waitress is polite verging on obsequious, and Jone wonders how many last legs this place is on. The entire area is starving, in its own way. The hunger strike is just a part of it.

But to Gabranth, all she says is, "forgot to ask how you like your eggs."

[archademode]

He has to feign an accent he can barely recollect: Basch’s accent, a little stiff from where memory fails him, but...sufficient, he thinks. If they are overheard, he’ll not be mistaken for a man of Archades.

“However they arrive is...” he strains somewhat, not wanting his wording to flag either of them. “that’s fine.”

Fine, yes?

His eyebrows lift when he looks to her for guidance, searching for confirmation that he plays his role accordingly— or that he does not.

“It’s nice to spend time together, beyond the bounds of...work.”

[poleaxed]

A smile splits her face, and she doesn't know why. Everything is momentarily perfect; a trusted companion sits by her side and she is safe. A balm to a lonely life. She nods, and reaches over to tap his knuckle. It's fine, it's fine.

"It is, true as sunrise." She isn't sure if he means it, or if it's just some kind of cover, but Jone assumes this is the last time she'll get to be herself, ever again. She means to mean it.

The food arrives, a breakfast platter of bacon and egg and rice and potato, leek, mushroom, cabbage. Jone immediately flips her egg over on top of the rest of the food and stabs it, letting the yolk bleed down into a sauce. She eats with a quick efficiency born beyond the border of Archadia.

[archademode]

He isn’t picky. Eating comes without study or concern, though he’s careful initially to mirror her own habits so as not to offend any cultural or regional traditions that might exist.

The rest is simple. Quiet for a time, and then not, once his hackles begin to lower and he realizes that even in a place this unattended, an abundance of silence doesn’t mean they’re being eavesdropped upon.

“It’s better than I had thought it would be.”

The food. Or maybe the city. Or maybe the company— someone so much like himself, in essence.

Hard to say, as he gives away nothing of his own between bites.

[poleaxed]

Jone smiles between bites, content with his praise. He means the food, of course. What else could he mean?

"Meant to start the day full. Story goes, you could last more'n half the day on this, need nothing else."

And in Jone's experience, it's true. She watches him while she eats, studying, knowing she'll never see this again. He's not at ease, not really, but it's like watching that painting from before trying to become a real person. He's getting close. She just hopes it isn't painful for him, like some phantom limb.

If he were in pain, she reckons, she'd never know. He'd hide it like the proudest sewer mutt.

[archademode]

“It will suit us, then.”

His mind cannot help but rush ahead, not tactical, only strategic: the kind of fundamental addition of simple facts that any military man thus elevated need consider. However their assault plays out, they’re like to be deeply embedded in it without rest until nightfall— or longer.

Yet he ought to say more, of course. That is the nature of conversation, even if its finer points elude him, traipsing from one thought to the next. Only every thought that comes to mind is one he cannot voice, a byproduct of their entire mission. Confidentiality. Or...part of a past neither of them would feel at ease discussing.

So instead he finds himself staring at her for far too long a time, blatant about it as he silently chews.

[poleaxed]

Jone looks around the diner, committing it to memory. She'll never see its like again, not like this, not at a patron. She catches Gabranth's gaze on her, and starts, face breaking into yet another awkward, twisted smile. She doesn't mind the attention. She just wishes she knew what it meant.

The urge to touch him again is there, and she knows what that normally means. Yet feeling like that about him seems profane; she puts the thought far enough away to be safe. It's clearly been a long time. That's all it is.

As means of distraction, she opens herself to the more rebellious streak she'd displayed when they'd just met. Considering the thought of buying him a milkshake, just to see what he'd do with it. The thought grows teeth, and she laugh quietly, trying to muffle it behind the knuckles of her fist.