RP: OPEN POST

[archademode]

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

Comments

[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.

[archademode]

Gabranth, of course, takes this to mean she is laughing at him, and the fine lines of his brow constrict and gather in apparent irritation, his shoulders rising in an almost animalish hunch.

"What." He demands, his own meal momentarily forgotten.

[poleaxed]

She swears quietly between breaths, before rubbing at her face; that has always stopped her laughter. "Nothing, nothing, I just thought-" She shakes her head, waves the thought away physically, "the rest of the menu, and how much you'd bloody loathe it. You ain't made for this. It's fine."

[archademode]

He believes her. Apparently he must, for the defensive bristling of a hound backed into a corner disappears as quickly as it’d arisen in the first place, and in its place he feels—

Foolish, in essence. For doubting her, and for his own misread of their circumstances.

Hazel eyes drift lower, fingers flexing against the fork he keeps tucked between his knuckles. “I may be more suited than you realize.”

A mild counter, entirely toothless, and made more as a concession for his own earlier misstep.

“Try me.”

[poleaxed]

"Are you- are you serious?" She reaches out to touch, one gloved hand against a thick fabric shoulder. "Fine, but only because I could never afford one when I was little."

Just in case someone is listening, so it will sound like a silly date with an awkward man, or some kind of dare, familiarity and warmth. But a lie is always stronger with the truth; she knows what milkshakes are from advertisements, not taste.

The order is quick, the thing made quicker, and soon Gabranth has a bright pink drink in front of him, complete with two straws, cream and cherry. Jone can't stop grinning.

[archademode]

How far rests the sharpest lie from the deepest truth?

Nothing that Gabranth considers in this moment, his stare shifting between both straws as though weighing the merits between weaponry.

And then he turns one towards Jone, committing to one initial, tentative sip. Cloying on his tongue, heavier in texture and taste than he'd expected— and he makes an almost dry sound before reaching for a sip of water instead.

[poleaxed]

"That was grand," Jone says, sliding the drink toward her, "that was the best thing I've ever seen."

And then she takes her own sip, and- it's not as good as she'd always imagined. It reminds her of the ridiculous sweets of Archadia, which she'd tried once or twice out of curiosity. Yet this is less well-balanced, clearly packaged and powdered, and she can't finish it either. She doesn't gag like him, but she does take a sip of water as well, before popping the cherry in her mouth-

Which has been absolutely bloody pickled in sugar. She does gag, then, clamping her hand on her mouth and forcing herself to swallow.

[archademode]

For the first time in an eternity, he laughs.

How can he not? Who could withhold such a purely instinctive response in the wake of her reeling, the back of his hand pressed against his own mouth to bury it— though it does little good for as long as that unrestrained breath lasts. Coarse and rough, and forgotten a moment later in favor of regaining all poise.

Well, most poise.

"I must now offer you my own gratitude in turn."

It truly was grand, Jone.

[poleaxed]

"Oh, you're such a-" But she's smiling, because he's getting about as near as he gets, and it must not be painful. Going from painting to person. If he's realized he's done it at all, that is. Maybe it's better not to.

Still, she grins. "Yeah, hope you're happy. Just chuffed, I am." She pushes the drink far away from them both.

She really is happy. She tries to commit this moment entirely to memory, every gesture, every move, the lovely and rough sound of Gabranth's laughter. This will never happen again. She knows it.

[archademode]

It'll sustain, beneath skies gone dark with rueful destruction: sun set, doors shattered at their hinges like the cracked shell of an egg, no longer a bulwark against Archadia's wrath. The sound of mechanized gunfire from above is only proof of Imperial support, for the city they lay siege to was wholly unprepared to sustain a breach of swift, merciless efficiency.

His longblade drags viciously through the rib bones and leathers of some miserably ill-prepared soldier, more desperate to stall for time than prepared to endure the endless cruelties of a Judge Magister. Gabranth's helm twists, angling an eyeless stare across his pauldron towards Jone.

"The buildings," he barks, flicking his head towards the outer edges of that merchant quarter they'd brushed along earlier. "Take your vengeance."

The fires already burn, after all: all she need do is direct their flow.

"I shall hold off the rest."

[poleaxed]

All emotion can transmute into rage, given time. With Jone, it never takes much time at all. Silly laughter, memories of closeness, all fade when hackles need rising. She only needs direction, through orders or pre-plotted plans. Gabranth's voice is a lightening rod, and she stalks toward the merchant quarter with sword in hand.

In truth, no one in Videreyn has ever done Jone ill. In truth, they're just too similar to Fedlhelm for her to bear. Same language, same culture, two cities of the same nation, with the same trajectory. The promise of something utopian, crashed into the dirt by greed and mismanagement. She cannot forgive a failure.

And now they cry independence will solve their problems, as though they know how to solve anything at all.

Jone moves through the merchant quarter like the monstrous creature she has promised herself to be, in Archadia's service. She is unafraid of fire, hot as it is inside her armor. What really matters is the people fleeing. She is careful in choosing her victims. Bystanders need to bare witness, but none can escape with riches and finery. Jone cuts down merchant caravans, anything laden with goods. Heads of house fall before her. None can escape with riches intact.

She spares the children, and does not consider them threats. This is perhaps how an ugly ends up thrust into her side. Jone doesn't remember it happening, has no time to flinch. She discovers the pain later, once the Merchant Quarter is truly a ruin. Someone's petty revenge, slid between the cracks in her armor, and she hopes they saw how she did not even notice. She is dead and exhumed and feels no pain.

She leaves it in to stop the bleeding, and her silhouette becomes only more monstrous in turn, lit by flame and fear. She rejoins Gabranth, mounting an incredible defense, just in time to spot a mage crouched in darkness on the walls, readying a spell. There is no time to warn. She rushes ahead, cutting through bodies until she is at Gabranth's side, just in time for colors to flash through her vision, the spell hitting her soundly. She feels all energy and strength fading from her, breath leaving her with increasing speed.

There are worse ways to go, she thinks, as a hand in the terrible darkness pulls that knife from her. Warmth leaves her quickly, but Gabranth will be safe.

[archademode]

Weakness is unforgivable.

Humanity is inexcusable.

In the wake of their shared purpose and her own collapse, he does not rush for her— he does not catch her nor paw at her injuries— instead turning on every last living creature within eyeshot (regardless of innocence or age) and putting them to the sword for silence. For commiserate guilt in judgment, and he is merciless in its application.

Something she will not know. For when fate might next seek a restoration of consciousness beneath the hands of a dedicated healer (not even aboard their ship, where she'd been tended to for hours on end) it is in her own given bed within Archades: Gabranth— armored aside from his helm— seated nearby like a grimly cast shadow, his attention dourly fixed elsewhere.

[poleaxed]

Jone wakes suddenly and bitterly. Her eyes hurt. Her tongue is dry. Everything aches, and she knows with incredible clarity this is the most comfortable bed she's ever slept in.

Because, we'll, it's hers.

Her room in Archades is not elaborate, not ornate. It is furnished simply, everything functional, from the small kitchen to the weapons table. There are no books or padded cushions, though there are several water clocks scattered around the room in odd places. Her bed is simple-- that's all it took to impress her-- but lavish by the standard she was used to. It still feels extravagant.

And Gabranth is here, which means she lived. Shameful, but it can only add to the stories she wants told about her. Jone, that monster who refuses to die.

A capricorn can only be killed if it is both at sea and on land at the same time.

Even on a simple pillow, she manages to dip her head in the vague shape respect. Not quite close enough, but a lifetime of wounds has told her not to test her strength too early.

The only thing that matters: "The mission- a success?"

Her voice is raspy in its dryness.

[archademode]

“Keep still, fool woman.”

It isn’t said cruelly, in fact it isn’t said with any intonation whatsoever, until he jerks his face towards the doorway, his pale eyes set upon that healer— until they disappear, leaving himself and Jone in absolute privacy.

“What were you thinking.”

This time, the words are harsh. Quiet. Barely a murmur at her side when he rises to stand nearer.

[poleaxed]

Lying still in convalescence, she refuses to be backed into a corner. She has seen him sleep, and laugh, and choke on bad food. She will not be cowed now that he's well and she's not. If he wants to hurt her, she'll lose, but badly.

You can lose a fight and make it ugly enough the winner regrets it. She learned that young.

Her expression is fierce. "I asked first. What happened?"