Senkha & Oliver: An Epilogue

Senkha enters the house in complete silence. Not even her footsteps make a sound on the stairs or the floor, and the door closes noiselessly behind her. She makes her way to the kitchen and starts putting away the eggs.

Macglynn is still seated on the bottom step, head down and clutched in his hands. Chadley sits at his side, looking equal parts pained and nauseous. He's quiet as Oliver endlessly talks. "-- believed in it so much, why's she so upset by it? Weren't fer her, Ah dun' even know where Ah'd be. Dead. Ah'd be dead, or maybe Ah'd 'a let m'self fall ter my blade, maybe Ah'd-- Light, all she ever done is remind me to keep good-" Chadley raps Oliver on the shoulderplate and nods toward Senkha as she walks in.

Senkha still silently sets the eggs in place, the slight scraping of their shells against each other the only indication that she's here at all. If she's noticed the silence following her entrance, she doesn't show it.

Macglynn peers up in the direction of the sound and frowns. Chadley claps him on the shoulderplate again and stands, slowly and painfully making his way back up the stairs. The boy shakes his head to clear it. Oliver... remains where he is.

Senkha slowly and carefully sets the last of the eggs in place before closing up behind them. She turns to set the basket by the door and catches Oliver's eyes as she goes, exhales softly and closes her eyes before joining him on the stairs.
Senkha says: I just want you to be happy.

Macglynn says: Likewise. This clearly causes conflict.

Senkha says: I'm fine. I'm sorry that I reacted the way I did. I'm sorry I didn't just... just shut up and let you be happy.
Senkha says: I'm not very good at doing that, I know. Every time you've been happy, I've been so quick to rain on your parade, and that's the worst thing. I'm... I'm not very good for you at all.

Macglynn says: ... Please don't go away.
Macglynn 's voice is small, his features hidden by his gauntlets. His words come out slow, but his thoughts are racing.
I've made a mistake I can't fix. She liked me better before. I've ruined things, I've frightened her, I should've been happy to help how I could have-

Senkha closes her eyes and cringes, covering her face with her hands as well. "Stop," she says quietly. The barrier to her own thought process falls down; she's far from calm and collected.
--only a matter of time, now he's so -good- and you're so not. You're not good, you've never been, you bring out the worst in him. It's only a matter of time before he realizes it. He's not an idiot. And then he'll leave, just like everyone else, and what will you have then, Senkha?

Macglynn 's plated fingertips dig into his hair in frustration. His voice sounds about to break as he asks, "Whut's 'good' got t'do with any it all? Y'think ha' textbook 'good' y'are is whut Ah care about? -Ever- cared about?"

Senkha runs her hands through her hair, burying her face further. "This part of you--the part of you that calls on the Light--hates me for what I've done to you. The way I've fed those Scourge-borne depravities, the way I enjoyed them."
Senkha says: Every time you almost killed me because of what they did to you--it was me. It was my fault. It was my digging and pushing and need to be hurt. I made you a monster.

Macglynn says: ... Are you leaving.

Senkha says: Are you?
Senkha says: And I mean... even if you say no now, what's to stop you from leaving later? I'm so broken and fucked up and wrong, and the Light favors you so much...

"NEVER," he answers too loudly. "Why d'you think that's all that matters t'me. Why d'you think that's in any way whut Ah care about."

Senkha says: That's all -anyone- has -ever- cared about! And tell me honestly, if things were different... if you weren't undead and I'd played with your mind and pushed you into evil, would you love me?

Macglynn lifts his head and looks at her with those eerie, golden eyes, his features fallen in an absolutely defeated expression. "It ain't whut Ah care about," he weakly argues. He doesn't answer her question.
He can't even think of an answer. He cannot at all consider the outside circumstances. Would he? Maybe. Maybe not. But he does now.

Senkha sags weakly, just as defeated, as if all the life has gone out of her. "I'm not leaving," she tells him in a low voice. "I'm just so afraid that you will."

Macglynn says: Ah- Ah love you. Ah made this happen 'cause 'a you, an'- an' it was you whut brought me here. Y'made some mistakes, but -you saved me-.
If I wasn't dead by now, I'd have been consumed by my blade. Gave up. A slave.

Senkha makes a sound not at all unlike a wounded puppy. "How did I stop any of that? I -encouraged- some of it. I said you were good, but the second you had me in your arms, all I could think about was--"
You killing me. You enslaving me. Belonging to you the way you belonged to your blade.

Macglynn says: ... Y'helped me balance it. Y'helped me see ha' awful it really was, whut Ah needed to watch out fer in m'self. Y'even showed me th' Light again.

Senkha looks up, about to protest, before remembering that oh yeah, she did do that. "That's what you see, in spite of everything horrible I've done... everything horrible I am. That's what you see."

Macglynn tries looking her in the eye. "Y'can't recreate that kind 'a beauty unless it's in you, even jus' a little. But- lemme ask. All those things y'call horrible. Why'd y'do 'em?"

Senkha exhales slowly. Talk about a can of worms. She scratches her scalp for a moment, thinking. "Because I love all of you, and I wanted you to know that. Even the bad. I shouldn't have pulled it out, but I wanted you to know that nothing about you was that bad to me, that I wouldn't love you for it. But then I enjoyed you hurting me and I thought that... that maybe if you saw me as something that belonged to you, nothing would or could ever make you leave."

Macglynn says: Ah'm glad yer able t'jus' tell me all that. Senkha, Ah- Ah don't say it enough, ha' much yuh've helped me an' seen me through. Y'done some crazy things, but Ah won't lie that a part 'a me enjoyed 'em as much as a part 'a me hated 'em.
Macglynn says: An' Ah -don't- mean th' blade.
Macglynn says: But Ah don't care. An' apparently th' Light don't either, so long it's done outta love or somethin' stupid lahk that. Ah don't know.

Senkha looks at Oliver with raised eyebrows. "-You- enjoyed them? Oliver MacGlynn, not Oliver the Death Knight."

Macglynn says: Senkha, yer talkin' at me lahk Ah suddenly became a whole new person. Oliver the Death Knight is a part 'a me. It's somethin' that happened t'me. It's who Ah am.
Macglynn says: Th' whispers is gone, but Ah'm still th' same.

Senkha says: --but.
You're a paladin now. That changes so much.

Macglynn says: -- It does, but it don't give a single reason fer me to stop lovin' you.

Senkha starts to respond to this, but instead has an abrupt subject change attack. "Can you feel anything? When Stehl put his hand on Dad's bare chest, Dad felt everything. Can you feel anything?"

Macglynn stumbles. He was also about to keep talking, but now he's being questioned. He places a hand over his bony cheek and gives the smallest of nods. "J-jus' a bit. It's there, oh Light. It's there."

Senkha says: --and. And if I never did anything with your mind again, if I never gave you that illusion of life, and this was all you had. You would still love me?

Macglynn says: Senkha, please stop askin' me all these 'if' questions. If y'get th' urge to ask one, jus' assume th' answer is "yes".
Macglynn stares at her. He tries to smile.

Senkha manages something like a smile. It's weak, but it's genuine. "Alright."
Senkha says: --take off your glove.

Macglynn blinks and does as instructed. "Why?"

Senkha takes Oliver's hand. "You can feel, can't you? Sort of?" Without waiting for an answer, she places his hand on top of her hair, letting his fingers tangle there and his thumb brush against her cheek.

Macglynn smiles, curling his fingers in and feeling her hair between them. He laughs, even- a quick, short, almost sad laugh. "Thank y'fer stickin' with me," he says as he leans forward to rest his forehead against hers.

Senkha closes her eyes and removes her own glove to place her hand against Oliver's right cheek: warm, calloused along the palms, but beautiful. "Right back at you." She leans forward to brush her lips against his ever-so-gently.

Macglynn ups the energy a bit, returning the kiss with a smile. There's a calm about his mind; one that's never been there in all her time knowing him.
I have everything I want.

The Nightmare

The early-morning silence of the MacGlynns' Surwich home was shattered as Oliver threw the door open, wide-eyed, with a manic grin spread across his face. Almost dazedly he stumbled into the home, his blade clutched in his arms like a child. The runes glowed with the same excited energy as his eyes, lichfire flickering up from the blade and around his gauntlets. He was drenched in a combination of blood both demonic and his own, a black trail left in the doorway and entry hall as he staggered his way toward his chair.

He cared little for the noise he made, his mind still locked in the euphoria of suffering, and as he sank into his chair, his arms wrapped around his blade and he allowed the lichfire to surround him. The new tears in his flesh bubbled shut, and a foul noise and even fouler smell rose from it.

It had been a good night.

Senkha could never really sleep when Oliver was feeding his blade. Or, to be more accurate, she could sleep, but her dreams couldn't block out the euphoria of the kill, and the feelings of elation translating to a dance in her mind. Though Oliver killed demons in the nearby woods, Senkha dreamed of other things--death and destruction at her hands, not necessarily of those who deserved it or of those whose blood she would be happy to see staining her hands. When this happened, sleep frustrated Senkha beyond belief, and she'd often wake up in a cold sweat after forgetting to breathe, fighting and embracing the euphoria in the same moment.

So she welcomed her husband's noisiness and didn't even bother to dress properly when she came downstairs, looking like she'd slept very little, but at least not covered in bug bites like she had been. The navy blue string remained around her finger from several days before, unmentioned but still hanging tight. She barely grunted at Oliver as she stumbled to the kitchen and started shuffling around for tea.

So in all, it was just another morning.

Oliver barely acknowledged her as she descended the stairs, still reveling in that rush of combat. The blue flames licking about his body intensified as the sword grew empowered- it had devoured many souls that night, and its magic burned them into his own life.

His chair gave a groan as he rose suddenly, the trailing flames dying behind him into nothing but the usual flicker in his eyes as he stomped into the kitchen. He put a hand to his wife's shoulder, nudging her off to the side and out of his way as he reached for the nearest rag he could find. As soon as it was in his grip, he turned and tromped back to the chair. He landed heavily down into it, and immediately began to wipe down the layers of demon blood already coagulating on the metal. His blade took first priority, always. His own state of cleanliness and repair was unimportant.

After sitting down, he grunted a distracted, "Mornin'."

Senkha watched the process with a sort of bored fascination, the kind that comes when your eyes are too bleary to completely focus (and so there were three Olivers and three runeblades). She was barely sipping at her tea, either, bitterly and unwantedly feeling the same concern for the runeblade that her husband felt. It was free of cracks, of dents or dings, and that was one less worry for either of them that morning. Still, it occupied her mind enough that the tea remained woefully neglected until it was lukewarm and far stronger than she would've liked, one way or the other.

"Good night?" she asked by way of response, even though it really wasn't a question that needed asking. And in any case, the thread caught her eye again and she started fiddling with it while waiting for Oliver to respond.

Oliver grunted again- almost a laugh- and it was his only response. The manic smile had left his face with the burst of lichfire, replaced by a softer, almost loving one as he dug the dry, congealed blood out of the blade's grooves.

"Was. " He turned the blade over so he could work on the opposite side. "Yer thinkin'," he said, giving a brief glance up at her hands. "'Bout whut."

"Getting a tattoo," Senkha responded, turning her hand over to look at her palm and run the fingers of her opposite hand over the callouses there. "So that I can take this string off." As per usual, she didn't continue in this train of thought or really expand it beyond that besides adding. "Well... two tattoos, actually."

Oliver's cleaning took a brief pause at her statement, though he resumed the moment her words processed in his mind. "Ah know 'bout yer finger thing. Y'think about it a lot. Y'do whut y'want, there, though if y'ask me it'll raise too many questions from others. Y'really wanna explain that ev'ry-" he allowed himself to fall off into silence, carefully running the rag along the blade's edge.

"Whut's th' second one," he asked.

"All I'd have to explain to them is that it's a reminder to me to think before I act. Not much more to it than that; I needn't go into detail." Senkha gave Oliver a soft smile, waking up some from the lukewarm tea. "And even if I did, most people would be bored after about the third sentence and wander away to do something more interesting. Like watch paint dry."

At the second question, Senkha paused and stood, lifting the hem of her nightdress until her lower back was exposed--and along with it, the Cult of the Forgotten's symbol. "I want to do something to hide this."

"Could burn it off," Oliver muttered. He held the blade out so that it rested on its point, and he turned it around, giving it an inspection for remaining grime. It seemed to be free, and with that satisfaction, he leaned back to prop it against the wall at his side.

He turned to look at Senkha, free of his obligations to the blade, and gave a smile. Blight had trailed and crusted down from his eyes, mouth and nose to his chin, and strewn bits of demon still clung to him in several places. The chair and the carpet beneath him were... probably no longer suitable for human contact.

"Well anyway, Ah still think tattoin' words on yerself's a weird ahdea, but y'go fer it. Any ahdea whut yuh'd wanna have t'hide that?"

"Why's it a weird idea?" Senkha asked, half looking at Oliver over her shoulder, nightdress still pulled up to her lower back. "You've a tattoo yourself, commemorating your ordination. I just want to commemorate attempting to turn over a new leaf!"

"...again." Senkha dropped her nightdress and sighed heavily, sitting down again and almost dropping her face into her tea. "Oliver, why am I retarded?"

Oliver contemplated this, and eventually came up with an answer. "Ah think it's weird ta put words on yerself," he stated amtter-of-factly. But he gave a shrug after, continuing to say, "But Ah can't really say nuthin'. If y'think it'll help y'be less 'retarded', as y'put it, who'd Ah be ta ridicule it?"

"An'' fer th' record, y'ain't retarded. It's called bein' alahv, an' all livin' is is makin' one mistake after another. Name one person that ain't a retard."

Senkha shrugged, wiggling her index finger at Oliver to show off the blue thread again. "I think I'm just dumb enough that I might need that reminder," she pointed out with a sad smile. "I mean, half the time, the dumb shit I do is because I forget to think, you know? And then you or Dad or Marius find out about it and I get the 'I am very disappointed in you' face at the least or make one of you cry or break or..." She shrugged again and drained the last of her tea.

"Well, I mean, when you put it that way. I just seem to fuck up more frequently and to more fanfare than most." Senkha gave Oliver a wry grin, setting her teacup back down. "I mean, it almost feels one missed step of mine means Azeroth gets plunged into eternal darkness sometimes, you know?"

Leaning back in his grimy chair, Oliver gave a soft chuckle. "Well, a'rite, y'got me on that one. Ah dunno why th' world seems t' care so much about whut you do- heck, whut th' both 'a us does- when all th' rest is able t'make mistakes, learn from 'em, an' keep on livin'."

Oliver shrugged a shoulder, further making himself comfortable by crossing one leg over the other and letting his arms fold across his chest. To his side, his satiated blade still pulsed with an excited light, the entire corner illuminated despite the candles being unlit. He reached out and turned it a little, the light better on his wife.

"Ah dunno whut makes y'so special in that way. 'Cause yer mistakes, they ain't nuthin' world-shatterin'. Folk jus' seem ta treat 'em that way."

Senkha nodded and, for no reason in particular, stood and turned her chair around so that she could rest her forearms on the back of it and still look at Oliver. The runelight flashed particularly brightly against her cheek, against the curved, silvery mark that looked as if it had been carved from her flesh by sharp teeth. "It honestly almost feels like I'm on display sometimes," she admitted, sounding more amused than anything else. "Step right up, ladies and gentlemen! See the great and idiotic Senkha MacGlynn fuck up spectacularly! Only thirty silver!"

After a beat, she added, "That's kind of why, too... why I whip myself. Or did. It's easy enough to shrug off mistakes and stupidity when they're just mistakes and stupidity that are yours, but when the world is looking at you, it feels like merely saying 'I'm sorry' isn't anywhere near good enough."

Oliver let out a soft chuckle. "'Cept that's th' thing folk say's th' most retarded of all."

He allowed silence to take him for a moment, eventually continuing, "It's possible we ain't allowed ta fuck up by nobody because us fuckin' up really is a danger. We ain't exactly a normal couple 'a people. Me in perticular. Lahk walkin' a rope; ain't no room fer a wrong step."

Senkha smiled wryly and vaguely picked at a piece of wood on the back of the chair. "Don't I know it. I think that's why I'm retarded: I just can't understand, if people get so upset when I fuck up, why I'm not allowed to punish myself for it or make myself suffer for it." The smile faded into a frown. "No, I mean. I understand that. I just... if they're allowed to punish me for idiocy, why can't I punish myself?"

At Oliver's words, she nodded with a heavy sigh, conceding. "It's true. If we fuck up, probably the entire world dies." Sometimes, I wish we could, just to see if that would really happen...

With an amused snort, Oliver again reached out for his blade. The runelight moved with it, casting strange shadows across the house, and stranger ones yet as he began to spin it on its point at his side. "Fuck th' world, Ah'm jus' talkin' about us. Whut's a normal couple gotta deal with? Kids? Who's turn it is ta do th' laundry? Ha' late th' husband's been out drinkin'? Water unner th' bridge, all it. We fuck up, an' it's yer lahf an' soul at stake."

He ceased the blade's twisting and lowered it so it half-crossed his lap. "Folk got their eyes on me at all tahms, jus' waitin' fer me ta slip up an' ruin you."

Senkha tilted the chair forward so that it leaned precariously on two legs, balancing only because she kept her feet planted firmly on the ground. "See, I half hear it the opposite way. I feel like the world worries about me bringing you down, as I'm an obviously depraved and wanton young thief and you're a noble and upstanding former paladin with a strand of bad luck." She shrugged and rocked the chair a few times. "Sometimes, I wonder if the world wants us to be together so badly that they want us to leave each other alone."

"...which isn't going to happen, by the way," she added quickly after a moment's pause. The constant reassurance wasn't something she needed to do, but it was a bit like spitting when you accidentally said the name of someone you didn't want to see--clearing the bad luck from the air.
Oliver lofted a brow and a smile found its way onto his face again. "They really tell y'that? Light above, it's as if they dun' even look at me."

He ran a hand over the flat of the blade across his lap, lichfire curling up from the runes around his hand at his touch. "Ah ain't a paladin. Ah don't know why Ah still carry this book, even," he said, glancing down at the moldy, blight-eaten old libram chained at his side. "Ah follow th' Light best Ah can, an' Ah ain't stopped tryin'a keep to th'tenets, but they took more'n jus' m'lahf away from me."

His hand lifted away from the sword, and the light dulled again. His eyes were fixed on the runes. "Ah ain't a paladin," he repeats. "Ah'm a Knight 'a th' Ebon Blade, an' Ah'm ev'rythin' whut comes with bein' that."

"You're whatever you choose to be," Senkha answered dully, and even coming from her as an attempt at encouragement, it sounded more like words printed on paper than spoken. "At least you try. I... I can't even say, really, that I do that anymore." She leaned back and let the chair rest on all four legs again, now arching her back and looking at the ceiling. Were she wearing less clothing, it would almost be vulgar. "I feel like I lost something of myself in Ahn'Qiraj. Like... like part of me's been licked hollow. I felt that way after Mystadon as well, but then I had you to distract me. Now it's just..."

She frowned, still staring at the ceiling. "Not that you aren't a distraction, but having to face that emptiness again and try to deal with it... Light, it's a worse hell than what initially happened."

Oliver smirked at her feeble attempt at encouragement, and shook his head. "Got done kiddin' m'self. Ah stick ta whut's right jus' by virtue 'a it bein' right, but Ah also can't pertend nuthin'. Ah don't try t'be anythin' no more." A brief pause, and he admitted with another chuckle, "... Not since you."

The air above Senkha shimmered, the moisture gathering and bursting into a tiny rain of snow onto her upturned face. Oliver's hand lowered, the calm smile having not yet left his disgusting features. "Tell me whut Ah kin do that'll help y'deal with it. Anythin'. If'n at all there is anythin'."

Senkha's frown deepened slightly. "...I hope I didn't take any hope away from you," she said, albeit sadly. "I don't want you to ever stop believing that you're a good man. You are a good man, Oliver, no matter what sustains you and no matter what you enjoy. You have a good heart, and those other things are things you can't help." She sounded as convinced of it as always, mostly because she really did believe it.

At the snow, Senkha smiled and opened her mouth to catch snowflakes on her tongue. This gave her a good excuse to be quiet and think about Oliver's question until she had a decent answer. And she really did intend to answer when she spoke, but instead, she asked, "What would happen if those runes really were carved on my back?"

Oliver watched her silently and patiently as she caught the snow, his smile fading to a more neutral expression. The snow too faded, the last few flakes catching in her hair as she questioned him.

He again ran his hand over the blade, and the runes again reacted with tiny flares of blue. "Th' blade runes," he muttered. "These runes is unique t'me, to this blade. Each rune repersents somethin' whut makes it work, an' t'gether they spell its name." His hand followed the runes down the blade. "Angravar. Death, vigor, enslavement. If another blade took this name, it'd act as a extension 'a it. Ah don't rightly know whut it'd do to a person."

"I didn't know that was your blade's name," Senkha remarked by way of giving the subject a little bit of rest. Only a little bit, though, before she was back on topic again. "Do you think the blade would enslave me? Or would it merely corrupt me and then I would enslave you? Or would I just be...?" She frowned and let the questions trail off. "I know you don't know. I'm just... thinking out loud."

As if he needed clarification, she adds, "The reason I ask is because I think those runes would be a nice way to cover up the marks on my back. Kind of like getting your name tattooed on me, but different. More permanent." More real.

"Ah don't rightly know," he repeated in agreement, his gaze still fixated on the runes. "If these was on yer daggers, it'd take you's its own an' thrive from yer kills. It wouldn' be th' same as me- yer soul'd be yer own, still safe in yer heart an' not tore at an' threatened ta disappear if y'don't kill. But lahk all magic, 'specially dark magic, yuh'd never wanna put 'em down.

On you, though. These isn't meant fer people. It's possible you yerself could be a extension, not jus' yer blades. Or it could jus' kill you, since a livin' body ain't meant ta share energy lahk that."

He looked up at her and gave an honest shrug, and his smile returned, if only slightly. "Th' thing about runes is they gotta be empowered. If'n they was scratched inna you, they'd not mean nuthin' more'n jus' mah name. But then Light help if y'was t'git on a runemaster's bad sahd."

Senkha's hand fell reflexively to her hips at the mention of her daggers. Of course, they weren't there, what with it being so early in the morning and everything, but her hands went to where they usually sat regardless. "Would my daggers feed your blade?" she wondered softly, drumming her fingers against her hips in their usual reflexive motion. "I mean... I could kill without necromancy. Unless the actual feeding of the blade itself is the necromancy."

Another sigh. Senkha wrapped her arms back around the back of the chair and smiled over at Oliver. "Do we even know any runemasters whose bad side I can get on?"

Oliver hefted the blade up again so that it was now on the opposite side of his chair, between Senkha and himself, as if displaying it to her. "That's th' funny thing about us. We's always on somebody's bad sahd without ever meanin' ta be."

He studied her illuminated face for a moment, continuing on to say, "By empowerin' me through it, yes, it's nekermancy. Th' magic itself is unholy. Ah don't gotta look no deeper'n yer facial expression ta know whut's on yer mahnd, Senkha." He used his blade as leverage to push himself forward, and he leaned in closer. He didn't need to look any deeper, but he did anyway.

Just how much about me are you willing to learn?

"You'd think an undead man and his wife could exist peacefully," Senkha commented dryly, leaning forward against the back of her chair as Oliver leaned in towards her. Once again, the front legs lifted off the floor, so she was more squatting than sitting, but it didn't seem to bother her much.

And it didn't bother her much either that he was looking deeper; she always encouraged him to do just that, and Light knew she looked deep enough herself, usually deeper than he was comfortable with. You know the answer to that is always everything.

Oliver's back straightened as he leaned away from Senkha again. His gaze was fixed and level on her runelit face, the neutrality of his expression broken only by a single twitch of his brows.

"... Outta yer chair. Take yer shirt off. Come over here t'me."

Senkha blinked a few times but didn't argue. She stood slowly and removed her robe and nightshirt, standing bare chested and bare backed before Oliver, far more comfortable doing so with him than she had been several weeks before with Aradelle. After all, he knew her scars.

"...are you going to do it now?" she asked, sounding more surprised than anything.

Her back displayed plainly in front of him, Oliver stood. A blight-encrusted arm wrapped around her middle, pulling her close, and a cold hand rested against the small of her back, just over the heathen symbol etched into her skin.

"Ah'm clearin' room," he whispered.

Beneath his hand, her skin began to crawl. It spread from his palm outward, at first more a dull tingle than anything. The numbness was replaced by discomfort, and quickly grew into an agonizing burn. His grip around her middle tightened to keep her standing as her branded flesh began to redden and bubble.

"Clearing...?" Senkha didn't finish the question before the tingling began and, before too long, found herself unable to think of anything but the burning of her flesh. For several minutes, she managed to stand quietly and carefully, but even with her tolerance for pain, it was too much. Her legs gave out and she staggered, first growling and then screaming and sobbing in pain. She managed to fight back the instinct to tear at him, to pull his arm away and fight him off, but her hands still grasped at his arm around her waist as if doing so would deaden the pain.

The process didn't take much longer than several minutes. Under his glove her flesh blistered, boiled, cracked, and melted back into itself, and Oliver himself was unable to contain an ever-widening grin.

He reveled in her struggle. His arm around her tightened as she dug at it, securing her against him in a reminder that even if she were to give in to instinct, he was simply the more powerful of the two. His head rested on her shoulder, his face held close to hers, and it was indistinguishable if this attempt at comfort was genuine or chastising.

The blood cast did not end gradually. He tore his hand away and the boiling came to a sudden stop, the pain of the burns and blisters all that was left. Where once her flesh had been marred by the Forgotten brand, there was now only a twisted, red, raw patch of skin.

His arm remained around her, assuring she wouldn't fall, and before even speaking to her he couldn't help but look down at his work. His grin softened into a prideful smile.

Even if his closeness to her was more chastising than comforting, even if he was delighting in the agony he caused her, the thought of really struggling or putting up any sort of a fight against Oliver never once crossed Senkha's mind. Part of him, she understood, genuinely wanted to help her with this void and emptiness that her time with the Cult had created.

And the other part just loved hearing her scream and seeing her skin twist and boil under his touch. And how much more twisted it was that another part of him was probably excited by the fact that she'd already decided to pay him back for this in kind later.

But now her hands shook and as the pain disappeared, her screams gradually turned into sobs, and even those became nothing but shudders and sighs after a while. Senkha rested her head back against Oliver's shoulder as if he'd just given her a long, soothing massage instead of searing away the skin on her lower back. She even kissed him on the cheek, almost sensually.

"You used to deny this p-part of yourself."

Oliver lowered himself back into the chair, his arm still curled around her raw and half-naked body and so bringing her with him onto his lap. As they sank down together, he looked up from the beautiful new scar and again rested his chin on her shoulder.

Senkha was right. The smile on his face reflected nothing but love for what he'd done. The past months brought with them a steady decay of willpower, a blatant disregard for his virtues, and a continually deeper lust for giving in to what the Scourge had made of him. His rotten lips pressed cold against her jawline after he considered this.

Maybe you did bring the noble paladin down.

The shifting of positions didn't help much with the pain, and Senkha winced as they sat down, eyes screwing closed in an attempt to keep her pained noises behind her teeth. It didn't work very well after Oliver's words, and she gave a soft groan, covering her face with both hands. "I never meant to do that," she whispered hoarsely, shaking her head. "I love every part of you, but I didn't want to bring you down into the darkness with me."

The thoughts jumbled in her mind, and she didn't bother trying to hide them. Was it me? Did I do this? What if this doesn't stay in our house? What have I done?

Senkha was right in another regard- there were many parts to Oliver. One of them clung desperate and afraid to the paladin: a man of rectitude, faith, and honor. With his body a blighted horror, and his mind a shattered mess, Oliver found comfort in hanging on to that part of himself. The paladin held the darkness with contempt and strove to illuminate it with his Light, and cursed her for her curiosity.

The Death Knight held her in his arms and gave in to the darkness, damnation far past some kind of negative consequence and more just an accepted inevitability. They were both sick, twisted individuals- she through a life of trial, and he through the Scourge's games. But it didn't matter how it happened. The end result was the same.

The thoughts crossing from Oliver's mind to Senkha's were tinged with equal parts shame and acceptance, love and hate.

You dig deeper and deeper, lighting little fires as you go. What did you expect would happen once you'd illuminated everything?

"But surely you knew all of this about yourself before I started digging!" Senkha protested. Somehow, there was still some comfort for her in speaking out loud. "It's why you haze over your thoughts whenever you start to think more darkly than you'd like to, and it's why you were hesitant about this in the first place. I can't believe that just because I know everything about you, you've decided it's not worth it to even try anymore."

The trouble was, of course, that Senkha--like most people--had no real two sides to her personality. Even Itzhal, the Guardian, was just her emotion concentrated, not a real severence from who she was. She may have had tempers, she may have had moods, but at the end of the day, Oliver had been right to say that things like Virh and Itzhal weren't really different people...just part of the mind not often indulged.

And with that knowledge, the question Senkha sought to ask in probing so deeply was if Oliver--if she--could do horrific things and still be a good person. Could the paladin and the death knight coexist?

When she spoke again, it was in a defeated voice. "I only wanted you to see that doing horrible things against your will or because you need to do them to live doesn't make you a bad person." I only wanted to fix you.

"Fix me?" Oliver repeated aloud, followed by a low and gravelly laugh.

A child knows the world is full of toys, but he doesn't cry for them unless they're held in front of him.

Reminders. Memories. Encouragement. OBSESSION.

His grip around her tightened, pressing her raw and blistered back against his blight-drenched tabard. His thoughts flicked to Virh, and the excitement and obsession Senkha felt when that deep, disgusting part of him made itself known. Virh wasn't real, but what the Scourge did was, and Virh was the part of him that loved it all.

Embracing Virh was embracing the Scourge. And she slowly took away his shame.

The blight on Oliver's tabard only burned the new scar more severely, hissing and popping against her skin and causing Senkha to whimper with a pain that cut far deeper than the scars ever could. It weighed more than anything else she'd done, and it beat over and over in her head, that relentless drumming: You destroy everything you love.

She couldn't speak, she couldn't think, she could barely even breathe. No screech of metal on metal was necessary to bring her thoughts into as deeply broken of a place as they were. You destroy everthing you love. Monster. MONSTER. You set out to prove them all wrong and you failed. FAILURE. You don't deserve him. You don't deserve any of it. You don't deserve any better than them.

She became dead weight in Oliver's arms, only upright because he forced her to be. She wasn't aware, really, that she was shaking. Or sobbing. Or screaming.

Oliver took her by the chin and lifted her head, forcing her face nearer to his. He kissed her cheek as she sobbed; the way he held her was almost like he was cradling her.

Senkha, you're crying.

For a brief moment, Senkha was leaning forward in her chair again, smiling at Oliver. You know the answer to that is always everything.

Everything.

They then stood together in the Stormwind Harbor, overlooking the water as the sun sank below it. Something about them seemed fresher, innocent, even as Oliver turned to her and his lichfire eyes flared to a sickening black, and blight trailed from his sockets.

Senkha was staunch in her decision. "I know what I'm getting into."

Everything.

She was back in his cold arms, trembling bare and raw against his plague-ridden tabard, with his black disgusting lips pressed lovingly against her cheek.

Everything.

Senkha hadn't known what she was getting into, that much was apparent, though it wasn't as much this darkness of Oliver's that shocked her as much as her own unwitting creation of the monster that held her. She'd known, at least in a sense, of the darkness that a freed agent of the Lich King would always carry...anyone from Lordaeron would know as much.

But she had no idea how dark her own heart could be.

Everything. Oliver wasn't wrong. She had asked for everything and that was what she'd received. She'd torn down what was good about him and pulled forward all that was evil about him, and now she shouldn't have wondered at her creation.

Perhaps because of this realization, it only took her a few moments longer to stop sobbing and to calm down. "Do you love me," she asked hoarsely, her voice breaking and crumbling into something more like gravel. "And is this what you want?"

"Ah love you so much," he responded with his lips still against her cheek. "Ah don't know whut yer so afraid 'a."

His grip around her lessened as she calmed and regained capability of holding herself up, though he didn't entirely let go. His arm fell to rest more around her waist. "You kept me here. Y'brought me love inta a dark, lonely, terrifyin' existence. You make me happier'n anythin' in th' world."

His chin rested down against her shoulder again. "Ah want whutever you'd allow 'a me," he says contently.

"I'm not your master," Senkha murmured, and from the way her body shifted under his touch, it almost seemed like the opposite was true. "It's not about what I'll allow you and what I won't allow you. It's about what you want. What do you want, Oliver? Whatever it is that you want, it's yours."

For the first time in a very long time, Senkha meant this honestly. It wasn't just her saying "anything but THING X" or a list of stipulations. If he told her he wanted her dead on the floor, it would happen. Her entire posture and demeanor reeked of defeat.

Oliver's eyes grew wide at the suggestion.

Whatever it is that you want.

The chair crashed onto its side, and Senkha was thrown to the floor. Oliver rose above her, eying her in an almost predatory manner. One last flicker of regret marked a severance of their bond, and he took his blade by the hilt. The runes flared and he struck.

The only regret Senkha felt, watching the blade arc above her, was that their bond was gone. That she would die without being one with Oliver.

But she deserved this. Everything seemed to slow down, and for the only time since she'd met Oliver MacGlynn, Senkha did nothing to prevent her own death.

Death.

It was unlike the sick, psychotic little fantasies they lived out in their minds. There was no love, no sensuality, no tenderness about it. His blade pierced her lower back, sinking easily into her boiled skin until its double-point touched the floor below her. He took a moment to delight in her reaction before ripping out the blade, and as the wound began to well up with blood, blighted pustules rose from her skin around it. They burst, reformed, and spread up her back and body, leaving nothing but putrefied, gaping wounds behind.

Oliver watched gleefully as she rotted and writhed at his feet, making little slashes of his blade at her darkening skin. As the plague reached her throat and her screams turned to hoarse, tiny shrieks, her life began to slip away. It wasn't out of pity, but out of boredom that he gave the final strike to her temple, dashing blood and grey matter across the floor.

Vigor.

Shaking, grinning, Oliver held the blade above her broken body. It was an easy kill, but he looked every part victorious.

A silvery ribbon of light rose from Senkha's body like smoke. It twisted around the blade, danced with the lichfire, and disappeared into the runes. It belonged to his blade now, and the soul of Senkha MacGlynn broke and dispersed into the pulsing energy of the unholy weapon.

Enslavement.

The Death Knight gave a triumphant scream as he stood over the body. His sword arm thrashed out with excess energy, and the blade crashed into the nearby desk. The wood splintered and its contents strewed across the blood-soaked floor. He gave in to the mindless destruction, brandishing his sword about, slashing and breaking and shattering all that he could.

Lichfire blazed from his eyes and mouth, curling and licking about his face and leaving strange reflections on the blight spilling from his pores. He left the house destroyed. Blood and black sprayed across the walls, the furniture laid in pieces, and their belongings laid scattered and broken across the floor. Senkha's journal had fallen to her side, and in a fitting final entry, its pages grew saturated and dark with her blood.

It was the morning light through the window that brought him to a righter state of mind, if "right" was even the proper term for it.

She was dead. She was dead. She was dead.

He dropped to her side and took her blighted corpse into his arms. He shook it, as a child would to wake somebody up, but he knew it was foolish. He knew what he'd done. He knew what he could do.

He rolled her body over and his hand grasped into the mess desperately until he found a letter opener. He held it above her pustuled, putrefied back for a long time with a stony expression on his features. His grip tightened and his hand began to tremble. He'd taken her. She was gone. The dull knife fell from his hand and he backed away, looking out the window.

What will you do, Oliver?

For the first time even since his death, Oliver was truly alone. He'd chosen the monster, and now his wife was gone. This was not something that could be his own secret; he knew he'd face the wrath of everybody that loved her- everybody that had loved him. Not that he'd even be able to lie about such a thing.

He came to a full emotional halt, taking another step away from the body, staring at it like some foreign thing he wasn't familiar with. He was afraid. Afraid for himself, afraid for what his future held. To confess would mean execution, and beyond that an eternity of suffering. Taking his own life would simply hasten this fate.

He did not want to die. He could not die.

Oliver took up his blade and fled the house, her body left behind. Many cared for her. Someone would find it soon. They would know what happened. He found himself at the ocean shore, staring out over the water. Too many people knew his face. There was nowhere he could run. He couldn't die, but he'd lost all chances at living.

He found himself ankle-deep in the water, the tiny waves breaking around his boots.

He needed to be alone. Alone to hide, and alone so this would never happen again.

He couldn't help but think about how he always hated water as he secured Angravar to his back and trudged out into the sea, his head disappearing beneath the waves.

Good riddance, I say.

Cinnamon & Liotuse: July 2

Cinnamon isn’t really one used to having men in her bed, for love or any other reason. She’s only just gotten used to having an empty apartment for the first time since leaving Gilneas, and then suddenly, from nowhere, a bleeding Lio. Leo? Lio? Did it matter? To be sure, she feels like something of a creepy character from a creepier novel, keeping him in her apartment when nobody else knows where he is, but he said last night that he’d be gone by this morning, and Cinna wants to believe him.

So when she comes home after a long day’s work at the library, she fully expects the apartment to be empty, not even bothering to look at the bed. Her staff and bag clatter to the floor, mindless of any noisiness, and she even lets her hair down around her shoulders, massaging her neck. With any luck, Lio will have gone to the Square and she can check on him, make sure that his wounds haven’t reopened or anything.

Her luck was bad and she’ll most likely feel bad. Liotuse was in fact not in the Square nor was he even out of the house. But at one point it seems he accomplished getting out of the house to collect some things. There were two sets of clothes present now, one being on him. A plain white shirt and clean shorts. Maybe not much of a set, considering the two pairs of pants were instead folded and neatly placed at the foot of the bed amongst other garments.

The other important prize being a moderately sized dumbbell, stone weights set on it. It was in his left hand, burning through reps at a set pace but nothing too lazy. The right of course, arm still being damaged to a point, was neatly settled on his lap with a book in hand. All in all, Lio looked incredibly comfortable sitting next to the bed, back pressed against the wall with his legs stretched out. The bed? No bloody sheets in sight, fresh bedding set down and tightly. Military style.

Cinna doesn’t even notice Liotuse at first, still setting her things down. It’s not until she’s moved to start undoing her trousers that she turns around and sees her patient still sitting there and using a dumbbell and reading one of her books like he lives there or is a boyfriend or something. She can’t really help herself and lets out a shriek, jumping back and grabbing a coat from near the doorway to cover herself, as if she’s actually not wearing clothing.

“You’re... still here,” she observes after a moment, still hiding, half behind the coat and half behind a long, multicolored scarf. What in the Light’s name is up with this girl’s apartment? Between the ten million books, the dark wood, the coats and scarves, the tiny windows, the teapots, it has to be the strangest dwelling in all of Stormwind.

He makes a loud swear and winds up dropping the dumbbell onto his thigh. Thankfully not on the inside of it or else the bruise that’s sure to show up would be a little scarier to deal with. Liotuse is amazingly quick in removing it and setting aside with a loud thunk as he springs to his feet. Still unsteady as hell from yesterday’s events though, he’s not as hasty as could be with it and wobbles as he raises his left hand and the book in it.

“Sorry! Sorry. Yeah. I didn’t... mean. You know.” No elaboration. She might not know. He turns his torso some to toss the book back onto the bed. It was a ‘romantic’ sort of novel. ‘Romantic’. Lio doesn’t seem too bothered in reading it. More out of possible hilarity instead of actually getting into it. Nothing to say for it downstairs too with no manly protrusion to horrify her.

Cinna tries to regain some sense of composure, but this isn’t very easy, not when he’s still here and that was the opposite of what she expected. Her glasses continue to slide progressively further down her nose, threatening to fall right off, but she ignores them in favor of holding that multicolored scarf over most of her face. It’s kind of like an invisibility potion, right? Just...more colorful?

“You, um. You’ve been out and about at least,” she offers as a sort of truce with the awkwardness, nodding at the pants over on the foot of the bed. And the made bed. What the hell is with this strange man in her apartment and all his pants. “And you’re looking... I mean, your color’s looking much better, so I’d assume you’re, um. Feelin’ better?” Not that he can see it, but the inner kicking of Cinna’s is at an epic level right now.

His bottom lip is taken between his teeth, sucking in a small breath as he squints at somewhere above Cinna. “Enough to be more talkative and roll out of the... your bed.” Left hand flapping backwards to indicate it, still talking as he moves to the foot to collect a pair of pants and actually do a better job of covering his lower half. “I did go out. Blacked out once. My body’s still not cooperating a bit.”

A beautiful demonstration is given as he favors the left hand a majority more. Still, some progress can be seen even just for the night and day in terms of a recovery. Mostly being able to curl his fingers and grasp things. Like the rich, appealing fabric of his pants as the leggings were slowly drawn up to cloak those blazing hot limbs. Toned, trim tanned muscle. Could crush a melon between them, obviously.

“No, no! I mean...” Cinna lets the scarf drop, finally, revealing bright pink cheeks, more at her own awkwardness than anything else. She also finally pushes her glasses up on her nose, hazel eyes now magnified by thick lenses. “Well, you’re the one who’s hurt, so it’s only fair that if you’re going to stay here, you might as well sleep there. In the bed, I mean. Not on the chair. Unless that’s more comfortable.” She shuffles forward to try and actually make it seem like she’s coming in to her own home, but she also manages to bump her knee against several pieces of furniture as she goes, eliciting more than a few “bother”s along the way.

“And more to the point...” Cinna doesn’t quite look at those blazing hot limbs as she finally settles herself near the pillow of the bed. “Does anyone know you’re here? I... I don’t want your harem or a brigade of Cathedral Square lackeys to come arresting me for kidnappin’ you.”

A tug of his sleeves to hike and bunch them up on his biceps, a fold of his arms followed swiftly by leaning on half the wall and half a pile of books. Then he’s clear to relax somewhat, closing his eyes as if ready to nap there. “No, no. I’m... I know people are going to be concerned. Not to the point of a witch hunt. But. It’s better this way. For one.” Liotuse’sleft hand is used as an abacus, counting on it. “I know if I tell anyone what happened. They’ll go off to deal with it. Then get horribly would-be slaughtered like I was supposed to be.”

A small sigh at that. His big tell, if he were playing cards, that he cares more about his friends than himself. Selfless, an actual paladin trait he has. “Two. Letters could be intercepted. Tracked back probably. Then there’s only so much I can do to defend my injured self and you from killers.” Lio’s voice drops to something more sincere and honest to her, features settling some as his eyes open. “Three. If it is really okay for me. Until I’m covered. Enough to function well in combat. I already owe you more than enough. Might as well keep adding to my tab, huh?” The ghost of a smile, not a classic smirk, crosses his face.

Cinna smiles thoughtfully at this list. It’s quick and logical, perfect things for a paladin to worry about, and she appreciates the balanced concern for himself and others (herself included). “I couldn’t possibly keep a tab,” she answers, relaxing some. It helps to be in her own home, among her trappings and keepsakes. “You’d ring up a debt impossible to pay back and, anyway, it’s an old witch’s law not to require repayment for a saved life. But... but if you feel safer here, you’re welcome to stay as long as you need. Goldrinn knows...” She trails off, suddenly aware that she’s rambling.

“...are they that sort, then? The people who...you know, did this to you?” Cinna finally looks up at Liotuse, staring at some point in the center of his forehead because that’s easier.

He doesn’t seem to notice the pointedly nowhere-else-only-there watch on him even as his own gaze is tossed to Cinna. A quick look over of her, nothing perverted, is done. He’s only really seen her in something of a passing at the benches in the Square. Then the whole dying schtick. “I’ve had people do more for me for less, I’m sure. Just because we’re friends.” His back slides against the wall as he drags himself down to the floor, taking a seat once more. “And by ‘that sort’ do you mean ‘tyrannical’ and ‘villainous’? Then the answer is yes.”

Liotuse offers a sigh, pulling his knees up and resting his arms on them with hands clasped between. He blinks a moment and looks to her. “And I’m not psycho myself. Not trying to trick you or anything.”

Friends. Not something Cinna’s really used to since coming to Stormwind, and she’s not sure if he means the kind of friends that are actually friends or the kind of friends who know each other incidentally and then through strange circumstances, save each other’s lives. But either way, it works. “Mm, I meant more the type who order hits on people. You know, like in those crime stories. Or maybe you don’t have those in Stormwind. They’re a huge hit in Gilneas. Or. Were.”

“Though I suppose that would make them psychopaths, hm?” She takes to arranging the bulky quilts on the bed, fluffing the pillows, anything to keep her hands busy and away from her hair and face. “And...for the record, I didn’t think you were a psycho. A lech possibly, but not a psycho.”

“Oh no. It’s okay. They’re set up for that.” The dam springs a leak, some sarcasm taking advantage of the breech. “They’ve got more than a few shadow-walking folks to just show up. Blades and all.” His left hand pulls away from its twin to scrub at his face. For a moment, the bridge of his nose is taken between index and thumb. “...Thanks, Cinna. Really. For hauling me off. Mending. And letting me stay.”

The dam forms another crack, a chuckle slipping loose as he manages to revert somewhat to a more Liotuse state. “I’ve got two questions already. No. Wait. Three. Is there a Mister Cinna I have to be worried about? What specifically do I owe you? Annnd. Where in the Light’s name did you sleep last night?”

“Why would they order a hit on you? I mean, you seem like a reasonable person and all.” Cinna finishes fluffing the pillows and adjusting the quilts and now can do nothing more than fiddle with her boots and eventually remove them, mimicking Liotuse’s posture with her knees drawn up. “And it’s nothin’, really. I couldn’t let someone die, especially not there, and...” Well, she really has no reason for letting him stay beyond he’s right here and it’s rude to throw someone who’s right here back to the street.

And maybe a little he’s cute.

The paladin’s slow relaxation gives Cinna some ease as well, and her smile becomes much less nervous and more genuine. It’s a pretty smile, at that, and brings out dimples. “As you can see, the line of candidates for the position of ‘Mister Cinna’ goes practically all the way to Northrend, which is to say, no to the first. Second, you owe me nothing, like I told you, though if you stay more’n...well, we’ll say three months, I’ll start buggin’ you for rent. And third, in that chair. I think I dozed off with a teacup in m’hand.” She can’t help but let out a nervous giggle.

Liotuse’s hands clap together jokingly, snickering softly as he rubs them. “Good. Means I’ve got a head start, then.” Fingers weave together as his arms relax to let the clenched hands hang. He falls silent, though nothing negative shows on his face. Contemplative and thoughtful. “...Nah. I’d be gone before even two months. Not... that came off rude. Not that I don’t mind it for the under twenty four hours I’ve been awake and alert. I don’t think I’d be a burden for that long.”

The back of his head makes a nearly muted thump against the wall, resting it backwards. “I’ll sleep on the floor. You get the bed.” Said like a friendly but final order. “The whole chair thing wouldn’t work for either of us.”

Cinna doesn’t bother to argue against Liotuse’s head start comments, though she certainly thinks she could. “You aren’t a burden,” she decides to say, her smile becoming friendlier. “It’s just me living here with a bunch of books and teapots and things. And just as long as you don’t mind the herbs or get too excited about the tawdry books, you’re not a burden.” Her eyes light on the cover of the book Liotuse was reading earlier at the mention of “tawdry books” and she even dares to (gasp) wink at him.

“And anyway, the chair’s fine for me. Or...well, the floor, really. I’ll have to shift to keep warm, but I can do that better than you can, and anyway, I can handle the cold better at this point.” She wrinkles her nose to push her glasses up without hands. “I don’t want you to go into shock. That would just make me a terrible hostess.”

“Cinna. Doll. I live off of tea. Specifically green if you... have...” His words start to wander as well as his eyes as he looks around. Surely somewhere in the place will provide him with a physical example. “...It.” A small pause. That cause was abandoned far too quickly. The place was a little baffling to him and intimidating, if just for the volume of teaquipment and books.

“...Anyways. No. You. Are. Taking. The. Bed.” He smirks now to escort his words, looking a little too sly for a guest in her home. “I can help with the cold thing if that persists. But even cuddling in a somewhat still random woman’s bed would make me look like such a tramp.”

“Do you now?” Tea is something familiar for Cinna, obviously. “I do have some green tea, though I usually mix it with other herbs for different effects... pain soothing, mind focusing, and so on.” She stands and begins digging through a drawer, finally coming up with a small pouch of herbs: green tea and something that looks floral. “Something I brought from back home. The herbs there... they don’t dry as well, but I think our tea is good.”

Cinna slips the pouch into Liotuse’s hand before returning to the bed. “I could heat up a pot now, if you like, though it’s still rather warm out.”

Of course, it’s less that it’s warm out and more that she’s been confronted with a new challenge: a man in her bed while she is in her bed. She has to clear her throat several times before finally saying, in as grown up a voice as she can muster, “...I suppose we could just share, then. It’s not a small bed, after all, and we’re both adults.” Adults. Right. That’s... right. Yes.

The pouch is tossed between hand and hand. For about half of a second, unable to grab it in time with the right. He’ll get angry at the right one eventually, more blaming himself somehow instead of the man that drove the knife under the arm. Liotuse’s more functional hand reaches across to pluck up the pouch and flick it to the foot of Cinna’s bed, letting it flop next to his boots.

“Not too thirsty, really. And it’s more my... calm down or wake up thing. I’m pretty well off for the moment.” Alright. He’s bad at avoiding subjects at times when they aren’t dire or prone to causing turmoil. “I’m uh. Going to apologize in advance if I do any rolling over and smothering. Or an arm around you. Getting a little... snug.” A hand tips towards his lower-half. Referring to the almighty spooning. “Sleeping habits are hard to break after a serious relationship.”

“...But I’m on the floor. You. Bed.”

Cinna folds her arms across her chest, looking far sterner than anyone her age has a right to look. “Lio. Look. You almost bled out on this bed last night. I don’t mind sharing it with you, but I shan’t let you sleep on the floor, yeh? Not until it’s been at least a week that you’re recovered. We’ll just...divide things up somehow. Halvsies or something. Not a big deal.”

Of course, she isn’t looking at him as she says this. It’d betray her innate awkwardness over the situation, over the idea of having a man in her bed for the first time ever, and just in general. He doesn’t need that; he’s down an arm, gods’ sake.

It’s okay though. He has fingers he can use while she’s around. “That’s not how I work, damnit.” Cuss aside, he’s not legitimately bothered, features even and relaxed. “I’m bugged when people extend big -” It’s just a bed, Lio. “- courtesies like this. Taaake. Iiiit.” His left hand’s fingers snap to collect her attention. “And for Light’s sake. You’re obviously not completely comfortable with it.”

But Lio wouldn’t mind in all honesty. She was cute in turn and maybe the side-comment of something shallow like ‘hot’ could be tagged onto the side. Hair down and all. The spectacles? Maybe.

Cinna sighs and shakes her head. “Look, not like it’s gettin’ married or picking out window dressings. I’ll get over it. I’ll be fine.” She’s quietly and mentally going over her entire pyjama drawer, trying to remember which ones cover the most and which ones are the most lightweight for summertime sleeping. In a bed. With a man.

It’s a short list.

She finally looks back at Liotuse, tucking some hair behind her ear, though with the nature of her hair, it sticks up wildly and looks a bit like some draenish hairstyle rather than just some loose hair behind her ear. “Lio, I just... don’t feel right makin’ you take the floor. Please. You want a way to pay me back, take the bed. That’s how you can pay me back.”

His lips part, though doesn’t return anything to her involving passion. She’s stilled his tongue except only with words. A shame. Cinna got a bit of Liotuse points for throwing some sly his way with the tab he’s started.

“...Pants on or off?” Acceptance. But he’d make her pay for this through teasing and joking around. Will he ever get her back, if gradually. The bunched sleeves on his biceps are jerked on to bring the cuffs back down to his wrists, rolling his shoulders as he looks at her. Then realizes she needed to change. Two seconds to keep his eyes on her before Liotuse turns on a bare heel to stare in the completely opposite direction.

“On, please,” Cinna answers, almost too briskly, before adding, “I’ll let you know if you can ever take them off” even more briskly. And realizing this sounds more like an invitation than she means it to, she slips out of her leggings, vest, and blouse and into the kind of nightshirt and leggings combo that should only ever be allowed after people have been married for ten years. She also removes her glasses and has the quilts pulled all the way up to her neck before she manages to say, in a quiet voice, “Alright, all set.”

He keeps his back turned completely, even mustering the control to not even steal a peek. “I’ll start filing the documents for this tomorrow morning, I’m sure.” A hum and tap of his foot as she changes out of her clothes. Even with being informed on the crisis being cleared, Lio lets a few more moments pass before turning. A grin teases at his mouth as he sluggishly works off his shirt with his good hand. She didn’t say anything about that. Then it’s to the edge of the bed with him, slipping delicately underneath the quilt.

Then he’s wonderfully disrespectful and genuinely curious, lifting the quilt and peering down with what light was available. There’s a soft laugh at her choice of apparel before lowering the cover down. Liotuse is sure to keep at the very side of the bed and give her a hefty portion of it, looking ready to roll over and fall off.

Cinna makes a noise that’s halfway between a shriek and a growl with maybe a groan thrown in there for interest when Lio lifts the covers. “By the fang,” she hisses, holding more tightly to the quilt once he’s had his sneak peek. “If I wanted you to see my ratty sleepin’ clothes, I’d have changed in front of you.” Still, despite her blushing and despite her awkwardness, it’s pretty clear that she’s not really mad at him. She is, after all, smiling. Then again, that might also be because he seems to understand personal boundaries.

“Oh. And I promise not to punch you or anything if you do spontaneously get handsy while you’re sleepin’.” With that, Cinna turns over as if going to sleep. Of course, her eyes are wide open and remain that way for hours. And this close up, she smells pretty clearly of earth, flowers, and cinnamon. If he’s one to notice these things.

“You keep saying things that are digging you a deeper and deeper grave, Cinna. Thankfully.” A small shift could probably be felt by her as he settles a bit more onto the bed. “I’m a gentleman and don’t do anything without consent... beyond grabs. I’ll put that off too.” His eyes close and he just rests on his back, hands down by his sides. Reserved for her sake.

...Except his mouth keeps running. “I was sort of expecting black and lace, actually.”

Cinna raises her eyebrows, still facing the other way. “Do I seem like the black and lace type?” she asks, her voice rising sharply in pitch on the last word. She then coughs a few times, trying to cover up that particular faux pas. “I mean... in that regard, I suppose I should’ve been surprised to see you in simple shorts and not ladies’ hosiery when I came in. If we’re talking about expecting the unexpected, I mean.”

She lies quietly for a few minutes before eventually deciding that she’s comfortable enough to lie on her back and not try and sleep on a square inch of mattress. “Lio isn’t your full name, is it? Forgive me for sayin’ it, but you don’t really look like a Lio. Leo. However you prefer.”

He makes a little amused snort. “It’s hard for a woman to not pull off dark, lacy stuff. But you’d look...” His words trail off as he decides against getting evicted. “Cute in it, I’m sure. The hosiery is only if a woman really gets to know me. Special occasions and whatnot.” His right hand lazily flops over to his chest to rub at his collarbone as he drops the quilt to just above his waist. Comfier like that it seems as he goes still.

“L-I-O. But pronounce like Leo.” The question from her is remembered swiftly and answered accordingly. “Liotuse Antonio Bordeau. Cinna doesn’t sound like a full name either, darlin’.”

Cinna is very glad for the dim light to hide her now beet red cheeks, but even in this lighting, it’s clear that there’s more color in her face. Whether this is at being called “darlin’” or at the words about to come out of her mouth, however, is unclear. “...it isn’t. My parents... well, you see. Harvest witches and all. They’re earthy sorts. I have two younger sisters and one younger brother: the sisters are Saffron and Sage, and the brother is Basil.” She pauses and laughs, almost disbelievingly. “He’s the lucky one.”

A cough and some awkward shifting. She’s trying to get more comfortable without accidental touching, but on a bed this size, that’s nearly impossible. “...Cinnamon. Cinnamon Brighid Diggory.”

His right shoulder pulls in as he acknowledges the room issue, but quickly invades once more to nudge her arm. Then his left hand swings up and over, hovering somewhere above her and awaits for a shake from Cinna. He rolls onto his side and his eyes open. It would be amazingly creepy if Liotuse wasn’t the friendly fellow he was. Thankfully, he’s not all too bad. Hopefully in Cinna’s eyes too as he rests his gaze easily on the side of her head.

“Cinnamon. Yeah I think I’m spot on with the ‘cute’ thing. Especially if it was the theme with your siblings.” A smile brightens his face as he rests his right arm down a little closer to her. Trespassing might be in the near future.

That Lio hasn’t fallen out of the bed laughing at her name is enough for Cinna to decide that he is not, in fact, amazingly creepy. Just slightly. She reaches up to shake his hand. “A pleasure to make your acquaintance.” Her voice hints at something of a giggle behind the words, and some of that giggle escapes as he calls her cute. She’s inwardly kicking herself, and this shows outwardly in her muttering something that sounds like “get a grip” before rolling over herself, facing her new roommate.

“Yeh, it was cute as long as we didn’t attend the village school, but you know how kids can be. I only attended for a few years before my parents decided to teach us at home, but I don’t think a week went by without someone trying to lick my cheek or something.” Her own grin is slanted, if increasingly relaxed.

Because lying on the side totally dampers the effect of a handshake somehow, he makes sure it’s a hearty and friendly one. As if a gentleman having the honor of being introduced to a lady, the hand is taken to Lio’s mouth and the back of Cinna’s hand is bestowed a most elegant kiss. “A pleasure indeed.”

He neatly settles her hand back underneath the quilt and gives it a pat, ensuring its safe-keeping. “Licking... your cheek.” His face goes deadpan with a glint of amusement in his eyes. “...Lewd and obvious. But. You taste good, huh?” A brow arches as he looks down the... quilt. Not like it was much different than if it weren’t in the way due to her choice of clothes for sleeping.

If this girl was blushing any harder, she’d be leaking blood out her cheeks. Cinna falters for a moment, unsure whether to draw her hand back to the safety of Her Side of the bed or just leave it where it is. She opts for the latter, drumming her fingers somewhat neurotically. “I’ve no idea how I taste, honestly. I simply try to wear cinnamon essence because...well, it’s appropriate, for one, and for two, it helps when deaders or other foul-smelling things are nearby. I mean, not that they can’t be decent individuals, but when your sense of smell is enhanced with that bloody curse, just about anything helps. With the smell, I mean. Not the curse.”

She’s still on her side, watching Lio, because he’s new and interesting and in her bed, what the hell. This reminder is enough to stop her ramble and she shrugs. “Well, you know how kids can be. I doubt they even thought of any other implications.”

Admittedly. He was and enjoyed it there. Twas a comfortable and masterful bed. Her being not hard on the eyes always helped sway the guy too. But on the other hand. Those pajamas, man. Them jammies. “Which I get, yeah. Because they’re all innocent and such. Unfortunately. Hey. I’m Liotuse.” He repeats, tweaking his voice some to have a smooth refined edge. It was the sound of a dapper, dashing middle aged gentleman smoothly running the flat of an elegant blade along a woman’s collarbone. She gives an amused titter and allows him to part one of the two strings of her bra from the primary covering. All with a flick of his wrist to sever the thing with his blade. They both share a small, knowing smile and some brandy.

That’s how Liotuse tries to make his voice. “And I have other implications. Even with this technically being a first date.”

“Date?!” Somewhere, in the back of Cinna’s mind, there is a list of things she didn’t expect Lio to say. Among those things are “I am the Lich King” and “have you ever wondered if our lives are being controlled by small gods in another world sitting at mechanical devices?” and “would you like fries with that?”

And “first date.”

So shocked is Cinna at these words that the witty banter, if they could indeed call it that, comes to a screeching halt and she just stares.

He actually flinches when the word is tossed back to him. She might as well have slapped him. Over the ears. It felt like that anyways with the exclaimation it was. “Easy, easy! I’m kidding. Kidding. That’s it. Harmless joking. I don’t follow through. Er. Without consent.”

Lio’s face is just slowly turning into ash. Ever digging himself into a deeper, stupid hole. Filled with stupid of course. “You’re lovely and all but I sort of am the one owing you and don’t exactly need that fulfillment because I’m sort of our of condition at the moment. Or. Something. Plus I am sure you are fine without sex even if that were to be a request of yours in how I pay you back.”

“...I’ll stop talking.”

Cinna can’t quite hide her awkwardness now, shuffling under the covers. Her hand still hasn’t moved from where he left if, but she’s drumming her fingers doubletime now. It’s almost a twitch at this point. “...it’s not that,” she finally says, her voice a lot quieter than it was before. “I’m not offended or anything, merely surprised. You’re...remarkably attractive, but a girl like me doesn’t stand a chance with someone like you, so I never even considered thinking of you as more than ‘that funny man with the thing about lampposts.’”

“...and anyway, I’ve never even been kissed before, so requesting sex as repayment is entirely out of the question. Not that I don’t know the positives and negatives of such a thing, but...” There’s more awkward fiddling under the quilt, mostly Cinna trying to get her hand to stop. moving.

“Diseases if you aren’t careful. If the other person isn’t clean downstairs and all. Bruising if the couple decides to really get into the swing of things. Positives is like... a high. Afterglow. And... kids could be a negative or a positive. It just involves playing safe.” A moment’s pause. Forgetting something that would and should be typically obvious. “Or. Y’know.” No she doesn’t, Lio. “Sheepskin or one of those fancy concoctions.”

Lio’s eyes narrow and he gives a slight ‘bah’ under his breath. “Listen. That whole... league. Idea. Is silly. Anybody can get anybody it just takes effort. Firsts are supposed to be special though!” He pretty much chirps this. “I’m just some bloody bum. Literally, yesterday. There’s a Mister Right or Miss Right out there for everyone. To take their hand, virginity and kiss-virginity.” Both eyes of his narrow as he thinks on that. “Except everyone steals and the like, because it’s rare that the person you stay with is the one for firsts like that.”

“Or potions. I know, my mother used to brew them and I brew them now.” Cinna relaxes again, though she’s not entirely sure why. Something about the man sharing her bed (oh yeah, there’s that anxiety) has put her entirely at ease, despite the conversation topic. “No, I know how sex works. I know... well. I’ve read mountains of books on the subject. Not that I’m perverted or anything, but I like to read. About everything. As you can likely tell.” Another cough, sort of clearing her thoughts and the air.

“And I mostly say that having seen the women who seem to follow you everywhere you go. They’re... well. Lithe, lovely, and very flirtatious. I can’t see why someone like you would give someone like me a second glance... which isn’t a bad thing! I mean, tastes are tastes and all. Just it didn’t seem prudent to feel wistful over you.” She looks Lio over again, quietly. “Though...well. Yes.”

“No, no. I can tell.” He agrees with a soft, warm laugh. “Means you’re well versed. Just not experienced. Which... can be a sort of deciding factor in things. But who knows with some people.”

A few moments pass as he falls silent with a small smile from her and the conversation he was thoroughly enjoying. Shared in a bed with the woman. All was well. “...Yeah. A few of them are all like that. Easy on the eyes. Fair. Because I’m amazing like that and this is totally possible. To uh... say in front of you. It’d be interesting having a time with each one.” Lio’s stare is awkward for a moment.

“...Anyways. I don’t want to horribly relate these two. But you and your mother brewing those aside and my suggestive joke discarded. You ever cuddled with anyone?” A brow rises, the unease from his own dumb words slowly pushed away.

Cinna tilts her head against the pillow, pursing her lips. “Not really,” she admits. “...I shan’t lie and say that I’ve wished for it before, but well. That can get painful.” And realizing this is dirty laundry and he probably doesn’t care about the secret life of this wallflower, she stops there. “I haven’t cuddled before, no.”

His left hand rises to gesture to... the quilt? No. The woman beneath it. Lio clears his throat gently before speaking. “Mind if I? It’s not so bad, really. Winds up being comfortable and a little warmer than any sort of blanket. You can slap me if you feel anything suspicious or if I start grinding.” The prod of humor being punctuated by a grin.

“Well!” Cinna is at a loss for words for a long moment. Her eyes dart from Lio’s face to his figure and back to his face. Then to the quilt. Then to the chair, almost wistfully. And then back to his face. Her voice carries more seriousness than his at this point. “And what happens if this strikes a chord for me and makes me feel something for you? And when you recover and leave and return to your willowy harem?”

“...It’d be more to the bench than anything.” Even though he didn’t rush through the statement. It was a little too fast for his tastes. Didn’t leave him much thinking time. “Do a little experiment here and there. Make sure I make mysterious, alluring visits during the night now and then.” He skips a beat. “Wonder if I can settle down a little more.”

Cinna tilts her head to the side again, though this time, it’s accompanied with a slanted grin. “I mean no offense askin’, Lio. You’re a decidedly charming roommate and I am very glad that I saved your life. But... I don’t want to risk getting my heart broken.” She hesitates another beat before adding, “...though one night probably won’t completely destroy everything ever. Just... please be...” She makes a whining sound; the word she’s looking for isn’t the one she uses. “...be gentle. With my heart, I mean. With me.”

“It’s a lovely heart considering it didn’t leave me facedown in a puddle of my own blood. Mmmaaaybe I shouldn’t manage too much, lest I mess up. Stumble over myself and risk damaging it.” A brief frown, looking a bit disappointed. In himself, considering she’s been nothing but sweet and the like to him. “Tampering and feeling like I’m pressing the issue. Leave some claims to another guy or something.”

Awkward. Lio shifts some and rolls mostly onto his back, still angling himself somewhat in Cinna’s direction.

Cinna hesitates once more and then moves that hand under the covers until it finds Lio’s hand there. Considering her lack of experience, this is tantamount to straddling him and calling him Papi or something else similarly disturbing. As it is, she simply rests her hand on top of his, fingers still moving idly. “I appreciate it. It... it means a lot. That you’re not takin’ advantage of the situation, I mean.”

The hand is adjusted, but the severely lacking movement might as well have been nonexistant. Liotuse nods once and smiles anew. It’s friendly all over again and bright. “The temptation to use force might have added a little spice to things. But even if my armor isn’t glowing and all. I wouldn’t have much of a right to wear it after.”

“...Plus I’m a little above crying about how much I’m aching and sore until I get some sex as an amazing distraction. I can deal.” Even winking to Cinna now, back in a comfort zone.

Cinna is very glad to be back in this comfort zone, shifting again under the covers until she, too, is mostly on her back. Hand still in place. “Mm, even if I was the type to give myself to men as a distraction, I doubt I’d be good enough to really distract. You’d probably wish you were readin’ that book again.” She’s back to smiling, though now it’s more at the ceiling and the collection of hanging doodads up there.

“You said something earlier about a serious relationship?” she asks after a moment’s pause, trying to balance her curiosity with the knowledge that maybe some people don’t like telling these stories, Cinna.

“Year-long relationship ending with an elongated engagement. Shit got in the way. The roaring flames of love were stomped on.” A sigh through his nose. This topic. Always repeated. Do not want repeat and explanation with ladies.

Being Liotuse though. It’s amazingly easy for him to try and misdirect the topic with Cinna, tweaking his hand enough to make a bowl shape to cup hers some. “You’d be surprised and... possibly enjoy a man just keeping a woman down and in place. While he just goes all the way. It’s a lovely sort of thing and leaves the guy focused intensely. With the added benefit of him being wonderfully exhausted after.”

“I am not having sex with you tonight,” Cinna says in that hilariously serious voice, though she turns her hand over in Lio’s, ending with their fingers linked. “And I’m sorry to bring it up. That was very stupid of me. Just... curiosity killing the cat, I suppose.” Her voice has brightened again, kind of like a kitten clawing the shit out of your hand and then purring against it.

Knowing he wants the topic changed. Being a gracious bed hostess. Cinna tries again. “So what do you do when you aren’t collectin’ a harem or getting stabbed or trying to seduce healers?”

“Well shoot I am going to pack my things and leave n-...” He trails off. Well. That was certainly different and actually rather touching. Cinna’s fingers aren’t left too alone in the effort, Lio curling his between hers and clasping hands in full. “...Leave now. That or pass on overnight because I am still recovering and the cold from no intimacy, not even cuddling, will have taken its toll.”

The smile remains on his face even as his eyes close and he hums contently for a second. “...Heal myself, actually. Socialize. Or obliterate things while screaming and foaming about the Alliance, of course. Beyond that my agenda is... average.”

Cinna has to catch her breath a second at the sudden linked hands, less because it’s new for her (which it is) and more because...well, it was more touching than she expected it to be. She doesn’t pull away any and actually rolls onto her side again, facing Lio. “Average means different things for different people. Average for me is an entire day spent puttin’ books back together in the library and takin’ home the ones they don’t want anymore, but I’ll bet you don’t do that.”

“Oh. And cards and practicing with herbs,” she adds after a beat. It’s now definitely dark enough that he can’t see the color in her cheeks and might even miss that she’s taken the opportunity of a dark room and superior eyesight to finally give him more than a quick glance.

And so, Liotuse relaxes there to be oblivious to the check performed on him. Sort of asking for it with his torso bare. It was more of a spur of the moment to get a reaction sort of thing, so he was all used against his will and such. “I don’t. But it doesn’t sound horribly outlandish to me. Means you’re a smart, well learned and intelligent woman. Clever comes into play as well during cards. Unless you’re utter crap like me.”

“Herbs was... sort of a given. With the performance done on my wounds and inklings of ‘you can do naughty things in me and we’re good’ elixirs that were passed down, apparently.” The last? It would just be impossible for the man to do without a smirk and squeeze of her hand. For good measure.

Cinna is surprised at how easily she returns the squeeze, smiling at him as well, even though he can’t see it. “Not those kinds of cards,” she corrects quickly. “You’ll likely think it’s ridiculous, though... most people do.” She doesn’t offer up much more on the subject of cards, instead turning to outlandish average lives.

“See, it’s entirely normal to me to go through those steps, but I’m certain you’d find a day in my life rather peculiar, just as I’d find a day in your life the same sort of strange.”

Liotuse’s face lightens a bit as he feels her return it. “Like... the fortune cards? Hm. Always gives me chills up the spine when I just... listen.” He works a shoulder and then the other as he lets himself sink into the bedding, lazily flapping a hand out to work the quilt’s edge up higher. Not only over him but her as well. Maybe he’s a little too quick on being so at ease with her, so comfortable to dote like this. The harlot he is.

“It sounds charmingly plain enough. Where my stuff when it gets a bit more excitable maybe is just... flat out dangerous.”

“Like being nearly stabbed to death on parapets?” Cinna asks with a smirk. The quilt-adjusting is accompanied, on her part, by an attempt at snuggling under the quilt without getting closer to Lio, and this half works--she’s more comfortable and decidedly snugglier, but she’s also decidedly closer. Still not so close that things are about to get weird, but closer. She also gives his hand another inadvertent squeeze during this whole snuggling process because bed sharing: how does it fucking work?

Once all that is done (which really only took about half a second), she continues. “Yes, fortune cards. It’s... well, most people think they’re a bit silly. And they are an imperfect art, but...” A shrug, one that he can probably feel more than see.

“Something like that.” The answer’s honest, immediate and light-hearted despite the subject matter. He’s the guy that can laugh off being stabbed twice and slashed across the neck. Oh so casually does his thumb brush at Cinna’s hand though, making a content Liotuse-sigh as he settles with all that hard work done. Charming ladies through the slight nuance of caring about their bed-state. Through quilt interaction. A most difficult task.

“Imperfect as in...? Hard to get right all the time? Sorry for the dumb questions... you know. I just hit things.” The corners of his mouth lift in a smile. “So you’re the professional here.”

Cinna shivers at dat thumb brushing and immediately blushes from that, too. It’s like this girl’s blood is hard-wired to go flooding straight to her cheeks at the slightest provocation. “Imperfect as in it’s reading symbols. See...” She shifts to bring her free hand out from under the covers, gesturing with it pointlessly because it’s not like Lio can see her gestures or like they mean anything. “The cards have images on them. Symbols. When I read them, I interpret the symbols and can divine the future that way. It works very well when I’m reading for myself, but when I’m reading for someone I don’t know...”

Cinna shrugs and drops her hand, inadvertently letting it land on Lio’s chest for half a second before drawing it back like his chest is made of BEES. “Well. If it’s a good fortune, they’re usually rather happy. If it’s not good, they tell me I’m mad and storm off without even leavin’ a tip.”

Cinnamon & Chadley: July 9

Cinnamon stops midstep upon seeing the book on Chadley's lap. With all the hesitance of a skittish thing that is skittish, she approaches. "Em. Excuse me, sir? What book is that, if I might be bold enough to ask?"

Chadley opens the now-dry, but still recently water-damaged book. He flips through each fragile page, frowning as it becomes more apparent that not much has survived. He jumps slightly at the voice and looks up. "Uh- nothing. It's nothing."

Cinnamon holds her bookbag to her chest. Apologetically, she explains, "I work in the book-binding rooms at the Royal Library. It loooks like it's pretty valuable... I wonder if I mightn't just... I mean..." She's looking more at the book than Chadley.

Chadley winces as one of the pages makes an audible 'creak' sound as he tries to turn it. He sets the page down and doesn't try again. The book remains open in his lap, though. "The damage goes beyond the binding," he mumbles.

Cinnamon says: What happened to it? I don't mean to intrude or anything, I'm sorry.

"Fell in the canal," he says sourly, looking down at the open page before him. The water damage has ruined the hand-penned ink, there's barely even any indication of the prayers that once filled its pages.

Cinnamon steps forward and looks down at the page. She cringes slightly at the damage. "This would have to be rescribed, but if it's old enough, the ink would've left an impression. If someone could rescribe it for you... if you know any scribes. Or, well, I know a few, but I might have to slip them some coin to pay for it. But, em. I could rebind it? If I could find someone to rescribe it? I think?"

Chadley 's brows flatten, but he looks up from the book. Not at her, just up. "Interesting. I didn't know this amount of damage wasn't beyond restoration. How much would such services cost?"

Cinnamon says: It depends on the scribe. I have a friend with connections, though. I can ask him and see what his price would be. The rebindin'...
Cinnamon laughs sheepishly, adjusting the pencils in her hair and causing most of it to fall. "...I kind of love rebinding books, so I wouldn't charge. Especially for a gorgeous piece like that."

Chadley finally peers up at the girl. "How do you make a living if you offer your services for free?"

Cinnamon says: I work officially for the library; book-binding's just part of my job. I don't usually get to work with pieces like this one... by the fang, how old do you think it is?

Chadley looks back down to the ancient book in his lap and closes the cover shut. "I am unsure. It seems to pre-date the Silver Hand, yet instructs a number of combat-applicable prayers. I don't know when it was written, and it doesn't say."

Cinnamon lets her bookbag fall to her side and holds her hands behind her back, apparently to keep from making grabby hands at amaaaazinnnnng buuuuuuuk. "I'd guess at least three hundred years. Perhaps more."
Cinnamon says: Also, it was my understanding that combat-applicable prayers were never unique to paladins; they simply came more into favor during the time of the Silver Hand.
Cinnamon says: But I've only begun reading about them recently.

Chadley says: You're correct; it's simply surprising to see them all compiled like this. And three-hundred, you think? Lady S- eh, my superior found it in the Cathedral library. I could ask about it there, maybe.
Chadley says: -- After it's been restored, if that's even possible.

Cinnamon hefts herself up onto the wall several feet away from Chadley and removes her staff from her back, laying it on the wall behind her. "No use givin' up when you haven't tried yet, hmm?" She smiles tentatively before digging in her bookbag. Several books and other artifacts spill out, including a well-worn deck of fortune cards. She finally finds what she's looking for in a small notepad and pen. "What was your name, then?"

Chadley blinks. "Ah- Chadley Fairdale. I, uh- am I to leave this with you?" He looks skeptical- Stormwind is crazy and you shouldn't trust anybody.

Cinnamon writes his name on her notepad in slow, careful penmanship. "No, no! I want to make sure my contact can actually provide some assistance in this before I take that away from you."

Chadley nods. "I understand. This isn't something you need to do, you know. You've known me all of five minutes."

Cinnamon 's cheeks flush as he says this, and she shoves her glasses up on her nose. "Honestly, Chadley Fairdale, I'm doing it less for you and more for that gorgeous book. No offense or anything, though I have only known you five minutes. But I did let a man spend a week in my apartment recovering from stab wounds after knowing him only ten minutes so perhaps I'm just odd like that." She shrugs and begins restuffing her bag.

Chadley stares sort-of deadpan at the tattered, cracked, and now water-damaged leather cover of the book. Despite the damage, the beautiful holy circle design on the front is still quite clear. "I see," he simply says. "Well, thank you anyway."

Cinnamon says: ...I'm Cinna, by the way. Cinna Diggory. I suppose I should've given you my name before askin' for yours or talking about your book or anything, but there you go.

Chadley says: I'm rather used to strange women approaching me and asking about my reading material, oddly.

Cinnamon pauses in her restuffing and raises an eyebrow at Chadley. "Really? I've noticed that about this city. A lot of people tend to be very interested in others' personal business. Though I suppose I'm not helpin' that stereotype."

Chadley says: Not in particular, though you've at least something to offer and don't exist merely to annoy.
Chadley looks up at the Cathedral and eyetics.

Cinnamon says: Mm, you spend a lot of time around Cathedral Square, then. I've had the misfortune of encountering several... circus acts there, I think that's a good way of puttin' it. One girl kept shrinking and asked me to carry her around. It was... odd.
Cinnamon resumes her restuffing, hands resting on her deck of cards. "But then, it seems a prime spot for practice. Have you ever had fortune cards read?"

Chadley says: Did she try to crawl down your shirt? I believe I've witnessed such a thing before, though we could be speaking of two separate occurances. I'd not doubt it.
Chadley says: -- And no. I'd rather remain ignorant of my future, if it's anything like my present.

Cinnamon laughs softly and shakes her head. "Thankfully, I think I managed to communicate rather thoroughly to her that I wasn't interested, or at least she got bored, one of the two. And they don't -really- tell the future."
Cinnamon says: They provide more insight into your current situation and possible outcomes that you should consider when framing your actions.

Chadley says: Yesterday, I learned that genuine mind-reading is possible. I don't know what else is. You're not a mind-reader, are you.

Cinnamon shakes her head, cheeks flushing again. "Oh, by the fang, no. I can do some natural magic, but that's really the extent of it. The cards are... well, they're like books. You read the symbols on them and see how they apply to your life."

Chadley says: ... I see. So they're vague and can apply to anybody.

Cinnamon shrugs a shoulder and places the cards back in her bag. "They could. I've found them to be oddly specific more often than not."

Chadley says: How does that work?

Cinnamon says: Oh, a variety of ways. Sometimes, I'll draw a card that describes to a tee a person I know. Other times, it just paints a relatively accurate picture of events and circumstances.

Chadley says: I'm almost curious how that works. It must be psychological, like you just look for...
Chadley says: -Can I see how it works?

Cinnamon blinks a few times and readjusts her glasses. "Certainly! Let me just shuffle. And while I'm shufflin', I want you to think of something that's been on your mind lately that you haven't an answer to."

Chadley rests his mail-clad forearms atop the cover of the book, watching as she takes out the cards. "Alright."

Cinnamon spreads the cards on the wall between them, all face down. "Now, still thinkin' about what you want to know, choose five cards and lay them face down right here." She indicates the area just above the spread-out deck.

Chadley doesn't take any time at all to pick five cards at random, not stopping to put any consideration or ~feeling~ into it. He places them facedown where he's supposed to. "Okay?"

Cinnamon reaches for the first card. "This card represents your long past." She flips the card over to reveal a man standing alone, looking over a cliff amidst three staves: the three of staves.

Chadley nods slowly. Everyone's got a long past, dammit.

Cinnamon says: Long ago, you began an enduring partnership that's bettered both you and the other person. You also were in a position where you had to take responsibility for your own decisions in order to further your journey towards your goals.

Chadley smirks slightly. "Well, it's not necessarily untrue, but I still say that could apply to almost anybody."

Cinnamon smirks in return and moves on to the second card. "We'll see. In the meantime, this card is about your recent past." She flips the card over, revealing a king holding four gold coins tightly to him against the backdrop of a city: the four of pentacles.
Cinnamon says: So according to this... you recently have been holdin' fast and tight to everything you know because you're afraid you'll lose it all. Maybe you've lost recently or maybe it's just a pattern you've seen, but for whatever reason, you're afraid of things changin' too much or thinkin' of things differently because you don't want to lose more. You're jealous of the people who have what you want, but you're making yourself a stumblin' block by not considering other options.

Chadley stares at the cards. "These cards are beginning to sound like my superiors."

Cinnamon grins and moves on to the third card. "This card represents where you are now." She turns the card over, revealing a woman sitting on a throne and holding a sword aloft: the queen of swords.

Cinnamon says: This card says that you're a very insightful and intelligent person, but it's not enough to simply possess that knowledge. You have to not simply hold it, but actually wield it in order to recover from the losses you've experienced. It also points to a female mentor of some sort; a combat trainer, perhaps, or someone of nobility.

Chadley gives his usual short, incredulous laugh as he looks at the three upturned cards. "You're right, they are very good."

Cinnamon smiles and touches the fourth card. "Then I hope you like what this one says. This is about your immediate future." She turns the card over to reveal a carefree man, smiling as he walks down a path, a bundle on his back: the Fool.

Chadley blinks.

Cinnamon says: Well, this is good news for your superiors: in the near future, you'll learn to let go and let things happen as they happen. This card suggests contentment and happiness, openness to whatever life brings. Sort of... greeting it with open arms, if you will. It also suggests travel.

Chadley doesn't say anything at all, positive or negative, after she explains this card. His subtle perma-frown returns, though.

Cinnamon watches Chadley's reaction before moving to the final card. "This is the one you could call your fortune... your future, overall." She turns the card over, revealing a young man in fancy clothing holding a golden cup: the Page of Cups.
Cinnamon says: Your longterm future looks bright, should things stay as they are. This card speaks to a great deal of spiritual illumination bringin' you great joy. You'll have a more childlike faith, embracing these things for what they are. Love is in your future as are good, strong bonds with a lot of people. And possibly a child.

Chadley snorts at the final addition to his fortune. "Unlikely. Still." He looks up at her. "Very interesting. I still maintain that they can find meaning to anybody, but it's interesting how well they do."

Cinnamon smiles and draws the cards back, stacking them neatly and placing them back in her bag. "I mostly enjoy them for the stories they tell. Still, interesting." She stands after a moment, adjusting her bag on her shoulder. "I'm going to head out and see if I can't find that contact of mine and what he'll charge. I'll send you a note if I find anything out. It was nice to meet you!"

Chadley says: Hey, uh- yeah. And thanks again.

Cinnamon says: No problem. Have a good evening.