[IC] The Long Night | Medieval Fantasy

[Marlowe]

Time of Day: Dusk
Season: Late Summer

---

Interacting with: No one, at the moment

The milky blue hue of the sky diminished into a brazen yellow as the sun began its descent. During this hour in Vauclause, the streets became mostly empty of sentient life. Some would still be out in the streets, completing their final chores for the day. If it wasn't for the people, there would be the cats that lurked in the alleyways in search of rats and birds that stayed out too late. Overall, Vauclause was a sleepy town at this hour. Besides the drowsy commoners and the sneaky felines that prowled the cobblestone roads, there were the people who rummaged through the streets in search of fun and drink.

Night was considered something dangerous in the southern Lutairian town. It wasn't just the rapists that pounced upon women or the cut-purses whose daggers gleamed in the dying light. There was something other than the cats that lurked the roadways. There was always the strange shape, the crooked torsos, the smiles lined with pointed teeth. Whether they were demons or beasts, no one ever wanted to figure out. Some believed they were safe there. They didn't believe there was anything to worry about past the town's gates. That the beasts stayed away from civilizations because they knew that humans there would prove too big of a hassle to hunt. There were even people who swore that magic didn't exist-- that it was merely a child's tale that taught children not to dabble too much in the unknown. The friars shouted in the streets on early Sunday mornings, Lorelei's blessing is upon us all!

Lorelei.

He remembered when he was seventeen. Dabbling in his urges, Tristan did not turn to Lorelei but to the whores with full breasts and wide hips. Swordplay was a song to his ears, not the hymns of the church's choir. And it was seventeen when he thought, Lorelei does not exist.

Tristan stood under the shade of one of the tavern's overhangs. Even though it was evening, the southern sun bore into the earth and warmed its core. He was sweating underneath his black cotton tunic and azure cloak because of the heat. Or maybe it was the drink that was making him sweat so much? It was a bad day-- he had spent much of it drinking. He was clearly drunk, but not the happy type of drunk that he usually was. No, this time the Tenebroux coconut rum had mellowed him out and made him feel like... well, a coconut husk. Exhaling a wistful sigh, he ran a hand through his blonde hair as he cast his eyes up to the darkening sky.

The sky wasn't yellow, anymore. A tinge of blues, purples, and grays had plagued it. A gentle breeze slid between the buildings and swept fallen leaves up into its embrace. It was a sign. His plan would soon be set into motion.

Months had passed without any sign of the Soque. Tristan knew they were far south and most likely would never come in contact with any of them, for they were a solitary people who did not directly mettle with international politics. But they hadn't brought gunpowder or silver ore from the mountains-- they hadn't even brought dragonsteel, which was lighter than steel but much stronger. Sure, Lutaire could very well mine its own metals. But creatures would get into the solitary mines and devour the innocent. There would be no chance of escape.

At least Soque's coldness only draws dragons and wraiths, he thought with a putrid wrinkle of his nose. We have dragons and wraiths and chimeras and manticores and rocs and--

It had been a few days since Tristan had formulated a "plan". He tried to use "plan" almost sparingly, at least to himself, for it wasn't really a plan and just a general gist of what he was going to do. Dropping his head, he scratched at his scalp as he sought to soothe the itch that had been harassing him since this morning. Knowing his luck, he was bound to have fleas.

Y-yes, a "plan". He was going to solve this whole mess, single-handedly or not.

First, he'd wait until dusk fell. Until everyone was asleep. He didn't care if there really were demons and creatures of the night wandering about town. Then, Tristan would go to that one guy's place. Dur... duranego? Durial? The Durands' homestead. They had those big birds. If he stole one or two of them, and then tried to gather a handful of people... they would go with him, right?

Of course they'd go with me. I'm Tristan Baske! he puffed out his cheeks, crossing his arms in front of his chest as he stared at a leaf indignantly. And if Tristan Baske wants to go someplace with two stryx then they have to come with me. There's no saying no!

The wind blew again, spiriting the leaf deeper into Vauclause. Tristan stared after it, his fingers gripping the bare skin of his forearms. What with the sleeves of his tunic folded up to his elbows, the previously gentle breeze was beginning to nip at him...

[Sen]

Twilight was Vane’s favorite time of day. Most people acted like they’d disintegrate into dust if they got caught by the orange-purple of the setting sun, and it’s not like he could blame them what with all the cut-throats lurking around, but Vane found peace in the absence of people on the streets. It made Vaucluse feel ever so slightly different, and different was better. Sometimes he would imagine what it would be like to reach the end of the horizon, to fall off the edge of the world. Would the sun burn him up, or would he fall into an abyss? Maybe he’d just meet the dawn if he kept chasing the day far enough.

Well, whatever. The real best thing about twilight? That’s when the cats came out. A little grey cat Vane affectionately named Smokey was eating a chunk of beef out of Vane’s extended hand at the moment. He felt no greater satisfaction than making sure this stupid stray cat was well-fed; it was a little way to feel like he had some kind of control in the world.

“Vane! I told you to stop feeding the strays!” His dad’s deep voice reverberated in Vane’s chest and he jumped up straight in response. He turned to look at the stoney mug of his father, but the frustration on his face stung too much to maintain eye-contact with. “You know that stuff’s for Alden! Get going already!”

“I know, I know...” Vane sighed and turned back away. This was the last job for the day, which meant that the quicker he delivered the goods, the sooner he could pass out in his bed. But the quicker he moved, the sooner he had to talk to that scary old guy. But he really wanted to go to bed. But he really didn’t want to do it. But he--

Ugh! This was so stupid! His dad knew the owner of the tavern hated Vane’s guts, yet he made him deliver a package of cured meats to the dude! Last time Vane was there, Alden made seventeen different rude comments. Vane counted. It was awful, and he couldn’t even say anything back without jeopardizing the reputation of the family business… This was all those stupid monsters’ fault. If they didn’t exist, then they wouldn’t be terrorizing all the ranchers in the area, and if they weren’t terrorizing the cattle, then their butchershop would have enough meat to open shop like normal and they wouldn’t be making special deliveries! Some people say that ‘demons aren’t real’ or whatever nonsense they want to believe, but if you go outside the town walls for one minute, you’d know that those things aren’t normal!

A shiver ran down Vane’s spine. He suddenly remembered the rumors he heard going around. Strange men sauntering through the town at night, killing anyone they saw. Apparently one of the tailors’ husbands went missing last week. No body was found though, just a trail of blood streaking down an alley. See, criminals? Vane can handle. He’s tussled with thieves more than once, and he’s not too afraid of them anymore. But demons? Vane knew in his heart they were real, and for some reason, they were coming. He wanted to run away, to move towns and forget these monsters ever existed, but something inside of him knew that there was no avoiding the reality of their sick little world and one day he’d have to face it head-on.

He only came out of his thoughts when he found himself standing outside his destination: a dingy pub known for its… interesting patrons. Townsfolk knew it for what it was, but nobody really said anything since they didn’t want to scare away any travellers from what was had become a hub of commerce. Commerce of all types. One time Vane saw someone trying to sell their kid. Some creepy dude bought her. It was a memory Vane actively tried to forget, because if he didn’t forget it, he worried he’d realize just how bad the world could be.

After taking a deep breath in, Vane stepped through the front door and marched his way over to the bar where some six-foot-six dude with a billion scars on his face was shouting stories at strangers. Vane smacked his package onto the counter and stared at the older man until the travel tale died and Alden noticed the butcher boy making a face at him. He briefly wondered if trying to assert his dominance in the situation was working, but any confidence he had immediately disappeared as soon as Alden spoke.

“The hell do you want?” Alden growled. Wrow, tiger. Wouldn’t want a customer to be interested your goods and services or anything. Better scare him off before, God forbid, he pays for something.

“I’m delivering you cured meats. Isn’t it obvious?” He was holding a basket of beef. What else would he be doing? That was literally the only reason he has ever interacted with Alden. The row of men seated along the bar giggled to themselves and it made Vane on edge for some reason.

He rumbled something unintelligible before grunting in an ambiguous tone. “Just leave it in the kitchen.”

“You’re being awfully hospitable today.” Vane rolled his eyes, but he decided to not push the issue, and instead he disappeared into the door nearby to hand over the goods to a grungy-looking cook making an even grosser looking stew. Seeing the fire under the pot reminded Vane of the days before Alden hated him. Oh how he missed eating that suspicious gruel. At least, he thought he missed it, until his stomach churned as he watched the man chop chunks of beef into it, and the fact that he couldn’t tell if it was a good or bad churning made him scared enough to duck back out of the kitchen. Before he could leave, though, there was one last matter of business to take care of: Vane stepped back over to Alden’s bar and interrupted story time yet again.

“What?” Alden barked, shooting an evil eye at the loser staring up at him.

“You need to pay me.” Vane said slowly, trying his damndest not to lace every single word with contempt. “I give you meat, you give me money.”

Alden narrowed his eyes and his voice hit a deeper note. “I already paid your daddy. So get going before I kick ya outta the place myself.” His broad hand clenched around a flagon of beer so tightly the wood almost cracked. That message was definitely received.

“Alright, alright.” Vane raised his hands in defence before stepping away. You accidentally set a man’s pub on fire once, and all of the sudden he wants to kill you every time he sees you. Hasn’t he heard of a thing called forgiveness? Regardless, every minute he spent in that scent cloud of alcohol, smoke, and sweat made Vane more and more nauseous, so he decided not to linger and made a beeline for the door. Stepping out into the fresh evening air felt like he was being reborn, really-- today was a long day and he was ready to finally end it.

That is, until he turned his head and noticed the dude staring at a leaf so intensely that Vane was worried it would explode.

“Hey, you okay, buddy? You look like you’re about to throw up or something.” Vane cocked his head cautiously. Usually he wouldn’t talk to weird drunks since they rarely had anything important to say, but it was rare to see someone wearing peacock colors around these parts. That was like asking to get mugged. “Y’know, if you need somewhere to stay, there’s plenty of places still open around town..” Vane leaned in a bit, side-eying the front door all the while. “But if you ask me, go down the street a bit and hit up a different tavern. Alden’s place is way too expensive for what you get.”

“Wait.” Vane looked the stranger in the eye for a good second before taking a slow step back. “Are you… Oh God, are you the Tristan Baske?“ That definitely explained the snazzy get-up. Ooooh, this was kind of awkward. He’d heard bad things about Tristan Baske, and Vane didn’t feel like messing with rich people. What was he supposed to say? He already engaged. There was no backing out. Vane didn’t really know what level of formality was necessary for talking with one of the richest people in Vaucluse, and he especially didn’t know how to talk to one when they were drunk. “Uh… Do you… need help? With anything? My lordship?”

@Ambra

[Dragonbud]

________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

Vauclause...How did Nicoline find herself in Vauclause? A place known for cut purses and throats as well as women and children vanishing. Well...to be honest...almost everywhere held that same reputation. But Nicoline was not one to venture far from her home, er, well her 'home'. Home-less sounds more accurate, but at least she was more familiar with the streets there. But now she was in Vauclause, confused and worried, wrapped in cloaks and hoods to try and make herself an intimidating figure in the dimming light. The young woman didn't want attention called to herself, either from unlawful or lawful people. She was searching for her friend.

Yep, Tristan had been the deciding factor in traveling to Vauclause.

Living on the streets Nicoline was able to hear rumors, passed around with no concern for whatever vagrants might be listening. Did you hear? Tristan Baske was seen in Vauclause! The Bastard son of Seth and Laila I thought he was forced out of his home. I wonder if he carries much coin on him. I hear her attracts trouble, poor lad. After hearing these conversations pass through the lips of the locals Nicoline began to worry. She had not seen her friend in some time, and the thought of him falling into trouble was enough to make the fretted woman nearly hysterical. She would travel to Vauclause, and she would find him before some undesirable could.

And so, she went to Vauclause.

The streets here were...nice. Dangerous as any other street, but the feral cats were a nice change of pace. She had spent her first night on the streets of Vauclause sharing a blanket with two furry bundles of joy, she only hoped they did not pass any itchy vermin onto her. She had spent the majority of the day traveling the streets, not asking about Tristan but hoping to hear something about the man. And she was getting closer as the sun began to set, wrapping herself in cloaks to preserve precious body heat.

Nicoline walked silently through the streets, keeping her eyes cast downward towards the cobbled roads. No need to make eye contact with the dwindling passerby's. She watched as a little gray cat skittered by her feet, hurrying towards the outstretched hand of of a young man. It seemed the man was feeding the stray. For a moment her empty stomach ached, and she wished for a moment she was a cat. No fear of kidnappers, only chin scritches and free meat. Nicoline tore her eyes away, continuing her quest for her friend.

Eventually she spotted Tristan, who's face was twisted with seriousness and staring at...a leaf...

Nicoline began to approach her friend, the slightest hints of a smile at the edges of her lips. But the young mage noticed not only the bumps along his exposed arms, indicating cold, but also the scent of alcohol in the air. Nicoline sighed, he was likely too drunk to know he was cold. The girl walked over quietly, pulling a woolen scarf off of her neck and draping it around Tristan's shoulders.

"Mister Tristan, what are you doing outside so late? You'll catch your death of cold"

She wouldn't have time for a response from her inebriated friend, as the woman noticed someone approaching them. Panic rushed through her mind, thinking of every possible bad thing that could be happening. Kidnappers, thieves, mage hunters. Nicoline, in a moment of deeply imbedded fear, turned away from Tristan and hurried off the road, ducking behind a building. Once she felt sufficiently hidden she peeked out from behind the wall, hoping to not observe her friend being robbed. Instead she saw someone, the same man as before, the one who was feeding the cat. And he seemed to be...talking...not robbing her friend.

[vietmyke]

Emil Durand

---

In the soft glow of the setting sun, the streets of Vaucluse quickly emptied as people fled the encroaching darkness. Fair enough, no matter where in Lutaire you went, as it got dark, the relative danger increased. Not that Emil ever feared much in the dark, man and beast alike tended to give him a wide berth when the giant bird beside him started spreading its clawed wings. Curled up in a lazy lounge in the somewhat rough feathers of Greytail, Emil sat on the soft rolling grass overlooking a small creek, his feet dug comfortably into the riverbank sand. Only vaguely aware of his surroundings, Emil snoozed contentedly as the line of a fishing rod nestled in the crook of his arm, was pulled taught. Shifting comfortably in his half daze, Emil as seemingly unaware as the fishing rod slid out of his arm and started retreating towards the water.

"Hey Emil, you're going to miss another one." commented his brother idly, also holding a fishing rod, though sitting more attentively. Both brothers sat taking in the cool breeze of twilight, their Stryxes nearby also relaxing. Work with the militia today had been sparse, their scouting flights had yielded no packs of monsters approaching the town, which meant the brothers had most of the afternoon off, which they decided to spend fishing.

"Ah shoot," Emil replied absentmindedly, his eyes still shut. Greytail! Would you kindly..." he trailed off, lazily pointing in the direction of the river.

The large stryx breathed in deeply- if it were a human, one might have equated it to an exasperated sigh. The brown stryx took off with a massive beat of its wings, Emil rolling onto the grass as the bird deposited its human occupant and took to the river. A rapid beat of its wings brought it a few feet into the air as it dove its beak into the river. There was the sound of fluttering wings, and a spray of water, as Greytail pulled a large trout out of the river, flopping back and forth wildly, fishhook and rod still hanging from its mouth. Before either brother could say anything, Greytail shook its head rapidly, sending the hook and rod clattering to the riverbank, and started tearing into the fish.

Sigmund rolled his eyes as he reeled in a fish of his own. "Luckily for you, I'm generous, we can split this one tonight. I'm heading back now."

"I'll catch up," Emil replied absentmindedly as he collected the remains of his fishing rod.

By the time twilight had rolled through, Emil and Greytail were walking back to the Aviary, passing through town on their way, a pair of freshly caught trout hanging from either side of the Stryx's saddle. The streets were as expected, empty. Though not completely. By Alden's Tavern there was a small gathering, Emil immediately recognized one of the individuals in front as Vane, the butcher's son. They got along well enough, despite their differences. He seemed to be aiding what looked like Tristan, the local lordling turned bastard- the 'Vagrant King' as some people liked to call him. An unfortunate soul to say the least. Emil and his brothers had been friendly with Rodran, before the oldest son passed, but Emil had never interacted much with Tristan- he was too drunk most of the time. Sigmund and Duncan also disapproved of the middle Baske, and so, Emil's contact with the man was minimal.

Nevertheless, he offered Vane a wave in passing as he and Greytail walked by. He was unsure what Vane was doing with the lordling but it was getting late out, and while Emil had no fear of the dark, there was no point in tempting fate if he didn't have to.

[Fabricant451]

---

If there was one thing learned from staying in Vaucluse it was that it was the kind of town that people settled in because they gave up. Nothing about it stood out architecturally, culturally, or even socially. If ever there was the perfect example of a stopgap town, Vaucluse was it. Which, of course, made it all the more bitter that Sabine was all but stuck here for far longer than she would've liked. While she had no actual destination in mind, other than the opposite direction of where she had come from, a town like Vaucluse offered her little other than overpriced piss masquerading as liquor and beds that gave you an itch in the morning. How anyone could live here Sabine didn't know, there wasn't even a good brothel that she could find - and that had been a thing she sought on the first night.

How long had she been in town? By a rough estimate it was somewhere around too long. Truth be told if she hadn't needed a few extra silvers she would have been long gone by now. The worst part about keeping her head down was having to hide the pouch of gold coins hidden on her waist. Even forgetting the cutpurses who were a bit on the bold end of things, a lone woman walking with gold raised suspicions no matter what the reasoning. While Sabine was surely no helpless wench, somehow she doubted a story of "I killed the attempted thieves" would lead to anything other than more questions and a trip to the block.

So rather than offer gold pieces for a room and food, Sabine negotiated as best she could. It wasn't exactly easy to find work that was both honest and not already attended to by the men, but Alden wasn't about to turn down someone willing to bring in wood for the fire or someone to serve the slop of stew from the pot in exchange for meager coin and a room in the cellar. Sabine wasn't picky, she'd slept in worse. For the past month or so - though gods if it didn't feel longer - Sabine chopped wood at dawn and acted a bar maid at eve. It only took one instance of a drunken hand having a mind of its own for the regulars to know that Sabine had little patience and a strong backhand.

Was this how the normal folk of the land lived? Working mindless jobs by day and drowning their lives in pisswater ale by night? Seeing the same sorry sorts night in and night out was sobering, if nothing else. Often she would lay awake in the tavern cellar and wonder if she had made the right choice or if that was simply the banality talking. But the sloppy spittle of drunks was a poor replacement for the salty spray of the sea at dawn. Still, when weighed against the other option of being put to death, this life had its advantages.

Today was no exception to the cycle that her life had fallen into. While she was certain she could never enjoy living such a routine the fact that it was starting to feel normal was alarming. In her time working the routine she hadn't even earned enough silver to purchase a full meal let alone a single night; the wages were hardly fair to begin with but given the lack of return and the fact that she knew damn well how much the regulars drank she was starting to think Alden was cheating her. What could she do? Bring it up to him? Then she'd be out of a place to stay and eat - which she was doing free of charge.

As the morning sun rose and the axe was brought down to cleave the wood in two, Sabine knew she had to get out of this town before she started looking to be someone's wife just to no longer have to deal with a routine. That she was even thinking that that was her inevitable outcome, a life of being some sort of unhappy marm for someone similar to the lushes that kept Alden afloat, further proved to her that Vaculuse was a town for people that had given up.

When Sabine brought in the morning's firewood she wasn't afforded a break. She had to peel potatoes, stoke the flames, stir the pot, and make sure the stew didn't bubble over and burn until the chef arrived to ruin Sabine's effort, and then she shifted to making beds and disposing of chamber pots. How Alden survived without a proper barmaid for so long Sabine didn't know, though she suspected her predecessors had far less patience than she did.

By the time night was about to fall, Sabine had typically been exhausted long before the regulars came in, but whenever she took a moment to sit down and rest Alden grunted rather dismissively. Tonight, however, she got away with it thanks to the timely arrival of a boy and his basket of beef. No amount of meat could salvage what was being boiled and bubbled in the back but the man was certainly welcome to try. While she was thankful for the moment's respite, the conversation about payment served only to annoy Alden which meant, of course, that that would get turned to Sabine in time. Already she could hear the angered grunts as he observed Sabine doing next to nothing.

In her defense, though, the tavern was somewhat empty. The stories of thieves and criminals and worse elements prowling the streets at night wasn't generally enough to stave off the truly dependent, so why then were the regulars not yet arrived. The answer was as easy as Sabine poking her head outside - on request of Alden of course. Some kind of gathering was taking place, unsanctioned, and technically it was happening on property that wasn't theirs.

"Oi, you two, piss off will yeh? No loiterin'." Sabine couldn't hide the brogue in her voice though she could tone down the vulgarity to which she had so grown accustomed to. "And you there, with the oversized capon, if that thing takes a shite anywhere near the street yeh best no' let me find it there in the morn." Well, she had mostly cut back on the vulgarity.

[Marlowe]

Interacting with: Vane @Sen, Nicoline @Dragonbud, Sabine @Fabricant451

Tristan was in his own world. He didn't even think of the leaf that fluttered away as if it was rushing from its side. Not even the sounds of joy ripped him from his thoughts. All he could think of was what he was doing to do with two stryx, especially if no one came with him. He couldn't just ask now. There were too many pairs of loose lips around these parts and if he went asking around for help, then the town guard would tie him to a tree to prevent him from leaving. Well, wasn't he stuck in between a rock and a hard place? It was as if fate was keeping him from leaving?

The sudden cold nipped at him again. Just as he was about to curse himself for not bringing a thicker cloak, a familiar face rushed up to him in a flurry. "Nico--" Tristan began, his tongue heavy. Before he knew it, the girl was gone, and he was left with a scarf wrapped around his shoulders. Huffing, he threw one end of it around his neck. It was soft and warm. Just what he needed.

Someone stepped out from the tavern and tossed some words at him. Tristan turned his head, giving the other blonde a sidelong look. Now, whenever someone asked him, "Are you the real Tristan Baske", that was just asking for trouble. If he said yes, he would quite possibly be met with a disdainful look and a scoff. If he said no, then, well...

"Mmmm," Tristan began, flushing slightly. God above, why did he have to be seen in a woman's scarf? In front of another guy, on top of that?! "'Tis I. And I don't need nothing but another drink and a woman in my bed."

As if there had been someone listening to him, a woman stuck her head out of the door. She was pretty but her attitude was unsavory and rude. The fire that poisoned his blood burned brighter. "Oh, screw off. We ain't doing nothin'. Can't say anything about the big bird man, though," he sneered at her with a malicious grin. "Hey, you seem like ya gotta stick up your ass. How about a good lay to see if ya loosen up a bit?

[Vertigo]

R Y L A N T W Y F O R D

Vauclause, streets
Dusk

Ever since Rylan first set foot in town, he found himself unloved by Vauclause's most crooked.

As far as they were concerned, he was nothing but a foul stranger, a sudden threat to a delicately upheld hierarchy. He was met with distrust and stares, and he returned both in kind. Unaware of the ongoing turf wars or the blood spilled during them, he strode the back alleys like a king without a people, not understanding that every stretch of cobblestone was already claimed in someone else's name.

Once the first dusk settled, he understood. If he wanted to hunt, sleep or piss, he had to fight for the right to do it where he wished. So, fight he did, and turf he claimed. But though he was a force unstoppable when it came to acquiring rights to streets, he never did best the others in hunting. The beasts he shared the nights with were fearsome and raw, built from head to heel to hunt and kill. Compared to them, Rylan's daggers were dull and his slingshot slow.

They were hunger made manifest, and to this day, they still stole his kills on the daily without a shred of pity spared.

He was, of course, talking about the cats.

Rylan hated cats.

On principle, the boy much preferred animals to humans. Much simpler in nature, they were unable to hide ill intent behind sweet smiles and sweeter yet words; if you failed to tell apart an angry animal from a pleased one, you entirely deserved to catch their claw.

But when a particular animal was practically built to undermine every attempt at food acquisition you made, animosity was unavoidable. If the cats weren't stealing his kills with their nimble feet and acrobatic prowess, they were winning over what little alms the townsfolk were willing to give with their large beaded eyes.

It wasn’t even something Rylan could blame the townsfolk for. Who would spare their scraps to the smelly scoundrel boy likely to rob you off your coin, when a tabby stared up at you just so, little fuzzy chest rising in tandem with its purr?

A disturbing - if faint - cracking sound pulled Rylan from his thoughts. He raised one sore foot to see what he'd stepped on, and immediately his brows pulled into a furrow. Under his feet, a pile of brittle bones lay in a tuft of bloodied feathers. Grey feathers, as was often the case; ravens were much rarer a sight in town than pigeons, and way more cunning still. It wasn't them the cats caught with effortless ease by the dozens.

Idly, Rylan wondered it that very kill was one he'd been robbed off earlier in the day.

With a small sigh, the boy wiped the bottom of his shoe on the corner of a cobblestone and pressed on. With his mind back in the present, he was suddenly all too aware of the discoloured sky.

Many said the sunset was a beautiful, inspiring time, one that had buttered many a troubadour’s tongue in the past. Rylan had always found sunset upsetting. One need only think of the implications to be disturbed; every day the sun would tirelessly journey across heavens, and every evening it would reach the end of the world and meet its demise. It would bleed orange across the horizon for man and beast alike to behold, and then be wiped from existence and memory alike end dusk. In the morrow it would begin the cycle anew, only to meet the same gruesome end.

Maybe he was overthinking it. Maybe he could have made a living as a bard instead. Or perhaps he was just too well acquaintanced with what came after sunset that made him think of it in such twisted terms.

The thiefling's steps hastened now, as the bright western horizon was slowly diluted with greys and blues. By the time the sky was black, the cats wouldn't be the only predators prowling the roads. Rylan swore he'd seen them before; shadows come to life, twisting and turning and convulsing, filling the air with the discordant crack of a dozen bones until they stood in a vaguely human shape.

On some nights, Rylan could swear he saw them blink in and out of his peripheral vision. There in an instant, gone the next - almost as if intent on driving him mad with doubt. On other nights, the town was quiet as a grave, and the worst monsters one could encounter were the lowlives with loose cloaks, waiting in shady alleys with baited breath and sweaty fingers for maidens to stumble by.

Yet on others, he didn't see anything out of the ordinary - but even the bravest felines hissed at something unseen, baring their dirty fangs and slashing at the putrid back alley air as if fighting away an invisible threat. It was usually then that Rylan bolted, so he never did find out which side won.

After the bizarre disappearance of three kids only a block from his usual sleeping place, the thief had finally decided he could no longer risk a night in the streets. He'd tried inns at first. Any rundown place with a roof had been good enough, but most would not accept a boy in smelly rags. He had managed to fool a few places with his finer clothes and foreign flavour of words, but that had drained him of coin faster than he'd liked. In the end, he'd been forced to stalk the fringes of town for stables and farmhouses to slip into for the night.

Then, one night, he'd been running from something he could only feel giving chase, and had dived into the first stable he'd found. Inside, he'd expected to find horses rearing at him surprise - and had nearly soiled himself when he'd come face to face with them, instead; proud stryxes with sharp beaks and sharper yet stares, eyeing the scrawny boy that dared trespass in their turf with all the disdain of a king scorned.

Rylan had managed to win them over with food over the following weeks, and had now become an almost nightly quest at the aviary. He was well aware that every visit carried a very real risk - but he preferred the real risk to the ghastly, corporeal, haunting risk that awaited him outside.

The boy was half-way to his destination when he caught a glimpse of quite a scene. It was, ironically, the stryx that first caught his eye. Rylan recognized it as one from the very aviary he was headed towards and quickly duck behind a building to avoid detection. From there, his gaze wandered; to the boy that walked beside the bird to the man he was giving a passing wave; a young man draped in clothes all too fine to be worn at such a dangerous hour. His posture betrayed a drunk, one with quite a reputation among the town's night-dwellers. Tristan Baske, currently wrapped up in conversation with another man and---

Rylan rubbed at his ear in the wake of the woman’s words. A... someone with a mouth fouler than the nest of a dozen rats. But then, the bar she was peeking out of was hardly a reputable place, anyway. Rylan wasn't entirely convinced the owner wasn't a bull wearing a man's skin.

Considering the boy with the stryx was not yet home, Rylan figured he could not yet make his way to the aviary. He had to wait until everyone else was asleep before he could slip in, or risk detection. He didn't know what the Durands did to scoundrels in their stables, but he wasn't all too eager to find out.

So, while he waited, he leaned against the wall he was hiding behind and figured he might as well enjoy the show. If the situation devolved into a fight, all the better; he could stalk past the chaos and perhaps earn a coin or two.

[Fabricant451]

_{Interacting With: Tristan @Ambra}

---

Oh, she was dealing with a right charmer wasn't she? What was it about a couple of pints that turned people into gits? Perhaps it wasn't the fact that it turned them into gits, but rather that it amplified what was already there. If Sabine had been some common tavern maid she might have taken offense at the remark; if she had been a real wench in a classier establishment she might even have blushed and considered the notion. But whoever this git was he certainly wasn't charming enough to woo her nor did he seem particularly her type. Soft and malleable or sturdy and wild, neither of which seemed to match this leaf-watcher.

"Oh, a good lay is it?" Sabine stepped out of the doorway with her arms firmly planted on her hips, eyeing the little loudmouth with a sideways glance. "Aye, suppose I could do wi' one, but from you? Yeh could nae get a whore to make a sound, boyo. If there's a good lay ta be found, it ain't in the region of yer trousers."

As she dismissed the idea, Sabine paced in front of the doorway, not breaking eye contact with the lad. She wasn't going to let him have the satisfaction of assuming his comment did anything other than give her a mild bit of amusement. She'd not been here long but even so she knew that a good lay wouldn't be found in Vaucluse. It was often hard enough getting one in Tenebroux.

"I won't ask yeh again. Unless ya wanna buy somethin', piss off. I ain't losin' my job for a pair'a drunken buggerers."

With her part being said, Sabine ended her pacing and crossed her arms firmly 'cross her chest. If they wanted to continue the battle of wits, she'd oblige them but she'd rather that wasn't the case. They might not have had a care in the world, but she was on the clock and already she could hear her take for the night decreasing with every passing second she spent out here.

[Dragonbud]

________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

Nicoline continued to peer out from around the wall she was hidden behind, her anxiety growing as more and more people began to gather near her friend. Luckily nothing had escalated yet, but the worried mage began to think of a plan. Perhaps creating some sort of distraction, allowing Tristan to escape in the hubris. The timid woman was deep in her musing when suddenly another voice drew her back to the present. A gruff, improper, feminine voice. Apparently the gathering group was gathering on the property of the tavern. Nicoline looked up towards the eaves of the building she was hiding behind. Well the sign hanging above the door should have been a dead give away.

For a moment Nicoline felt relief, this was the perfect excuse for the group to disperse, the mage could find Tristan a safe place to sleep and nothing bad would happen. Any relief that had begun to root was quickly squashed by Tristan's response to the woman. A response that forced a gasp out of the quiet woman's mouth.

The crudeness, the proposition. That was no way for a young man, a young lord, like Tristan to be responding to a woman. Nicoline had never seen her friend in such a light, acting like the men she strove to avoid on the streets. She felt a pit in she stomach for a moment, hoping that it was the alcohol in the young man's system causing him to act so poorly. But even that didn't comfort Nicoline, drunken words are sober thoughts and such.

Nicoline sighed, pulling the hood on she head closer to her body. She briefly considered hurrying off into the darkness, when the scene around the corner began to escalate, or at least began to heat up in a way that made Nicoline more nervous. The...crass...woman stepped out of the doorway and quickly shot down Tristan's offer. But what really could be a problem was the woman's verbal jab at his nether regions. The last thing Nicoline wanted was for Tristan to get upset and become violent.

With a deep breath, trying to quell her nerves, Nicoline again adjusted the hood over her face and stepped out from behind the building, quickly coming up to Tristan's side again. The mage spoke softly, mostly to Tristan.

"Come now, Mister Tristan, there is no need for this to continue..."

Nicoline looked up at the woman standing in the doorway of the bar, and nodded slightly when the girl requested the gathering party go elsewhere.

"Yes...that's a good idea. Mister Tristan, we should find you somewhere to spend the night..."

[Sen]

Unfortunately, the drunk dude turned out to be the real Tristan Baske instead of a very stupid doppelganger, so Vane found himself weighing the options once again. He could just leave. Nobody would have to know this happened. But he didn't seem to be doing anything particularly... bad? He's smashed, yeah, but that isn't much inherently wrong with that. Feeling optimistic again, Vane opened his mouth to suggest the drunkard get home soon, yet a woman's voice came out before his own.

A crude one at that.

Vane pivotted on his heel and stared over at the girl yelling at them. She was one of the barmaids. She was talking to both of them. Vane was flabbergasted. He tried to be a good samaritan once, and he gets accused of being a loitering drunk. Like any rational human being would, Vane started to explain the situation and clear his name, but before he could any more than a single word out, Tristan opened his stupid mouth and spewed out some garbage that was most definitely not going to help the situation.

Vane definitely didn't mind Tristan getting his ass told, but he still didn't appreciate getting lumped in with him in the process. Sneering, Vane intercepted the conversation before Tristan could say anything worse. "Based on his current condition, I'd say he bought plenty enough from this joint to warrant hanging around a bit before shoving off. And I don't appreciate you lumping me in with this drunkard! I'm on your side if anything!" He shook his head in frustration. What was he even doing at this point.

Vane turned around, his determination to get Tristan to go away steeled, but to his surprise, another woman was hovering at Tristan's side. A dark hood obscured her face as she whispered to the royal manslut. He decided to accelerate the diplomatic process by grabbing hold of Tristan's arm and tearing him away from the tavern by force. "You know this guy?" Vane shot a glance over at the mystery girl, completely forgetting his previous attempts at being polite to Tristan. "Do the world a favor and get him home or something. He's bothering business."

@Ambra @Dragonbud

[Marlowe]

Interacting with: Vane @Sen, Nicoline @Dragonbud, Sabine @Fabricant451

It seemed like everyone had a pole up their arse today. It could have been because of his heavy tongue and the fire in his blood, but Tristan wasn't about to blame himself. In his mind, it seemed like no one was in the mood for jokes. That, and, well... the words coming from the saucy blonde woman made his cheeks sting with embarrassment. If his body warmed up any more, he wouldn't be surprised if he turned into a bloody dragon. A dragon without a tongue, that was. The very same woman sapped him of any bite or fire breath he had in him. A woman who dared to insult a man's pride and joy was nothing but a wench.

Tristan kept his smoldering gaze placed on Sabine. Yes, he was at a loss for words. Yes, he just got fiercely embarrassed in front of Vaucluse's whole town square. Even now, he could near the sniggers coming from other loiterers that had stopped by to watch the spectacle from afar. He was tempted to give the woman a good smacking. But his name had already been dragged through countless bogs and ditches-- did he really dare to fall as far as striking a woman who didn't hit first?

A crooked scowl crossed his lips. Another snicker from nearby only deepened the flush on his face, and he crossed his arms again, his fingers burying themselves into the flesh of his forearms once again. Tristan didn't even hear what Nicoline said, or what Vane told the young mage girl. All he cared about was getting home. After he pulled his stunt off, he wouldn't have to suffer through any of this shit again. No one would flinch at the mention of his name. No one would laugh behind his back. No one would call him names. Hell, even his father would be proud of him, for once. Tristan Baske wouldn't be a burden. His name would be a legend!

"... g-go get eaten by a chimera, you twisted ol' harpy," Tristan waved Sabine off before turning his gaze to Vane and Nicoline. "Don't you two worry. I've better places to be, anyways." And with a heated scoff, the defeated lordling turned away and began to head back toward his father's manor.

If he was lucky, that would be the last time he'd have to walk that blasted path back home.

[Marlowe]

Time of Day: Night
Season: Late Summer

---

Interacting with: No one, at the moment

The night was black as pitch. Above, the sky hung moonless and barren of stars. If it weren't for the fires coming from inside the manor, Tristan wouldn't be able to see his hand if he held it in front of him. Dressed in a black cowl and cape that shrouded his features in darkness, he silently glided down the pale halls of the Baske manor. No one was awake at this time. And for that, he was thankful. The guards would most likely alert his father if they saw him sneaking around. And if that happened, there was no way in hell he was going to get out of there without his father's nose up his ass.

Carefully, he stepped into the main hall. On the walls hung horrendous visages of beasts that his father slayed during his hunts. Yes, the men in the family were known for hunting. But Tristan found bows to be bulky and hard to hold... and, not to mention, he could hardly string one even if his life depended on it. He stood in the middle of the furnished room, warily eyeing the snarling muzzles and gleaming fangs glimmering from above. Tearing his gaze from them, he instead pinned it on a case that rested below a window. Like a specter, he walked toward it. A black blade, blacker than Vaucluse's nights, rested atop a blood red cushion.

Severance.

Hundreds of years ago, it was a dragon slayer. Now it was just sitting there. Waiting for someone to pick it up again. Waiting for him.

Light from a nearby candle rippled over its ebony sheen. Captivated by its beauty, Tristan tried to imagine himself holding it much like his ancestors did. Glorious. Fierce. Riding upon the back of a ferocious stallion and brandishing the dragon-killing sword. Biting the inside of his mouth, he cracked the case open. If his father were to catch him, he would surely be hanged for even touching Severance as a bastard. A smirk crossed his lips. A bastard wielding a blade meant for full-blooded lords. Already, he could feel his father twist and turn in his sleep.

With a flourish, he lifted the sword out of its case. It caught more of the light and its edge danced with a beautiful flame-colored hue. To his dismay, it felt heavy and sat awkwardly in his palm.

I'll get used to it.

---

The light from his torch illuminated the way to Vaucluse's stryx aviary. Tristan walked with a bounce in his step, no matter how urgent he was. He had food, water, and Severance-- all he needed was a blasted bird. It was easy to get to the aviary, and before he knew it, he was already in the area where they kept the giant carnivorous birds. Tristan never saw a stryx up close. He just knew that some weren't nocturnal, and some were, which meant he had to be extra careful around them.

Huffing, he marched over a small hill and saw two beasts nesting near the Durand household. A light still shimmered from inside the house, making Tristan give a little groan. Out of all times to be awake, of course these were the people who stayed up until past midnight. He twisted his mouth. Great.

Cursing, he slid down the small slope and slowly picked his way to the stryx. A tawny, earthy-red colored one lifted its head and growled at him. "Calm down now, boy," he tried his best to sooth it. All it did was look at him with beady yellow eyes and snap its beak. Crap. Now that he thought about it, how was he supposed to drag this thing out of here?

[Vertigo]

R Y L A N T W Y F O R D

Durand Aviary
Night
Interacting with @Ambra

If one could ignore the monstrous claws capable of gutting a man with alarming ease, stryxes didn't make for half bad bunkmates. Their large frames offered ample cover, and their temperament towards strangers kept most dangers at bay. Once you earned their trust enough to get close, their plumage was softer than the finest pillow, and their wings a blanket worthy of kings.

Or so Rylan imagined. He hadn't actually dared to edge close enough to touch a single feather.

He had been smacked in the face once or twice by a twitching wing, though. It turned out that either stryxes were capable of seeing very restless dreams, or just unconsciously predispositioned to slap the shit out of people hiding in their dens. Of those, Rylan could believe either.

But though they did shift in their sleep, stryxes didn't seem to be easily woken by unnecessary things. They paid little mind even to the harshest thunderstorm, and once they had gotten used to Rylan's company, were not bothered if he had to stumble over them to go make water.

In short, if a stryx did stir in the middle of the night, you knew something was amiss.

Both of the stryxes he shared the stable with stirred that night.

Rylan could hear the rustle of their wings and the snap of their beaks permeate his sleep, tearing at the thin veil that separated sleep and wakefulness. He groaned and resisted the pull of his consciousness, trying to chase a slowly waning dream - until realization finally struck him awake. Something was afoot.

At first, Rylan could not tell whether his eyes were open or not. His hand, the walls, even the stryxes; the darkness had swallowed them all. On some nights, Rylan could see the moon form a welcoming carpet at the stable door and dance upon the surfaces of pitchforks and pickaxes, but tonight he could not. The night was chilly and moonless.

The stryx closest to him seemed the most agitated. Rylan could feel its muscles tense, and though he could not say for certain, he was fairly sure it kept staring at the abyss outside. There was something there, and judging by the reaction it garnered, it was unlike to be any of the Durands.

The whisper of danger blew all sleep from Rylan's eyes. He was frozen in his place among the hey, afraid that his heartbeat was loud enough to lure in whatever stalked outside. The pounding was loud enough to nearly deafen him - and nearly render him breathless, too. Was it possible to choke on your own heartbeat? Every passing second made it sound more and more likely.

Rylan was just about to bury himself into the hay and wait for whatever it was to pass, when the stryx next to him tired of waiting. It stood up so suddenly that its wing knocked the the boy over onto his back. Eyes wide, Rylan scrabbled after the beast as if he had any chance of stopping it.

"Where--- where are you going?!" the boy shrilled, outstretched hand unable to grasp anything but darkness. "Get--- get back here, you don't want it to know there's anyone here! And you can't... you can't leave me, you know?! That other stryx is just a fletchling, an-- H-hey?!"

If the bird understood, it utterly ignored him. Rylan could barely make out its distancing outline as it stalked to the door. He hissed out breathless curses and scrambled after it. There was no way he was going to be left inside defenseless with only a babe of a stryx to keep him company. What if that something came inside!? It was best to stick to the predator's side, even if said predator was a literal fucking birdbrain.

The scoundrel managed to find a pitchfork where he remembered them to be, and held one to his chest as if it was a shield. He was practically glued to the bird's side, every sense pushed to their physical limit - until a glow in the darkness brought his eyes rest. Rylan blinked, repeatedly. And each time his eyes opened to focus back on the source of the light, a chunk of his fear turned into confusion.

The light was coming from a torch. Monsters did not carry torches - at least, Rylan was fairly certain they did not. If they did, they perhaps weren't as scary as he'd thought.

Indeed, as his stryx companion stopped to spread its wings an angrily snap its beak at the dark figure ahead, Rylan realized the only thing scary about this particular stranger was his stupidity.

"What do you think you're doing?" Rylan hissed, pitchfork pointed at the strange man's back. It wasn't quite like him to get to the point without a snide remark first, but this also wasn't quite a normal night.

He didn't know who this man was or what he wanted with the two stryx he was bothering, but the way he cloaked himself and sneaked around at such an hour spoke volumes of his intentions. He certainly wasn't anyone from the aviary.

Now that the pitch black darkness had been permeated by a sudden light source, Rylan found himself nearly blinded by the brightness of it. He raised one arm to shield his eyes, pitchfork wobbly in his other hand. Not that he had anything to fear from a crook this stupid. "Raise the torch a little higher, will you? Don't think the entire aviary's seen you yet."

[vietmyke]

Emil Durand

The Durand Aviary

---

The Durand Aviary, settled in just outside of town, was afforded a relatively larger living space than those inside Vaucluse proper. The Aviary itself stretched pretty wide, a large open field in the center, where general work and training took place. On one side of the field stood the main coup and several smaller ones, for the Stryxes. On the opposite side of the field sat the Durand Homestead, a two story building made of a feldstone foundation with plaster and wooden upper floors. Next to it was a second building- a smaller bunkhouse for staff. The top of the house sat a small tower-like structure, wide windows affording it a view of the entire aviary.

Though their birds were highly sought after throughout Lutaire, the Durand's rarely employed other staff, mostly supplementary trainers and a few fieldhands. Of the half dozen men and women the Durand's employed, only one was a guard. As a result Emil and his older brother Sigmund often helped out as guards. Tonight was not much different. Emil and Tork, their hired guard sat at the top of the tower in the homestead, seated on opposite sides of a short table, a small lamp off to the side illuminating the open-air little gazebo. The two hunched over the small table, a cards in hand, a bottle and handful of coins on the table. Not much happened in this isolated town, so they passed their time with cards and drinks.

"Yer call Durand," Tork drawled as he pulled a pair of silver coins out of his pocket and placed them on the slowly growing pile of copper and silver pieces. He folded his arms and leaned back in his seat, confident.

Emil's eyes narrowed, darting back and forth between his cards and Tork's face, trying to find a chink in Tork's armored persona. His leg bounced up and down lightly. After a minute or so of complete silence, Emil shook his head and threw a pair of silver coins on the pile. "You've got nothing Tork," Emil replied confidently as he threw his cards down face up.

Emil allowed himself a small smile as he saw Tork's eyes open wider, and began reaching out for the small pile of coins. Before his hand could reach the coins though Tork swatted him with a hand. "Ah, close little Durand, very close."

Emil cursed aloud as Tork revealed his cards with a flick of his wrist. Tork laughed a loud, guffawing laugh as he casually swept the coins into his purse. "I tell you what Durand, sometimes I think I make more money from these games than the wages you lot pay me."

Not to be discouraged, Emil fished out another pair of coins and was about to put them down on the table when he heard the clacking of a Stryx's beak. Tork heard it too, and he stopped moving, motioning to the window with a finger. The two of them peeked out of the tower, their eyes quickly centering in on a torch nearby the coups. Emil rubbed the back of his neck sheepishly, how had they missed that? It was a good thing Sigmund wasn't up, he'd be livid. Emil immediately recognized the Stryx out in the field as his own- Greytail. Greytail seemed to have been accompanied by a man- he couldn't tell in the dim light or distance, but they didn't have any guards other than Tork, so Emil was unsure who it could've been. The man seemed to be holding a pitchfork, which was pointed at the torchbearer. Tork reached over and grabbed a crossbow, pulling the cord back with a click before he slit a bolt into place, meanwhile, Emil tossed his lance out the window and hastily slid down the ladder, scooping the spear off the ground as he made his way across the field.

As Emil made his way across the field, he saw Greytail rear back, spreading his wings wide- in an intimidating gesture before giving out a sharp, piercing screech. In the dark and relative silence of night, the screech broke through like a thunderclap. Greytail's legs spaced out, and he beat his wings several times as he reared back, ready to stab his steel hard beak through the encroacher.

"Greytail! Heel!"

Greytail suddenly stopped mid-charge and reset himself, talons digging up dirt as they skidded to a stop. The large Stryx took several steps back and crouched slightly, his angry yellow eyes glaring intensely at the apparent invader- though seemed perfectly comfortable with the other 'invader'. That information in and of itself was confusing to Emil- Greytail liked very few people, not Tork, few of the trainers, not even his eldest brother.

"Who goes there?!" Emil demanded, his voice taking on an uncharacteristic bark as he planted one end of his lance into the ground, his right hand gripped around it loosely, but confidently.

[Sen]

Not even the cats were stirring at night. It was like he stepped out into another world where the sun didn’t exist and the gods never made life. The shadows cast by the candle Vane held dared not move an inch, lest they be caught slipping away to where they weren’t supposed to go. Something about the fact that the moon was swallowed up by a sea of clouds made him a lot more anxious, like it was some kind of omen. He generally didn’t laud himself as a superstitious person, but Vane knew when the world was giving him a sign. Something bad was going to happen in Vaucluse that night.

As he walked down the stone street, bow string digging into his chest as he carried it around his shoulder, Vane failed to see why he couldn’t stop himself from doing what he was doing. It was completely irrational: he had a family, a town he grew up in, yet… Yet somehow the demon biting the back of his brain compelled him to go. Something about the long days plaguing him as of late made him desperate for some kind of release. This wasn’t even a spur of the moment thing, either. He had a plan. A friend in a different town who had a place for him to live and work, a pocket full of coins he had saved up, and a bag full of his personal effects. As creepy as it was, seeing the streets of Vaucluse one more time made him reluctant to go.

Though, it’s hard to get consumed by doubt when there’s a dark figure standing a good half dozen meters ahead of you. Vane could barely make out the silhouette of the man, and truth be told he had jumped a little, but he tried to tell himself that it was just another person out on a casual midnight stroll. Nothing unusual.

“Hey there.” He called out to the figure, but to his dismay the man did not answer. No, instead it merely shifted a bit where it stood. “Who’s there!?” Vane clenched a hand around the string of his bow, the other reaching back into the bag strung over his back and pulling out an arrow that was sticking out of the top. As much as he didn’t want to admit that he was afraid of monsters, the rumors floating around were too gruesome to ignore. There was no way he was going to get a good shot on a shadow hiding in the darkness, so he readied the arrow in case he needed to make a quick stab-and-go exit.

Right as Vane started to step away from the figure, it shuffled down into an alleyway and disappeared from view. A pang of panic struck his heart, and all of the sudden Vane found himself compelled to look behind him. He threw a glance over his shoulder but there was nothing there. He turned around and around, desperate to find something to fight, but there was nothing. After a moment of nothing happening passed, Vane took a deep breath and tried to calm himself down. Maybe he was freaking out over nothing. It was probably just a weird cat he saw and it got freaked out when he moved. Those wives’ tales were just smoked ham in a sandwich of hogwash. With a renewed confidence, Vane started forward again, but right as he passed by the alley, a gust of wind blew by and extinguished his candle. The world faded away in the breeze, the only light guiding him disappearing as something lunged out and grabbed him by the shoulders.

It ripped him back, throwing him off his feet as it tried to drag him into the alley. Instinctively, Vane shot his arm back and thrust the blade of the arrow into the arm of whatever was trying to grab him. It snarled out in pain as the arrowhead bore into its flesh, its arms retracting in panic. Quickly, Vane jumped back onto his feet and screamed out for help. His voice cracked in a pitiful way, but he couldn’t help it when his heart was beating a million miles an hour and he was desperately fumbling for something else to use as a weapon. His enemy was invisible and he didn’t know how to fight in the dark. He was a fly caught in a web.

[Marlowe]

Interacting with: Rylan @Vertigo, Emil @vietmyke

The beast was less than happy, he could tell. Tristan brought the fire closer to the large bird, hoping that the bright light would frighten it just enough so it could calm down. Even he knew his plan was flawed. But the stryx was in no mood to be manipulated by a total stranger. It growled again as it opened its wings partially. Its pupils dilated and constricted as it pinned its gaze on him. For a moment, he faltered. He was in huge trouble. If he fell, what a glorious death it would be! Killed by an oversized turkey. Grounding his teeth, he took a step forward, squaring his shoulders and reaching forward. If he couldn't soothe it, well, he would take it by force.

Someone spoke behind him. Tristan whirled around, his blood running even more cold than it already was. The man was another intruder, for Tristan didn't recognize him as one of the Durand household. No... this was Rylan, a scoundrel from the streets. They'd had a few run-ins here and there, but this was the most... well, apprehensive. In a flourish, he unsheathed the stolen sword from his scabbard, pointing it at Rylan as he glowered at him from under his hood. "And you're going to wake the whole place up with that screech of yours," he snarled, attempting to make his voice deeper than it was. Hopefully Rylan wouldn't recognize anything about him.

He glanced at the pitchfork, then the stryx. It had made a sharp movement. His eyes went wide. It was rearing up now, wings outstretched and muscles terse. Crap. It was ready to charge. If it did, it'd gore them to bits. Tristan wavered the tip of his blade towards the bird, hoping that if it did attack, it would run into his sword before it did any damage.

But the stryx didn't attack. It slouched begrudgingly at the sound of yet another voice. Tristan felt a trickle of sweat run down the side of his face. Now this had turned into an even larger problem. The new visitor was one of the Durands. He saw him around the manor when his father was purchasing stryx from the aviary. If there is a goddess, she's damned this whole night--

For a moment, he wondered if he should keep up with the charade. But at this point it was probably going to end up a fight. And he was sure that Rylan would team up with Emil and join against him. He certainly wasn't in the mood to be stuck with pitchforks and lances. Sighing heavily, he sheathed the black sword before standing straight and lowering his hood. He also lowered the torch, hoping the light wouldn't irritate the bird further. "Hi," he said in the most nonchalant way possible. "I'd think that stryx handlers and thieves would be tucked away in bed by now. A shame really... I really didn't want to run into anyone just yet."

Tristan set his gaze back on Emil. "But seriously. Don't go running for help. I'm not a cold-blooded thief like that guy over there. I only wanted to borrow this stryx for a little bit. I promise I was going to tell you."

[Vertigo]

R Y L A N T W Y F O R D

Durand Aviary
Night
Interacting with @ambra, @vietmyke

In retrospect, Rylan should have figured a man approaching stryx in the dead of the night was armed. The sword the other unsheated on him made his pitchfork look little more than a fork; the blade was night itself, pitch black and ominous as the torch's light danced upon its edge. On any other night, in any other place, Rylan would have backed away from the weapon with raised hands and a few choice words of surrender. But tonight he was not alone, and so he stood his ground.

Before he could question how the other thought his whisper a screech however, the stryx next to him seemed to have had enough. It reared as if preparing to strike at the fool, and in an instant Rylan knew just what to do.

As was fitting for a man of his status, he scurried away from the incoming carnage as fast as he could. He bore no ill will towards the dimwitted intruder, but neither was he willing to risk his life defending a man he did not know. If the other met his end by the stryx's beak, he had none to blame but himself. The idiot had just waltzed into the den of carnivorous beasts with naught to offer but words.

The screech the bird let our was inhumane, piercing through Rylan's skull like an arrow welded of thunder. The thiefling dropped his pitchfork in favour of covering both his ears - not that it made much of a difference now. His ears already rung.

Eyes cast on the ground and ears covered, he was both deaf and blind to the beating wings next to him. But he could feel the air that whipped against his side, and knew to dug even further away, closer to the ground. It did not occur to him to run away when he had the chance.

A moment later, it was already too late. A voice broke through the night, tiny as it was compared to the screech that had deafened him. He could make out an unknown word, but though it meant noting to him, it brought the stryx to calm. His claws dug into dirt instead of flesh, and the madly beating wings had come to a stop. In a confused daze, Rylan lowered his hands and looked up at his companion.

Greytail...?

It occurred to him that the stryx's tail was grey.

"... Oh. So that's your name."

Stupidly happy as knowing the stryx's name made him, Rylan could not linger on that realization for long. Another one followed soon after, striking him half-dead from startlement. The same voice that had halted Greytail in his tracks called out again, and Rylan realized what that entailed; just as he'd feared, they'd roused the Durands. They'd be lucky to survive with cut hands.

Rylan spun around to meet the approaching men, and was suddenly painfully aware of his own state of unarm. He contemplated snatching up the pitchfork that lay on his feet, but hesitated to add to his list of offenses. Perhaps, instead, he could talk his way out of this.

"My lords, good that you came!" he exclaimed, though he knew well that neither of the approaching youngsters was of noble blood. He stabbed a finger in the direction of the other intruder, entirely unflinching. "This crook was after your birds. I was merely---"

Before he could continue, the stranger's hood fell to his shoulders and a much more familiar voice mumbled out a nonchalant greeting. Colour drained from Rylan's face, and his pointed finger faltered. That was no bandit or thief - it was one Tristan Baske, the drunken fool he'd seen make a scene earlier that night. The Vagrant King. A noble. An entirely debauched noble, but weren't they all?

The revelation rendered whatever Rylan was about to say utterly meaningless. Whatever excuse the lordling cared to offer would be worth more than anything out a thief's mouth, and Rylan wasn't ignorant of that fact. It mattered not what either of their true intentions were tonight; a name always held more weight than the man behind it.

'Borrow', yeah, right.

Rylan took a few inconspicuous steps closer to Greytail, trying to use his large frame as a cover to edge away from the situation while the others were busy tending to the lord's lies. He knew it was a risky move; friendly as he was with the beast, he imagined the stryx would gut him in a second if his master so willed. But perhaps, perhaps the bird would have the heart not to give away his escape if not ordered to do so.

Ever so slowly, the scoundrel took step after step backwards, edging closer to the endless darkness that awaited him with open arms.

[Fabricant451]

_{Interacting With: Vane @Sen}

---

If only booting some freeloading loitering drunks was the highlight of Sabine's evening the night might well have been business as usual. Relatively speaking, of course, given that business at this particular tavern was in a constant state of flux. The regulars were reliable, sure, but a business couldn't exactly thrive with a small pool of customers. What would happen when the regulars decided that the risk of beasties in the night wasn't worth the piss water they depended upon to get through the following morning? Sabine was thankful for the lighter work load, sure, but at the same time more people would have meant bigger pay.

After the drunken lad gave what Sabine hoped wasn't his best insult - though the lad was but a boy who was probably emulating his da' - and left with his entourage, Sabine returned to work with every intention of seeing the shift through as usual. "Are you done flirting?" The proprietor asked with his surly disposition turned to full. Sabine merely rolled her eyes and grabbed a cloth to wipe down a mug with every intention of going on to dust the always dusty tables. "I asked you a question."

"Aye, that ya did. Ye know I weren't flirtin'." Sabine had been down this road before. Any time she wasn't in the tavern proper was seen as wasting time even if she was doing tasks specifically for the tavern such as opening or transporting a cask or helping drunks to the street. Time was money, and the less time Sabine was visibly working and wading through drunken hoots and hollars the less money Alden was theoretically making. She knew where this conversation was going.

"I don't pay you to flirt, this isn't a whorehouse." Alden spoke and Sabine mouthed along wordlessly. It was as reliable as the crowing at dawn. In her mind, Sabine always responded the same way. "Ye barely pay me at all. Maybe if this place were a whorehouse ye'd turn a decent profit fer a change."

"What was that?"

Sabine froze mid-wipe down and cursed under her breath. Her response this time slipped out from the safety of her mind and left her lips proper. A simple mistake to be sure but one that was likely to be costly. Already she could hear the heightened breathing that was a prelude to a very angry tavern keeper. "You ungrateful wench!" There it was. The whole spiel about how much of a favor he was doing, how he provided a roof and food. At this point Sabine knew what was coming next. "Go on then, get out! Who needs you?"

Losing her sole job wasn't exactly what she had in mind given that it also meant she was likely going to have to dig into her special pouch to find a room tonight, but she would be lying to herself if she said she wasn't at least partially glad to be rid of him. She chucked her apron to the floor and hurried to the basement where her personal effects were. Not much there, the clothes she arrived in - which she adorned now, trousers and all - and one of the few remnants of her past life: the boarding axe she had been using to chop wood for the tavern fire.

Sabine was out in the night air without a look back. The town was different at night. Quieter. She'd only ever stayed indoors but she'd still heard the stories. That's all they were. Stories. A town with foul creatures that stalked in the night wasn't anything special - every town had their criminal element after all - though there was a certain chill about it. The silence, the way she could hear her footsteps on the path, it was disconcerting to say the least.

And then she heard it. What it was she didn't know only that it sounded like something in pain which was then matched with a cry for help. It could well have been a trap, get someone alone and mug them of their riches and their dignity but such traps tended only to work when there was at least a mildly busy street. "Sod it." Sabine gripped tight around the handle of her axe and followed the sounds. Of course it was near an alley. Everything that went bump in the night was near or in an alley. There was a panicked looking person, no doubt the lad in distress.

"Oi, keep yer voice down, would'ya?" Sabine announced her presence by pushing past him, standing at the entrance to the alley. She held her axe at the ready. eyes narrowing towards the black abyss that was the alley. "Can't kill what I can't hear with yer wailin'. Either run along ta yer mum's bosom or stop cowerin'." Sabine whispered aggressively towards the man before swinging her axe at a moving shadow, striking flesh and sending another pained shriek into the night air. Pulling the axe back, she wiped the blood on the nearby wall.

"Now's a good time. Think I just nicked its arm."

[vietmyke]

Emil blinked with confusion as the man with the black cowl and sword removed his headwear, revealing himself to be none other than Tristan Baske. He exchanged a glance with Tork, who had caught up by that point and responded with a roll of the eyes and a grunt. Emil had no idea who the other one was, with the pitchfork- he certainly didn't work for the Aviary, though his seeming friendship with Greytail might have suggested otherwise. Both of them seemed to be trying to get on his side- the pitchfork wielding lad calling him a lord, and the actual lordling trying to spin him a lie.

"I'd think that stryx handlers and thieves would be tucked away in bed by now. A shame really... I really didn't want to run into anyone just yet."

"A shame, yes." Emil responded somewhat sarcastically as he idly stroked the wing feathers of the vicious bird at his side.

"But seriously. Don't go running for help. I'm not a cold-blooded thief like that guy over there. I only wanted to borrow this stryx for a little bit. I promise I was going to tell you."

At this, Emil laughed a mirthless laugh, "Oh, yes right, of course you were. I assume you were just going to leave a little note signed and sealed on our doorstep yes?"

At this point, Tork, the Aviary guard turned to Rylan, "Oi, you there. Ye might be fast, but do you think yer farster than my crossbow? Stay where you are." With a huff, Tork regarded Emil, this time with his eyes firmly locked on Rylan. "Emil, whats the plan eh? Cut their hands off or leave em to the Stryxes? Don't much like thieves or thieving bastards."

"What I'm more interested in," Emil replied, responding to Tork and addressing Tristan at the same time, "Is what an untrained layabout wants with a Stryx denmother, other than to feed himself to her when she gets hungry."

While the Durand Stryxes were domesticated enough to the point where they wouldn't actively eat humans, chances were these two didn't know about it. At least, Emil assumed they wouldn't know. Tristan was trying to take one of their female Stryxes- which, while larger and more powerful than the males, were considerably more stationary- similar to male lions, and made poorer mounts than their smaller male counterparts. Tristan must've thought the bigger Stryxes were the better stryx, which was why he was trying to steal one of their females- arguably the most valuable Stryxes in the entire Aviary.

"So, Lord Baske, of what need do you have of a Stryx?"

[Marlowe]

Interacting with: Emil @vietmyke, Rylan @Vertigo

So, not only was the man a thief, but he was also a liar. He was pretty sure he wasn't the only one lurking about the place. The other guy was even there before him! Tristan wanted to scald him with words, to teach him a lesson that he probably already "learned". He felt his pallid cheeks heat up with embarrassment. Him, felled so far as to look like a thief! Fate wasn't very fond of him tonight. Hopefully, the young stryxkeepers would be merciful with him. Maybe they would allow him to scurry off without alerting the guards. The last thing he wanted was for his father to find out. How humorous it was; he was very much like a fledgling girl who wished to prance away from her father's eyes in order to elope with her lover.

He flinched when the other man mentioned cutting off hands. Oh no. No, no, no. He couldn't have that. Tristan tried to imagine himself with two stumps, starting right at his wrists. The color drained from his face. He almost followed Rylan's suit. But Emil seemed to be the more gentle of the two, even though he had a spear resting in his hands...

At last, the other man spoke. His words made little sense to Tristan, for he didn't know what a broodmother did, or why he would feed itself to it. Were broodmothers useless? Was the one that he wanted to take a broodmother? He suddenly felt much less comfortable with the situation than he already was. Not only did he look like a thief, but now he looked like a bumbling idiot. Then came the question. The question that he knew he was going to be asked if he was caught. The question... he really didn't have a sane answer to. If he answered dishonestly, then Emil and his partner would surely be able to tell. If he answered honestly, then Emil would probably think him crazy and send him reeling to the guards. Clenching and unclenching his jaw, he straightened his back, looking at Emil in the eye.

"I seek to leave Vauclase and head north towards Soquin," he answered bluntly. "To see why they've left our nation hanging before the jaws of beasts and bandits and demons."

For a moment, he was quiet. Tristan felt small. He never took such a bold decision, except for when he caused havoc for his family or bedded more than one woman at once. But now he didn't really feel so sure of himself. That was kept hidden away, of course. He kept his eyes locked upon Emil before looking at the other man and Rylan. "I was hoping that some would join me. If we keep on like this, we won't make it through the winter. No one's doing anything about it. Not even the men on the Steelskine!"