Helo

🗡 Roses and Daggers 🎕

Time: 11am
Location: Edin Theater
Interactions: Wulfric @SilverPaw

---

“How could I possibly not make time for my little brother? I can pencil you in for the day after tomorrow…”

“I’ll be there,” Callum responded before Wulfric had finished speaking. He didn’t think about it for a moment, just jumped at the opportunity half out of fear that Wulfric was joking. Hunting trip? He should’ve taken the other offer. Look how incompetent I am brother. Watch me trip over a stick.

His mind was suddenly infiltrated by the sounds of what had to be hundreds of chickens.

I’m not a chicken.

<Then do not SQWUAK as one. It is annoying.>

The performances continued. He wondered what a hunting trip with Wulfric would be like and if the bird would be doing all the hunting. He’d much rather watch a falcon be a falcon than show his brother how he could barely manage to handle a bow. Or a gun.

He certainly didn’t feel any better when Wulfric pointed out that Ana was also a woman. Callum said nothing, only offered a half-hearted shrug but he noticed how quick Wulfric was to defend Ana. And it stung how none of that extended to him. Not even a ‘hey Callum doesn’t smell that bad today’. He wondered if Wulfric just liked being the golden child.

“I wonder how long this one can last before he lands himself on the execution block.”

The monkey’s cackle filled his head. <Your brother is amusing!> Callum didn’t quite get the joke that Clarence saw in Wulfric’s words. He did find it funny how the potential for one to end up on the execution block hadn’t seemed to matter before. Not when it was Darryn.

“How long? As long as he does a good job, and doesn’t disappoint the crown. That is how this all works, right?” His voice left him like a shrug, a breeze that didn’t care where it went so long as it rustled the leaves. Callum wondered why he didn’t care what happened to the puppet dancer, but he didn’t. It wasn’t like Edin sought his advice or approval for anything.

Lorenzo’s performance was captivating; as bold and strange as the man. When the Duke asked the audience to hold their idea of love in their hearts, Callum thought of unwavering loyalty, unconditional support, and sacrifice. The way it was in stories, and he wondered if he’d ever really loved anyone like that before.

He had never seen Lorenzo so clearly. As the second stanza told of how love had become a weapon against the poor Duke, Cal thought of his childhood. Of being trapped in a family that had so little love to offer and who only rationed it out to their benefit.

Then came lines about love from a bottle. His heartstrings were tugged and his eyes watered at Lorenzo’s words. Whiskey was love. Always there, always a comfort, always easing the pain.

<Pathetic. Both of you. Pathologically.>

Shut up.

“Heaven? Hell? It mattered not on which door…”

As the petal fell, Callum was on his feet wiping a few tears from his face.

<You will not...>

He ignored the monkey and applauded the great poet Lorenzo, a man who had shown the audience his soul and who had made at least one person feel less alone.

Then, Ana closed out the show. He smiled warmly as she brought up Darryn and he relaxed into the somber notes from her cello. It was beautiful and honest, but more than that, it brought life back into Darryn's memory.

“Weak…She makes herself look weak. And worse—she makes us look weak.”

Alibeth’s voice grated against his ears, such a jarringly ugly thing to hear after such a beautiful song. Once the soft applause for his sister had finished, he turned to Wulfric.

“Ana really is something special.” Cal spoke to Wulfric, looked only at Wulfric, but was not quite with his tone. “It’s no wonder that our people truly love her, I think it’s in her willingness to show how much heart she has. Brave thing to do in this world.” He studied his brother, wondering if Wulfric would contradict Alibeth to support Anastasia.

🗡 Roses and Daggers 🎕

Time: 11am
Location: Edin Theater
Interactions: Wulfric @Silverpaw& Edin @princess

---

"Finally! Something worth listening to out of your mouth, boy!"

<Sucess!> A voice proud and boastful filled Callum’s mind. The faintest crumb of praise was tossed his way. By Edin. Not even Cal could hide his shock. The familiar hopped over to the seat next to Callum, where it stayed content and still.

“Tell me, son—does it bathe? Or is it filthy just like you?”

Edin returned to the expected responses. As discretely as he could, Cal attempted to sniff at himself but he had bathed today. Thoroughly, to ensure not a trace of ink from his spell remained on his skin.

“Good point. I will see to it that the monkey is bathed regularly.” He replied softly.

But his head quickly snapped away from sniffing at himself when Edin agreed to let him keep the monkey. That worked??

<Of course it worked. What does your father see? When he looks at you?> The monkey did not wait for the mortal to slowly piece things together, it pulled the image of King George from the boy’s memories.

<He looks at you. He sees George. He desires superiority. Give him that. Use that face. Twist how he sees you. George; under his control. George; asking for his permission. George; working for his approval. Then, Edin believes he has won.> Clarence rewarded the witch’s obedience with clarity.

“A MASTERPIECE!”

<This…puppet dance…drivel! Better ending: puppet slays the offending mortal!>

Callum was caught between wanting to defend the touching performance and his disgust at the thought of agreeing with Edin.

“I must have him at the banquet tonight! No—NO! I MUST OWN HIM!”

<Agree with him.>

“A wonderful idea.” Callum offered. With a grin, he continued “I must admit, a talented court jester makes an even more impressive pet than a monkey.” He almost felt bad about encouraging the idea and what it would mean for the dancer. The sentiment was quickly eased from his mind. As if carried away by a faint and imperceptible breeze.

Clarence smiled, the taste of a bitter thought lingered on the familiar’s tongue after it had been devoured.

🗡 Roses and Daggers 🎕

6 months earlier (A flashback from Leo's Bodyguard)

Martin Barnaby

Time: Night
Location: Small town outside Stravy
Interactions: Leo

---

Decay clung thickly to the air. A partially covered body lay supine and partially covered on a table. Bloated. Rotting. Stinking. Its face was barely recognizable as human, features bulging in grotesque ways. The sight of corpses and their varying states of decay had become an ongoing part of his job.

Minutes stretched on as the young lord stared unblinking, and unreachable, at the features of the corpse.

Martin placed a hand on the man’s shoulder. The dim lighting paired with plumes of smoke from the enforcement officer’s cigar left a haze around them, playing tricks on the eyes. The bodyguard pictured Leo as a kid, the same gangly teen who desired nothing more than his father’s attention. Instead, the boy got free reign to travel with a bodyguard as Feralt prioritized everything but time with his son.

“Fella’s been rottin’ out in the woods for a looong while. Could be your missin’ duke.” The officer’s cigar puffed. “So ‘bout that reward…”

Martin’s gaze was sharp enough to cut the man off.

“It’s not him.” Leo spoke up, his voice shaky but certain.

Terrible burden, Martin thought for the dozenth or so time, for a kid. Searching for his father’s face in the dead. Martin offered a bag of coins to the enforcement officer for his troubles and his silence.

“Best if no one knew we were here.” Martin only turned away from the officer once the man nodded his understanding. Greedy hands immediately picked through the coin bag, the jingling echoed in a small village morgue as Martin ushered his employer out the backdoor. The men walked in silence back to the carriage.

Martin offered only a curt headshake to the driver. The Duke had not been found. For a long while, only the clomping of hooves and the rolling of wheels were heard, as the two men headed home. Once more without an answer.

“Is it wrong that I’m disappointed?” Leo broke the silence, eyes affixed to the window, watching the trees as they rolled by.

“No,” Martin responded.

“I don’t want him to be dead.” Leo insisted.

“You just want an answer,” Martin understood.

The silence soon returned, and with it, Martin’s mind wandered.

“I had this made for you.”
The kid offered up a necklace with a fang dangling from it. Martin held it up to the light with a faint smile.

“It’s from that wolf I killed, remember?”

“Of course, m’lord,”
Martin wasn’t inclined to forget wolves attacking their camp, or the way the kid had fought alongside the other men. Being an apt hunter was useful. A willingness to protect those who traveled with you was something to take great pride in.
“A true act of bravery.”

“I wasn’t afraid at all!”

Martin nodded his approval and said nothing of the boy’s small lie. Being afraid and not running away was a more impressive feat, even if the kid didn't quite grasp that yet. He knew what Leo had intended to do with the pelt of the wolf he killed, and waited for the boy to bring up the inevitable.

“I told father all about it. And…well he didn’t want the pelt. He’s right, of course, a scrawny wolf wouldn’t make a proper rug. But he said that maybe, if I could bring him back a bear next time, he’d consider it.”

Martin hid his disappointment in the duke with practiced ease,
“And you’re sure you don’t want this. To remember how brave you were?”

“No, I want you to have it. Never could done it without your training.”
The boy patted the still-healing bite wound at his shoulder; both with a wince and all the pride of one who had survived the dangers the forests could throw at a man.
“Got my reminder, right here.”

“My very own genuine wolf tooth! Gifted by a future duke! A real treasure!”
Martin slipped the necklace on, the kid’s smile only strengthened the sentiment. It was that easy and Feralt could not bothered to do the same.

It was hard not to wonder if a father like Feralt deserved so much devotion. Leo's expression was unreadable and Martin could only wonder when that’d happened. There was a time when it took no effort to see through him.

“Do you think it’s true?” Leo asked.

The lines on his forehead deepened. “Yes, I think he might be dead,” Martin answered. It seemed the most likely scenario.

“Not that.” There was a long pause before the young lord realized that Martin was not the mind reader he once was. Leo studied Martin's eyes as the young lord continued. “About my mother. Being involved. It makes sense; the only thing she cares about right now is planning her wedding.” Hate hardened Leo’s voice.

“I hope not.” His words were heavy with sincerity because it would break the kid to know his mother inflicted so much pain.

“Can you tell me it’s not true, even if you think it is,” Leo asked. His gaze returned to the window.

“A mother wouldn’t do that to her child. Watch you suffer with not knowing every day.” Martin answered as truthfully as the request allowed. Leo’s features seemed to relax some, he’d taken the statement the way he needed to in the moment.

🗡 Roses and Daggers 🎕

Time: 11am
Location: Sorian Art Gallery
Interactions: Milo St. Claire @PapaOso & Mina @Tae

Attire

---

Lord Amar…

Bey Amar. Rohit corrected in his mind, but he didn’t bother to mention such a petty complaint. Close enough, lord was Caesonia’s equivalent, it was just less pleasing to the ear. Lord Amar had such a harsh sound to it while Bey Amar flowed from the tongue, and felt inviting. But shouldn’t an artist, a bonafide genius at that, understand the importance of the right words? How they flowed, the texture of the sound…I certainly didn’t call myself a lord. I didn’t even say Bey, just plain ol’ Rohit Amar. Which also sounds rather nice, Rohit Amar…” Rohit’s mind followed a loose strand of thought and wandered away with it.

"What did you see in there, truly? Beyond the paint. Beyond the bite of that so-called entity."

Oh…shit… Here he was, talking to Milo St. Claire and he was barely listening. Daydreaming about how his name sounded. Rohit, you are an absolute buffoon. A narcissistic buffoon. He smiled and nodded his head to Milo’s words.

"Did it show you anything of yourself?"

Bless his luck, Milo’s question was on a subject a narcissistic buffoon was well-equipped to answer.

“Of myself, in your paintings…” He said, slowly, buying himself a second to try and regather his thoughts from the wind. “The Whisper, for instance, that feeling of a darkness that just… saturates…to a point that it feels alive and inescapable. I’ve never felt that, anything like that. And I wonder how deeply can I truly appreciate the light if I’ve never felt its absence? Or the Weight of Wanting, what is it like to have a desire that’s all-consuming? That rips away at you? To have pieces torn off only for something new to grow in their place? I don’t know. I saw myself in the sculptures, trapped in one moment, a good moment, nearly perfectly content, but without movement. Etched in something that doesn’t allow movement, or change, or the chance to stumble while dancing…” His stream-conscious ramble was cut short.

Ironically by another’s stumble.

A flash of red, a wave of fluttering obsidian, and the scent of roses crashed against him. Rohit followed the movement, one arm wrapped around a waist and the other grabbed a hand, as he swiftly pulled the stumbling dancer back to her feet. He flashed a thankful smile at the woman who had inadvertently saved him from embarrassing himself further.

“How marvelous, we were just discussing dancing, and then you appeared.” He released the woman and bowed as they did in Alidasht, with grace and respect. “Bey Rohit Amar,” He introduced himself, delighting in how his name flowed and mixed with the sound of softly strumming harps.

🗡 Roses and Daggers 🎕

Time: 11am
Location: Edin Theater
Interactions: Wulfric @SilverPaw, Edin, & Alibeth @princess

---

“Where on earth did you obtain a monkey?”

Callum found himself tickled by how annoyed Alibeth sounded. If only she knew. He grinned to himself, popped a piece of fruit into his mouth, and refrained from even glancing in Alibeth’s direction. He focused in on Farim's performance, as the ancient spirit disguised as a monkey rifled through his thoughts.

“I did not take you one for pets,”

He casually glanced at Wulfric and offered a smile. “Thought I’d try something new.” His reply was uncharacteristically chipper. “Reinvent myself.”

“A monkey… How is it that he has a monkey and I do not? I’m the king! If anyone deserves a monkey…It’s me.”...
"He bows! Did you see that?!"

Edin’s jealousy was palpable, an unexpected twist from a king who normally despised animals but Clarence's charm was undeniable. The spirit delighted in the spotlight and its presence made Cal feel more at ease than he'd ever been while surrounded by the people who made him the most uncomfortable.

<Ha! I have already impressed your father! See, not hard. Just be a well-behaved monkey.> It was not the kind of guidance Cal expected, or even thought he'd heed, but it certainly was something he hadn’t tried before. Clarence turned its head towards the king and smiled at him, an enchanting twinkle in the animal's bright eyes. Callum offered the warmest smile he could muster as he glanced at Edin.

“...Clarence is a ridiculous name… And he smells.”

<Your sire is one to talk, he reeks of old milk and unearned arrogance...> Not even ancient spirits were immune to pettiness but the monkey merely cocked its head as if it could not understand the words.

“This is not a petting zoo, Callum-”

He quietly ate his fruit and acted as if her words could not reach him. A sarcastic reply was swallowed down with a bite of strawberry. He kept his eyes on Thara, his mind stayed distracted by Clarence, and his mother's words dissolved away.

“I like birds.” What had been a slip of the tongue, a reply that should’ve stayed a thought rather than an utterance - became an opportunity.

"Do you? You could always take up falconry. Or perhaps pigeon racing would be more to your taste?"

Callum, sluggishly, turned his head towards Wulfric and nodded. “Always liked birds...way they fly...looks so free. Like nothing can weigh them down.” He whispered in a wistful and dreamlike tone.

<Enough bird sentiment! Engage with the important brother.> Clarence dug deeper into his mind. It was almost unbearable; the sensation of something digging and clawing its way around in his deepest thoughts and memories. Callum's sunglasses hid the watering of his eyes.

“You like falconry, right Wulfy?” He asked, forcing himself to focus, to engage even through the haze and pain clouding his thoughts. “Maybe you could give me a lesson. If you ever have the time.” He asked in a hushed voice as a hint of something bitter crept in.

Suddenly, Callum felt as small and frail as he had once been. A lonely child who longed for his eldest brother to include him, in anything, but always been too afraid and too proud to even ask. So Cal had taught himself to despise the very presence of someone who felt too far away, unreachable. Those long-buried moments were violently pulled to the front of his mind. He turned his attention back to Farim and the falcon, applauding at the end of their performance.

Drake took the stage next and Cal tried to focus on the music. He let the melody wash over him and willed it to drown out the sound of Edin's ego as the man rambled about some forgotten festival. Clarence seemed to enjoy this performance more than the last; the monkey no longer dug about in Callum's thoughts but bobbed his head to the tune.

“Has anyone uncovered why the guests at Lord Edwards’ previous party were so… inebriated?”

“There was a strong alcoholic drink the guests enjoyed. They became inebriated because they were careless, that is all.”

With his fruit cup now empty, Cal chewed on the inside of his cheek to refrain from speaking up. <No, do it now!> Clarence encouraged. <Remind your mother she means nothing to you.>

Callum feigned a gasp. “The cause of drunkenness...was alcohol consumption!” Cal chuckled as he turned towards Alibeth. “And I obtained my new pet...From. A. Pet. Store.” His words dripped with condescension as he finally acknowledged her earlier question.

“Women ask the silliest questions, don’t they?” Callum asked, smiling, and turning to Edin. A joke tailored to the king’s taste before he turned his attention back to Drake. Soon Edin was dancing to the music, the king's spirit soaring higher than Thara had moments ago.

“Hurrah to Sorian indeed!”
“Only can get that kind of talent from a Caesonia-born!”

<Now, impress your father!>

As Edin shot up with applause, his approval for Drake's performance thundering through the theater, Callum mirrored the king's enthusiasm. Clarence dropped from Cal's shoulder down to the prince's unoccupied seat, and little hands smacked together as the monkey squealed with delight.

Once the crowd was done cheering, Cal again turned to face his father. “Father,” Callum began, somehow managing not to choke on the word. “I got Clarence here because I’ve heard caring for a pet can help teach responsibility. A skill I’m lacking. And I’m already beginning to understand your great burden; caring for every life here in Caesonia. I plan to teach him many amusing tricks and, as you can see, he is already well-mannered. May I please keep him?” He kept his voice soft and respectful as he asked Edin, for the first time in years, for his permission.

🗡 Roses and Daggers 🎕

Time: 11am
Location: Sorian Art Gallery
Interactions: Milo St. Claire @PapaOso

Attire

---

“...Caught in the jaws of an entity they couldn’t quite escape,” Rohit repeated the phrase thoughtfully. “That entity has quite the bite.” He winked as his hand shot forth, the gold around his wrist rattled with the swift movement. The warm lighting glistened against his jade and gold ring as he shook the artist’s hand. Mahogany eyes regarded Milo as a captivating work of art that nearly rivaled the collection displayed around the gallery. “Rohit Amar; admirer of masterpieces.” He introduced himself with a smile that matched Milo’s warmth as he released the artist’s precious hand. The very thing that had crafted every awe-inspiring creation here.

“You, sir, are a talent unlike any I’ve seen. Managing to find something sublime in the darkest places. Painted it all in a way that brought me to the brink of understanding things I have never quite felt. It's an honor to meet you.” He glanced back at the exhibit he only half-understood and decided that despite the uncomfortable nature of the work, he would need to revisit it on another day, once his thoughts had settled some. Once was not enough to fully grasp it all.

“If I were to walk through that room alone I think I might weep from the overwhelming emotions you’ve captured.” He looked back at Milo, someone so bright, warm, and composed. It was easy to imagine the man in front of him crafting the portraits and sculptures he’d seen, but a challenge to envision him being consumed by the darkness of The Whisper. Nearly impossible to see Milo as the figure who sat so hopelessly alone, surrounded by shattered things, close to being lost in a dying light. But who else could the subject of such a personal piece be, but the artist himself? He continued speaking even as his thoughts wandered.

“I almost envy the depths of your experience, as odd as that sounds. To envy another’s suffering, as if privilege has robbed me of something I should desire...” He paused. A sudden thought crossed his mind. Rohit related more closely to the sculptures than anything else he’d seen; something frozen in a single moment and unable to continue a dance.

“Ah, there I go. Rambling on about myself, apologies, Mr. St. Claire. Enjoying your big day? Basking in your well-earned spotlight?” Rohit asked shifting into a more pleasant exchange.

🗡 Roses and Daggers 🎕

Time: 11am
Location: Sorian Art Gallery
Interactions: The Array of Artistic Masterpieces

---

The Sorian Art Gallery was a sprawling place, if not for the massive turnout Rohit thought it might feel lonely and overwhelming but for now it was packed with people excited to see a fresh exhibit. While towering pillars and expansive archways made him feel small by comparison, the masses packed inside reminded him of crowded markets back home. Lost in a sea of people, all buzzing with excitement. He found that feeling comforting as he wandered in a space that felt almost daunting.

He slowly made his way to portraits, the crowds ensuring that everyone had no choice but to look at the pieces around them as people slowly shuffled forward. He studied faces that looked delightfully lifelike; some he’d only heard of but never seen, some he’d caught glimpses of at Lord Drake’s birthday, and even a few he’d met back home. Of those he knew well, he could confidently say their portraits captured their essence with skillful precision. Brushstrokes highlighted their best features and the soft lighting made them glow with warmth.

The sculpture gallery felt like a display of dancers frozen in a single moment. Soft and suggestive curves of feminine figures twisted in elegant poses, perched atop pedestals commanded attention and gave life and movement to marble. It took little effort to imagine the dance each sculpture might have continued if only some force could awaken them. Rohit liked this exhibit even better than the portraits, each sculpture looked so free and uninhibited, lost in the ecstasy of their dance. It was no wonder the artist had drawn such a large crowd; his work was perfection.

Reflections of Reverie was a different experience; a collection of paintings that felt disturbing and hard to look at. His eyes scanned the confusing imagery of a piece titled Truth’s Bloom. It spoke of something deeply sad and he found himself not wanting to stare at it for very long. The artist seemed so successful, so talented, and Rohit could only wonder what inspired such sorrow to flow from his brush. The Whisper showed a figure being consumed by darkness, a helpless and hopeless depiction that reminded him of death or at least inevitability. He didn’t particularly like looking at it but found it hard to look away. The darkness felt almost alive, a consuming force hard to overcome.

Soon another piece caught his eye, he liked the shades of crimsons and purples that flowed across its canvas. The Weight of Wanting; here hands seemed to move and flow about the canvas, violently prying and grabbing about. He tried to imagine wanting anything so desperately but could not. He thought it looked like the ugliness of greed, or maybe the artist’s need for success. Elegy for the Living at least conveyed something he could easily grasp in concept if not in scope. The figure was lonely, that was clear, but the crushing horror of that loneliness was so extreme. Everything around the figure was broken and the painted light felt like it was dying. Maybe the darkness from The Whisper had invaded this painting too. Rohit felt the work’s sorrow deep within his chest and found himself profoundly grateful that he’d never felt such crushing isolation.

Hushed voices around him conveyed a variety of opinions and even a few condemnations of the nature of the art. It was more than just flawless technique capturing beauty as the other works had been. This exhibit painfully displayed the artist's tormented soul for all to see, raw and unflinching. Rohit supposed the stereotype of the tortured artist was true for Milo St. Claire and hoped that painting offered the artist a great deal of catharsis. Relief washed over him as he exited that exhibit; it was too bleak to call enjoyable.

🗡 Roses and Daggers 🎕

Sola 28th, 3am (Warning: Contains violence against a bird!)

This was his space. An uninteresting warehouse in a sea of warehouses that all looked the same. Thieves looking for an easy break-in would find the door and its lock far sturdier than worth their effort. From inside the warehouse, the wards around the door would look like strange graffiti carved into the wood, and magic worked to both reinforce the barrier and deter the uninvited from attempting entry.

Anyone who managed to break inside would find a mostly empty warehouse. A few crates here and there contained nothing but old junk. The only thing that might arouse suspicion was the absence of dust or cobwebs in a space so empty and seemingly abandoned.

Only those who could see the lingering traces of magic would notice the concealed door. So Callum had to remember exactly where it was, had to count out the exact number of paces, and whisper an incantation to a wooden panel. Then he could walk right on through the illusionary wall and continue down a flight of stairs, down to a basement, and see only another locked door.

This door had no metal key or secret password, this door opened only for his blood and led into a basement. Here was a dirt floor, surrounded by darkness until another spell from Callum lit a handful of candles around the room all at once. The dim light was not enough to reach the walls of the room.

Below the earth.

Hidden from the sun.

Closer to the underworld.

Vibe

Here, Callum set down a backpack and a covered birdcage as his eyes adjusted to the dark and empty space. Soft cooing from the birdcage echoed around him as he carefully removed his clothing.

“Step one, prepare the mind and body.” He spoke aloud, as he carefully removed a fine-tipped brush and jar of freshly made ink. Once his eyes adjusted to the candlelight he set to work covering his skin in sigils, cold ink gliding over goosebumped skin. Symbols of strength, protection, and control covered his body. He sat on a blanket draped over the earth as he waited for the ink to dry, anticipation pounding in his chest.

He had added his own interpretations to the ritual. He prepared his mind by retrieving an opium kit from the backpack, allowing the sweet smoke to lull him into a trance-like state. His mind was closer to the spirit realm but not entirely lost to the opium. Magic appreciated indulgence and restraint in equal measure, it rewarded balance.

A request demanded a sacrifice, he felt the ritual he’d studied lacked that. He had a big request, he knew exactly what he wanted and would leave this room with nothing short of it. Cal would attract the attention of something powerful by first offering an equally powerful sacrifice.

His heart pounded away as the ache in his chest squeezed tighter. He removed a few more items from the backpack.

Callum removed a dove from the birdcage. His top fingers curled around the bird’s neck, the rest of his hand wrapped around the bird keeping its wings still. The dove continued to coo, the sound more frantic now, almost as if the poor creature could divine the future.

His other hand held a small knife. He extended a finger and gently scratched the top of the bird’s head.

“I’m sorry,” Callum whispered. Then, without further hesitation, he drove the knife through the dove’s heart. He killed something innocent and willingly crossed his boundaries. His action echoed through the space. It made this spot a place where boundaries were easily crossed. The veil between the physical and the spirit realm thinned in response.

He patiently waited as the blood dripped onto an offering bowl.

Callum wanted power. He needed to attract the attention of a potent spirit; something primal and dangerous. The kind of spirit he wanted wouldn’t be drawn in by anything mundane; only a worthy sacrifice would suffice. A life and a piece of his soul were both gone. One dark act to help prepare his spirit to commit a darker act.

He carefully moved the offering bowl to a new spot on the floor, not a drop of crimson spilled. He drew a large circle in the dirt floor around the bowl, redrawing it several times until it was perfectly formed. He then covered the circle with a layer of salt, poured from a jar. Within the salt circle, he painstakingly traced out a unicursal hexagram in one continuous motion and laid a layer of salt atop it as well. At each point, he drew a sigil and outside the circle, across from each sigil he’d drawn, he placed a black candle.

“Power.” His voice held resolve as he spoke each sigil's demand before lighting each candle. “Protection. Guidance.” He continued as he struck a new match each time. “Cunning. Loyalty. Ruthlessness.” His voice echoed in the quiet void below the earth.

Finally, in the middle of the circle, he drew a sigil for the force he, and the familiar he intended to summon, would serve together; chaos. “As we serve Cleado; destroyer of towers, bringer of change, herald of upheaval.”

He washed his hands clean a few paces from the circle with a bottle of clear alcohol and ensured he was not tarnished with dirt. Then Callum stood within the circle, feet firmly planted, back straightened, chest stretching outwards, and wielding an athame in his left hand.

"Spiritus, adiuva me! Veni in pactum! Tenebras te arcesso, familiarem te facio!"

His voice deep and commanding, called out across the veil. He chanted the phrase, each repetition growing louder and louder until he shouted with the fervor of a warlord. Each time he spoke the room grew colder, and by will alone he kept himself from trembling from the cold. His breath formed tiny clouds, his skin prickled, and his hair stood on the back of his neck. The flames of candles danced, threatening to flicker out, as winds moved through the room.

"Spiritus, adiuva me! Veni in pactum! Tenebras te arcesso, familiarem te facio!"

The circle and his sigils charged with a red glow and the air hummed and crackled with magic until one by one the flame of each candle vanished with a faint pop. The red glow illuminated vanishing wisps of smoke as shadows crawled and slithered through the parted veil.

"Ite nunc! Ite nunc! Ite nunc!”

Each utterance was accentuated by a slash of the athame. One by one he banished any spirit that begged or sniveled for attention. No spirit that showed weakness would suffice.

"Ite nunc! Ite nunc! Ite nunc!”

The air became almost too heavy to breathe, the room so cold he felt the ground frosting beneath his feet. He saw brief glimpses into a realm that swirled with chaos and shadows. Spirits ebbed forth from behind the veil, things without shape that pooled around him.

"Ite nunc! Ite nunc! Ite nunc!”

Until he felt a wind so strong it nearly knocked him from his stance. He had to force his eyes to stay open as the cold cut through him.

“Called here by a mortal child?” A low, predatory whisper enveloped him. It laughed at him and his bones rattled.

“A pitiful magus, arrogant and hungry.” A shadow began to rise, to take on an inky amorphous shape as it slunk around the perimeter of a circle that it could not break. Darkness gathered into orbs, cold voids that watched him, studied him, and bore through him. Cold crept inside of him; blood, organs, bones, all chilled beyond any winter he’d ever felt.

“You are worth my time,” Callum finally addressed the spirit.

Shadows flickered and parted, and a ghastly smile too wide for its head formed as it laughed again. Its smile was just as dark and empty as its eyes. “But are you worth mine?” It asked as its dark form moved toward the offering bowl. In an instant, the shadow consumed the blood.

Ancient spirit and arrogant sorcerer ironed out the terms of their agreement. Callum pierced his finger with the athame, a wisp of shadow slithered in and healed the wound. Their bond was sealed and long after the sun had risen, Cal left the warehouse with a monkey atop his shoulder.

TLDR:

Callum does a ritual in a secret basement in a warehouse to summon a familiar. He sacrifices a dove too.

Time: 11-ish am
Location: Edin Theater
Interactions: Wulfric & Auguste (while ignoring Edin, Alibeth, and Morrigan)
Warning: Contains slander against all birds!!

---

Callum was a tad late but in his defense, it wasn’t easy finding formal wear for a monkey. A few heads turned upon his arrival; perhaps some were surprised to see the young prince looking almost respectable in a dark blue suit, uncharacteristically well-groomed, and even wearing a smile for the event. A dark pair of sunglasses hid his pinpoint pupils and glassy expression but the sweet and smoky scent that clung to him betrayed one of his indulgences.

Most, however, were simply confused to see a wiry little spider monkey perched atop the prince’s shoulder wearing a matching suit. Both sported a pop of color in their matching bright pink bow ties, which Cal had picked out to show their support for Ana in her big performance. Some likely wondered if the prince brought a monkey into such a formal occasion to stir up trouble, but the monkey matched Cal’s calm demeanor as the creature flashed wide smiles at those who turned to look at them.

A quick stop at the concessions stand, as Callum bought two fruit cups, allowed a few to see the monkey even bow gracefully before wrapping his tail around one of the fruit cups. It seemed the monkey had better table manners than the prince, as it daintily snacked upon fresh fruit. The monkey’s suit remained pristine as the animal chewed with a closed mouth, happily bobbing his head. Callum then climbed the stairs to the private viewing box reserved for his family and sat beside his brothers, without a single word to either monarch.

“Good morning, Wulfy. Auggie. Lovely day. May I introduce you to my new friend, Clarence?” He asked, his words slow as a snail's pace but not quite slurred.

At the mention of his name, Clarence again stood upright, gracefully balanced on Cal’s shoulder, and bowed just as he had for his fruit up. “Ain’t he somethin’” He added, grinning, just as Farim took the stage.

Callum sat transfixed by Farim’s story and the incredible flight path of Thara. The falcon’s grace seemed effortless, her movements matched Farim’s commands as if they shared one mind, and there was just something incredible about seeing such a creature soar.

What a majestic–

<Birds are stupid. Ugly beasts. Flapping around. Squawk, squawk, squawk. Better to eat them. Tasty.> Thoughts that weren’t his intruded into his mind and shouted over his own.

“I like birds.” Callum whispered out loud to the voice only he could hear. His heart crumpled as he thought of the dove that would never fly again. Because of him.

<You are a stupid mortal child. Flap flap. Squawk, squawk. Just like a bird. Be silent like your brothers. Act the part.> Clarence’s voice reverberated in his mind.

Callum's sunglasses hid his eye roll but the unearthly growl that abruptly clamored around in his head told him Clarence could sense the disrespectful gesture. His head continued to throb long after the sound ceased.

🗡 Roses and Daggers 🎕

Lord Leo Smithwood

---

Time: Night
Location: Streets of Sorian, from Vikena's estate to the guest houses of the palace
Mentions: Ryn

tldr, first half

Leo walks back to his room, thinking about the weird glasses Ryn has been wearing and what they reveal. He quickly deduces that if anyone is messing with him using magic, it must be Lady Morrigan. He hopes to find a way to expose Morrigan as an evil sorceress.

tldr, second half

Leo finds his room full of bones, the bones act as a trail leading to a chest in his closet. In the chest is a human skull and a threat written on a photo of him and his dad. Leo does the only logical thing; trashes the room in a fit of rage.

---

Leo kicked a rock down the street and stumbled after it. Each step felt like he might fall over and if he ended up on the ground he was almost certainly passing out right there. That was the last thing he needed; to be found passed out in the street like a certain degenerate prince, not after the blight he’d brought to his reputation today.

The world was a dizzying blur as his head throbbed and his stomach churned as the hangover started to creep in before the drunkenness had even left. Nothing seemed to help sober him; every drop of water, every bite of food, only served to drag him deeper into inebriation. Even a walk in the crisp night air left him miserable and exhausted. The only thing left to try was to sleep and hope he would wake up normal again.

Normal for a short while until the next stroke of misfortune painted his day with fresh calamity. What had first seemed like harmless pranks had escalated. He was sure that Lady Morrigan was behind these not-so-whimsical pranks. It was clear she enjoyed aggravating others simply because she could, but he could do nothing against a king’s favored cousin without irrefutable proof. And things only got worse. He kicked the rock again, this time it sputtered into the street and his eyes lost track of it.

Before he’d left the Vikena’s Manor, Count Hendrix had confirmed his worst suspicion.

---

“Earlier you asked about these glasses,” Count Hendrix's voice caught him by surprise; the man moved with the stealth of a cat. Or, equally likely, Leo was too drunk to notice the other man escort him to the door. Hendrix removed the strange spectacles he’d recently been wearing. “Would you like to try them on?”

Leo only nodded, relieved to find that Hendrix was not intentionally keeping him out of the loop but rather Fritz had waited until Wulfric and Lottie’s friends weren’t around to clue him in on a secret. He watched as the other man pulled a small box with rows of lenses, replaced the ones in the glasses, and carefully placed the glasses on Leo’s face. Leo could only stare with a confused expression at the obnoxious array of colors that surrounded Count Hendrix.

Then Leo caught sight of his reflection in a mirror. He saw himself surrounded by a white and yellow glow that at first glance beat with a steady, rhythmic pulse. His eyes began to focus on the edges of the aura, at dark twisted outlines that continued to rise and vanish only to rise again. Leo watched as something sinister appeared attached to him, and that rhythmic beating turned bounding and frantic.

“What?” He uttered an unfinished question.

“Magical energy,” Was the wholly unsatisfying answer he got from Fritz. Leo tore his gaze away from the mirror, removed the glasses, and quickly returned them to Fritz. Even looking at magical energies was more contact with magic than he wanted. He waited for, expected, a longer explanation.

“I’m sure you have a lot of questions, but I think they’re better asked when you’re sober.” The corners of the man’s mouth briefly turned upwards but the smile vanished before it was fully formed. “Contact me whenever you’re ready.” The ever-enigmatic Hendrix had shared a secret that only put answers beyond his grasp.

Leo wasn’t sure he even wanted to understand anything related to magic. Something twisted, unnatural, and forbidden under the punishment of death. He'd prefer keeping himself far from anything that revolved around such evil, and the mere fact that such darkness had left its mark on him was disturbing enough for one night.

So Leo had agreed, before departing from the manor, confident that Fritz would hold to his word, and dreading that future conversation.

---

The more Leo thought about what he’d seen, those dark touches on the fringes of his energy, further confirmed that something, someone, dangerous was after him — one tied to magic, to witchery.

Something undoubtedly hatched by Lady Morrigan. Briefly, this thought left him with dread. How could he combat the schemes of someone who meddled with dark and unnatural forces?

Unless he could prove exactly that! Tonight’s meeting had made it clear that Marek was likely a witch, and Calbert, one of his associates. If he and others would be gathering evidence to take them down how much harder could it be for Leo to use those same tactics on another? With all the confidence of a drunkard, he imagined how satisfying it would be to prove Lady Morrigan a witch hiding under Edin’s very nose. If she desired to make an enemy of him, then Leo would show her the danger of provoking a lion.

When he returned to his room, he no longer shambled about. Leo strode with a drunken swagger, chest puffed out and head held high, eager for the fights to come.

---

Time: Night
Location: Guest Room


Leo didn’t bother with the lights as he entered his room, he simply flung his ruined jacket to the floor. Somewhere between the door and the bed he tripped over something and tumbled to the floor. He landed on a scattered bit of what he assumed to be broken furniture. He winced at the thought of having to explain how he’d clumsily broken some table or chair, he was already getting a reputation for being a difficult guest here. The pile he’d landed on rattled as he ran his hand over it and picked a piece of it up.

Immediately he sat up and scooted away until he felt only smooth, unlittered, floor beneath him. He still grasped the object in his hand, slivers of moonlight from the window glinting off it. He stared in disbelief for a long moment, turning what was unmistakably a bone over in his hands. As the realization set in, he tossed the bone away and clattered against the rest scattered about the floor.

He sprung to his feet so quickly he thought he might hurl. After a long and frustrating battle with some matches, he got a lantern lit and was able to see the rest of his room.

Bones. All over the floor of his room. Bones of various shapes and sizes, that made a creepy little trail to the closet.

Riona! His first thought went to the rogue maid who constantly meddled with his room. This was the last straw, he would see to it that she was arrested. Or tossed down a well and forgotten. Maybe exiled to some frozen tundra filled with hungry bears.

As he thought of a long list of punishments he could request for her bizarre and macabre actions he noticed the chest that now sat in his closet. A chest that was neither his nor one that belonged to the room. Cautiously, Leo approached it and gave it a gentle kick. Something in the chest rattled around and he briefly debated opening it.

I should summon the guards. It was the correct course of action, this was something the guards should be dealing with. But Leo made no move to do so.

What’s in there? Curiosity propelled his hand forward without further thought. It was better to know, he was sure of that. The top flung open with ease as Leo’s mouth hung ajar as he stared back at a very human-looking skull. Are there all human bones!?

This was something more serious than the childish actions of a disgruntled servant. It was a threat, and while he wouldn’t rule Morrigan out as a culprit, it could just as easily be the same people who wanted Count Hendrix dead.

Again he realized he should alert the guards, and again he made no move to do so. Leo stood unable to take his eyes away from the skull.

...A note? In the flickering light from the lantern his eyes caught the glossy reflection of something beneath the skull. Without touching the skull, he carefully grabbed a corner of the paper and pulled it out. Leo set the lantern on a dresser, his stomach dropped as he examined the paper.

An old photograph of him, as a child, perched on his father’s shoulder at a fair in Breoven. The memory flooded in, far more vivid than a faded photo could ever capture. Leo almost smiled, knowing that from his lofty vantage point, he watched the electric carousel go around and around as the picture was taken. That day at the fair had been so exciting he’d struggled not to smile, as only idiots smiled for photos, but he’d tried his best to match the dignified and stern expression his father held. The lack of color and the lifeless expressions gave the photograph a haunting edge. It made the pair look more like ghosts than people.

There was a message scrawled across the back of the photo.

“Don't worry, you’ll reunite with him soon.”

Once again someone had messed with his room. Touched his stuff. Rifled through his belongings. Tarnished his property. From now on any time he thought of his first trip to Breoven, he would also remember stumbling into a room littered with bones. This now infected his memories.

Someone was using his deeply painful loss, to threaten him.

He shoved the photograph into a pocket. His mind went dark.

Hands became fists, wild and free, and repeatedly he punched the heavy closet door until it came loose from the hinges. He grabbed the broken door. Ripped the rest of it free and bashed the other door with it. Jagged wood sliced flesh. Blood dripped from his fist. The pain didn’t register.

His attention turned to the chest and without thought his boot repeatedly slammed against the wooden box. Wood splintered and shattered. The skull, once tucked inside the chest and now no longer safe, bounced off a wall and rolled elsewhere in the room while its mandible lay among the broken chunks of wood.

His rage remained unsatisfied. It burned white hot and blinding, unfettered and blooming amid his intoxication. He threw the dresser to the ground, his boot smashed against the back of it breaking through the wood. Each time his foot got stuck he tore himself loose as more jagged bits of wood tore at his skin.

Chairs slammed against the walls, end tables were pummeled with chair legs, and a footstool was flung through a glass window. The room clattered like thunder.

Leo grabbed a femur off the floor and used it like a bat. The sound of shattered lamps, vases, and mirrors echoed down the once-quiet hallway.

Everything unraveled. Grief, betrayal, guilt, uncertainty, fear. A mix of emotions buried too deep to reach. Bottled up and ignored. Left to ferment into rage. Kept trapped and only expanding.

Until it exploded and destroyed a room. Nothing in his room remained untouched or intact. Including Leo, whose fists were shredded by broken furniture and shattered glass. His body, heaving with exhaustion, continued to destroy anything in front of him.

His rage only ended as guards stormed into his room. They dragged Leo, furious and shouting, from the flipped-over bed as he battered at the frame with a shattered bit of a table.

Leo was too far gone for an explanation. His drunken shouting was a confused mess that matched the state of his room. The rage only burned out in the lonely cell of the dungeon, with nothing to slam fists into except unforgiving stone walls.

🗡 Roses and Daggers 🎕

Time: Evening
Location: Pinebrook
Interactions: Riona @JJ Doe, Ari @Tpartywithzombi, Stratya @CitrusArms

---

“Darryn?”

Callum’s head swizzled toward Riona, then he followed her gaze back to the same Darryn-looking guy he’d seen. He’s real? Can’t be Darryn. Right?. He stared at imposter Darryn for a few more breaths. Darryn?

“How?” He whispered, eyes locked on Darryn as the man began to speak. “Umm, Darryn didn’t happen to have an identical twin brother named Quinn, did he?” He asked Riona as “Quinn” introduced himself. The host continued to speak, his voice an eerie reflection of Darryn’s.

“They say these woods have seen much through the ages, that they remember what has been lost and what still lingers,”

Callum shuddered at Quinn's words which seemed only to confirm his suspicions; somehow Darryn still lingered in these woods. And why the fuck was Darryn pretending to be a host at Pinebrook? A romantic camp getaway wouldn’t be Cal’s first choice of places to haunt if he ever escaped the realm of Orbitius. He didn’t clap at Darryn-Quinn’s toast, frozen in shock, continuing to stare at familiar eyes. The rest of the host’s words dissolved into ambient noise as he struggled to think of an explanation.

“CAL!”

Another familiar voice broke his trance, Cal jumped and grabbed Ari’s shoulder turning even paler than he’d been a few seconds ago. “I umm, I think I did just see a ghost.” He admitted, head gesturing to Darryn-Quinn. “That camp host, he looks like, and I mean exactly like, someone who was just murdered.” He added in a hushed tone, head whipping around to look for Stratya. Once he spotted the captain he, not so discreetly, gestured for her to join them. Surely she had to have noticed that too?