JJ Doe

🗡 Roses and Daggers 🎕

Fritz "Ryn" Hendrix

Time: Evening
Location: Damien Estate’s Ballroom

Ryn adjusted the enchanted spectacles, their lenses reflecting the dual glow of the moon and candles as they honed in on the magicae of each attendee. Being one of the first to arrive at the masquerade ball, he had secured a vantage point that provided him with an unobstructed view of the entrance.

While he occasionally mingled, exchanging pleasantries and sharing a laugh or two, his gaze darted back to the entrance. He observed each new arrival with interest as the guests filtered in. Several auras Ryn’s glasses picked up were familiar—patterns he recognized from the royal tea party earlier that day.

Once the stream of guests thinned, Ryn decided it was time to make some rounds about the ballroom. He hoped to pair names and faces with their magical signatures. Moreover, he was keen on verifying whether the familiar magicae belonged to those he saw at the tea party.

TL;DR

Ryn spent time mentally cataloging the attendees’ magicae before deciding to properly socialize.

🗡 Roses and Daggers 🎕

Noon Sola 23, 1739: Callum & Quack & Riona Part 4

Callum & Quack & Riona

---

“Anyone.”
“Anyone.” Riona and Sexton answered in unison.

Sexton went on, “Perks of bein’ royalty: ya can get all sorts of people to yer biddin’. Sometimes it’s easier to coerce ordinary folk into doin’ the dirty work than havin’ an actual professional do it. Then cover it up after. Ya ken?”

“Anyone?” Callum mouthed the word, inaudibly, with a furrowed look of confusion. They sounded just as sure, that anyone could be coerced into the crown’s misdeeds, as he was in his belief that it must take someone deeply nefarious even to be willing to do the crown’s dirty work. Yet another concerning idea he was going to have to try and wrap his head around.

“Sometimes… they don’t need to be threatened.”

Gardner knelt on the hardwood floor, barely able to hold himself upright in his drunken stupor. His clothes were disheveled and his hair matted. Bloodshot, glazed eyes peered up at the child standing before him. The gardener’s slurred words were barely coherent and the pungent scent of liquor clung heavily to his breath. “Ríoghnach…” he choked out, reaching a trembling hand to clutch at her dress. She stared down at him, her expression stony and unmoved even as tears cut trails down his ruddy, bearded cheeks. “It wasn’t supposed to happen like this.” Riona said nothing, her lips pressed tightly together. “No one was supposed to get hurt.” Gardner slid his hands down her legs, grasping her ankles in supplication. “No one was supposed to die.” The girl stepped back, wrenching herself from his grasp. “Everything was supposed to end peacefully!” He crumbled forward, his forehead pressing against the cold floorboards. “It was only ever meant to set your clan free!” Sobs wracked his body as he cried out for his lost love, “Desmond,” over and over. With a sharp inhale, Riona turned and walked away, leaving Gardner alone, broken, and weeping for what could’ve been.

“Sometimes they genuinely believe they’re doing what’s best for you. They don’t realize they’ve signed your death warrant until it’s too late.” Riona said in a small voice, then trailed off into silence.

When she didn’t elaborate, Sexton picked up the conversation again, “... Not that I won’t say no to that offer, lad.” He paused. “Only if ya agree to the last demand, mind.”

The second condition for Cal to join the anarchists. “Ya’ve had a cushy life. Probably a lotta thin’s ya never had to deal with yerself. So whenever ya got uncomfy, ya could skedaddle and make yerself cozy somewhere else. Well, no more of that. If yer gonna join us, from this point on,” he pointed at Cal’s forehead, “ya have to ask every hard question yer’ve been avoidin’ askin’ cause ya were too feart to know the answer. No more lockin’ it away in the back of yer head. Cause I promise ya, yer gonna find out thin’s and we got no time fer ya broodin’. Ya might as well ask and take the answer upfront than havin’ it sneak up on ya later.”

“Just to be clear, are you telling me to ask these questions, aloud to someone, like you, or is this a figurative, confront these issues head-on like I’m not squirrelly coward, sort of deal?” He was, mostly, sure he knew the answer there, he couldn’t imagine Quack wanted to be constantly pestered and followed about by a confused royal duckling sharing his every muddled thought, but every other thing Quack said was throwing him for a loop as it was.

Sexton smirked, “Who said it ain’t both? I’m sure ya can find a smart way of askin’ people, Yer Highness. Questions been cooked up in yer head fer far too long. It’s ’bout time to get actual answers fer ’em.”

“Guess if I’m going to work with you, for you, would be nice to know; do you hate me because you think I could be like Edin, or because you think I already am?”

The smirk vanished. “Because yer halfway there,” Sexton answered flatly. Then he waited, daring Cal to challenge him.

“Halfway there…” Callum just let the weight of that sink in. Quack’s answer was neither fully damning nor was it what Cal would’ve liked to hear. Just an honest observation from an outsider. He at least knew Quack wasn’t going to hold back to spare his feelings, and that alone made Quack’s opinion ring out like the truth. But not all the way there. He fidgeted with his shirt sleeves like he wasn’t sure if they were too long or too short.

“Not exactly where I’d like to be, better than all the way there.” He wondered how long it had taken Edin to fully become the monster he was today. Which was just another way for Callum to wonder how long he had before he was something just as inhuman. “Not a lot of people willing to give me the truth straight, so I appreciate that. I’m not going to run a-fowl of you. All the avoiding and lamenting hasn’t exactly been working out for me anyway. I am here to try something new. And scary, I don’t know if you this, but you are a little scary, sir.”

“Whatcha talkin’ ’bout? I’m ferkin’ a saint compared to her.” Riona noticed his chin angling toward her as he leaned in to whisper not so secretly. “Between ya and me, she’s the scary one.” Her eyes turned into slits and he immediately retreated.

“Yeah, maybe, but Riona’s only scary if you're on her bad side.”

Sexton coughed. “Don’t think ya can sweet talk yer way out. Will ya promise or not?” He spread his arms wide as he gestured to everybody, including the dead, in the room, “If ya are, give it another shot. Ask the question that’ll gut ya out.”

Callum just stared back at Quack for a moment. Hadn’t he just asked the only question he really cared about? He tried to think of something he could ask Quack with an answer that would hurt. He looked at Riona, and it wasn’t that Callum didn’t have any questions for her, his mind was full of them, but there wasn’t one that would rattle him the way Quack wanted.

“How am I supposed to know what question’s going to gut me? I’m trying to think of something, I am, but there isn’t much here left to gut. I know I’m going to lose friends and I don’t see my siblings being on my side for this either. Things that matter to me, I’m losing most, if not all, of that. And I’m still here.” Cal looked at Quack, gave him a response that Cal knew wasn’t satisfactory but at least it wasn’t a lie. He then turned his attention to Riona.

“And I don’t think we’re still going to be friends after this is all over. I hate thinking that because I’m so grateful that you are my friend, but I hope it’s true. I hope you get what you need from Sorian and my family, and then move on, find something better, and leave me behind.” The thought of how lonely that would be cracked his voice. But he meant it, Callum knew there was no moving on for him, and no one deserved to wallow in the darkness with him. He took a breath and looked back at Quack.

“You know what I really hide up in this head of mine? I know I’m not better than Edin, just a different sort of monster. But just as rotten as everyone I hate, and the best I can do with that, is bring them all down with me. It’s a swan song for me. With you, without you, that’s what I’m doing. I’d rather not be out there accidentally ruffling your feathers, but I’m not going to wait around to become the same as Edin.” Callum admitted it, he knew he was far from the sort of person Quack wanted to work with and it wasn’t right for him to pretend otherwise.

Every secret she avoided telling Cal gnawed at her guilty conscience. It was hard for her to maintain eye contact, especially when his voice cracked, but Riona held it as best as she could. She even managed a little smile. It was a sad one, but it was still a smile. “I was thinking the exact same thing, Cal.” She let out a shuddering breath, “Except… you’re the one moving on and finding something better, because… I know you can do it Cal. You have other friends who would happily take you away from all this, but you won’t because…” Her hands made meaningless gestures in the air, “you’re the one stopping yourself,” before dropping them to her sides. “I know you won’t believe me, but I’ll keep saying it anyway. You don’t have to be alone. And that voice in your head that’s telling you that you don’t deserve someone by your side can shut the f*ck up.” Sexton snorted at that.

“‘Will ya still stick around, even if I am a monster?’” Sexton randomly asked as he tilted his head upward, turning it slightly in Cal’s direction. “Think that’s a better one since any answer would be a mix of good and bad, yeah? The question ’bout ya and yer dad… ya asked cause there’s hope.” He fixed his gaze overhead. “Besides, ya already know the answer don’tcha? The day ya stop askin’ that question is the day ya stop carin’ ’bout if ya were like yer dad.”

“Yeah, that’s a bleak one.” Callum could only agree with Quack; it wasn’t that he couldn’t make other friends, but friends that have glimpsed the darkest parts and can still focus on the good, were rare. He looked back at Riona and thought about all the times she tried to nudge him into leaving Sorian. She didn’t have to bring him here, help him become more embedded in all of this, and probably didn’t want to, but she had anyway. “I’ll think about leaving after this is all done, but not before.” He could offer that. Riona tipped her chin down, eyes fixed on the floor between them. She gave the barest hint of a nod.

Sexton sighed, closing his eyes to mull over what Cal said and voicing some thoughts aloud. “Callum Danrose. Prince. Witch. Values his muckers more than himself. Hates himself so the value of ’em is dodgy.”

Riona started to object, but he shushed her with a raised finger. “Wants to destroy the only life he knows, maybe kill his family, ruin lives, willing to… wants to lose everythin’. Start from scratch… A kind of rebirth, eh? Feck.” After awhile he extended his hand to Callum.

“If ya take this hand, ya’ll be agreein’ to findin’ the answers to questions with all ya got. Don’t matter what the question is. Information’s key in any war. Ya need to be able to ask ’em, even if ya don’t wanna.” Sexton cleared his throat and straightened up. “If ya shake this hand… there’s no turnin’ back. ’em people ya share yer blood won’t be family no more. We’ll be brothers in arms. Together, with yer new family, we’ll win.”

Callum, who figured Quack was about to tell him to duck off, waited a fraction of a second before grabbing Quack’s hand. Before the man had finished speaking, before Quack could have a chance to pull his hand away, Callum shook Quack’s hand.

Despite his efforts to fully commit to a proper handshake and not give Quack the ol’ dead fish, Cal realized his hand was as cold and slimy as a dead fish. He let go of Quack’s hand.

“Sorry.” He wiped his sweaty hand off against his shirt. “I’m in? Comrade, huh, does that mean I’m allowed to call you Quack?”

“HA!” Sexton dawned the Quack persona as he barked a laugh, then with a straightface said, “Nae. It’ll mean I’ll smack the sh*te right out of ya, Calliflower.” He clapped Cal on the back, like chums do, but a little too hard. A small demonstration of what Quack would do to him if Cal didn’t tread carefully.

Cal stumbled forward; the walking bruise that he was from the night before left him unable to hide the wince. Calliflower? I’m getting a nickname too? Success held a pleasant sting and inspired a wheezing chuckle. Calliflower, Prince of Onions. He liked the sound of that; it was too silly to belong to a real Danrose.

“Quack? Be nice.” Riona’s used that tone usually reserved for mothers with their rambunctious children.

“I got a nickname,” Cal smiled as he said it, like it was a sign this had all gone well.

Cal’s smile gave Riona pause, then she smiled herself. Sure, it was just a nickname, but it meant more to him than that. Acceptance; a sense of belonging. For all her reservations about the anarchists, Riona hoped this was just the beginning and that this would open up a world of possibility for him. A chance for Cal, and maybe even life here, to change.

Quack mumbled about having an actual name under his breath. “I’ll let the mates know ya be joinin’. It might take extra convincin’ fer some, but… we’ll keep in touch. Meantime, gather all that ya can and…” He hesitated, “look into any useful spells we can use, eh?”

“I’ll get quacking on it, sir.”

A groan. “Also, I’ll smack ya if I hear another duck pun out of yer bloody gob.”

🗡 Roses and Daggers 🎕

Noon Sola 23, 1739: Callum & Quack & Riona Part 2

Callum & Quack & Riona

---

When they passed the curtain divider, all laughter ceased and smiles faded. Two bodies lay motionless on the makeshift operating tables. The first was a middle-aged man, his body gaunt and frail. His skin was sallow and sunken, clinging to his bones. Dark circles rimmed his dull, vacant eyes. He had the look of someone worked to death, every ounce of life force squeezed from him until his heart finally gave out. The second was a woman, her face still retaining some of its youthful fullness. Her skin had a sickly pallor with a slightly yellowish hue and her parted lips were tinged blue. At first glance, she appeared to be resting peacefully, her eyes gently closed. But the dried tears that tracked down her cheeks told another story. Next to the body sat a small glass bottle. Riona gingerly picked it up, examining its contents. She recognized the dried pennyroyal, tansy, savine, and ergot—toxic herbs used by desperate women—and knew that the woman died slowly and painfully from the inside out.

Riona turned to face Quack, but his attention was fully on Cal. Quack had regained his composure and shed the persona of the undertaker-turned-quack. Now Sexton wore the face of an anarchist, acting as judge, jury and potential executioner. This was a tribunal. Suddenly she wished she could take another swing from Cal’s flask.

“Are they dead?” He whispered the question despite already knowing the answer. He could just feel himself turning paler from the sight. He had to remind himself that it probably wasn’t a weird thing for a doctor who was also an undertaker, or was it a former undertaker, to have bodies in a backroom.

The woman looked peacefully asleep, the way a body might at a funeral, but Callum hadn’t ever been to a funeral. He’d never seen a dead person before. He didn’t go out and watch executions like it was some big exciting spectacle, and whenever someone important enough for royalty to attend the funeral, it was never Callum they wanted representing them in public.

The man’s eyes remained open, cold portals into a void. The body didn’t blink, the eyes didn’t move and still they felt like they were staring right into him. The clammy feeling returned with a vengeance. All over, just cold and sweaty. Why was it so cold in here? And shouldn’t they be covered up, with a sheet or something… It just felt wrong to have bodies laid out like they were on display.

He shouldn’t stare at the bodies. He tore his eyes away from the empty, glassy, vacant ones. It’s disrespectful to gawk at the dead. Should I look at Quack? Was that too bold? Probably a bad idea. What if he took it as a challenge? An act of aggression. And why wasn’t Quack saying anything? His stomach twisted up, and the back of his throat burned with whiskey and bile. Was Quack just going to stand there?

“What, umm, what’s that?” He glanced at the small bottle Riona held, searching for anything else to focus on. Don’t look at the bodies. “I should say something, right?” He glanced back at Quack, an unflinching statue of a man, and he knew if he waited around for Quack to talk first, or to feel like he had all his ducks in a row before speaking, he’d be here all day.

“It could be useful, right, to have an insider. Places I can be, that um, other people would seem out of place. I could be useful. And I’m not going to say anything. Not a peep. Even if you don’t want me around, because if you're going after Edin, I wish you success. Gods I hope it's painful, I want Edin to watch his whole Danrose legacy unravel, for everything he loves to be stripped from him. I don’t care who does it, as long as it happens. And I know you don’t trust me, but I haven’t spent ten years earning the right to call Riona a friend to betray her first chance I get. I can keep secrets.” There, he’d said something. It was great, just a long unburdening of everything that sat constricting around his chest. But he wasn’t quite finished.

“And you know what else, I think you should apologize. To Riona, because she called you friend so you should know that she doesn’t stab friends in the back either.”

Riona was almost certain that Sexton was deriving some wicked satisfaction from watching Cal squirm. In Sexton’s eyes, Cal had always been nothing more than a sheltered coward, all empty talk and no action. Despite having ample opportunities, he never dared to ask the difficult questions, too scared that the harsh reality would shatter his, as Sexton put it, delicate sensibilities. The Prince’s so-called “hatred” for his father was little more than a prolonged teenage rebellion that ultimately amounted to nothing. The restraint it must’ve taken for Sexton not to erupt into a diatribe about what true hatred actually was. Riona suspected he especially wanted to tell Cal what his father had done to his sister and many other women like her—women like the woman lying dead on the table. But the more Cal talked, the malice in Sexton slowly dampened and his demeanor softened, albeit not enough to be friendly.

When Cal said all that he wanted to say, Sexton asked, “Are ya done yappin’ ya maw off?” He took the silence as a yes. “Good. My turn.” Sexton pushed off from the wall he had been leaning on and pointed a finger. “Let me get a few thin’s straight.” He used the finger to point at Riona. “We’re hardly muckers. We ain’t even comrades. I’ve been tryin’ to recruit her, but fer some damnable reason she won’t join. Aye, she helps with the sanctuaries we run, but she ain’t one of us.” The accusation in his voice was hard to miss.

“Ya right ’bout one thin’, though, lad.” Sexton turned to Riona. “Ya wouldn’t do anythin’ to harm the sanctuaries. Sorry fer doubtin’ ya.” Riona accepted the apology with a nod. “But,” the icy glare returned, causing the hair on the back of her neck to rise, “if ya get in our way, I’ll do what needs doin’. Ya know that right?”

She nodded again, a little bit delayed this time. “And if it comes to that, I’ll do what I have to do.”

Sexton’s gaze lingered on her before giving a firm nod and turning his full attention back to Cal. He extended a second finger. “This revolution isn’t just ’bout yer dad. We ain’t yer pawns to resolve yer daddy issues that ya don’t have the bawbles to handle yerself. We’re goin’ to ruin yer entire rotten family—yer dad, mum, brothers, sister, whatever that blowen Morrigan is, and ya freaky great uncle—every nob who supported yer family and benefited from this crooked system. That includes ya, Prince Callum. Do ya understand? We want the lot of ya gone.”

Callum watched the conversation between Quack and Riona, wondering about the strange threat that lingered between them. He was certainly going to have to ask Riona why she’d brought him here if she wasn’t on team Quack. He’d ask that later. He wasn’t going to ask about sanctuaries either, he would just let Quack tell him what he was allowed to know. Then Quack’s attention shifted to Cal. He chewed on his tongue to keep from interjecting at the ‘daddy issues’ comment.

“You know, sir, I want me gone too. Going out doing something that matters, best option I got going for me. Caesonia’s had more than enough of kings, princes, and nobles. She deserves something better. And rotten trees need clearing out. My family’s made their choices, and I have made mine.” He said it like a shrug, water off a duck’s back; he knew where he was going to stand.

“I’m not looking for pawns. Don’t need people calling me a prince or thinking I’m anything to be admired or bowed to. I am here to see if I can serve you, or,” And he paused, possibly digging his own grave a little deeper, “Quack me if you must, Mal’lard.” He said it, in the same way, one would say m’lord, and either Quack was going to kill him or he wasn’t, but Callum wasn’t going to let the threat just hang in the air.

Both Riona and Sexton stared at Cal, asking in not so many words if he really wanted duck puns to be his only legacy. Cal, you brave idiot. She shook her head with a ghost of a smile.

“We’ll see ’bout that soon enough.” Sexton scoffed, but a smirk cracked through. He began pacing as he seemed to consider Cal’s offer. “There’s two thin’s I want from ya if yer serious ’bout joinin’.” He stood in front of Cal.

“First. There’s no sense denyin’ we ain’t equals. Not in this bloody country. While ya can get away with murder, stealin’ bread from a royal party is a capital offense fer common folk. If any of us from our group gets caught, it’s the gallows fer us, our families, muckers, anyone even suspected helpin’ us. To stop more rebelin’ from happenin’, the crown’ll tighten the noose around folk’s necks. More people’ll suffer in the name of peace. Now if ya get caught, ya’d get a good bum whackin’ and a scapegoat to pin everythin’ on to hide yer involvement. If yer parents prove me wrong, and actually have the guts, then they’ll execute ya and pretend ya went to live on a farm. Point is, the risk we’re shoulderin’ ain’t the same.”

Suddenly, Sexton’s fingers pressed into Cal’s neck, and he seemed to wait for the pulse to regain a steady beat, before continuing. “Ya say that ya won’t betray us, but like ya said, I don’t trust ya and neither will the others… not without insurance. And not the kind yer willin’ to give.” He must’ve been referring to whatever secret Cal was going to reveal to earn his trust. “So.” He leaned in closer. “What’s the most important thin’ that ya care ’bout more than anythin’ else in the world? And don’t think ya can name just anythin’. I wantcha to explain why it, or they, are so important to ya too.”

He’s asking for a hostage. Riona realized. Something, anything, to bind their fates together.

“If I gave you a name, I’m not sure it’d be much use to you. This isn’t a threat, but the few friends I’ve got, would all be just as dangerous to mess with. And giving you a name feels like the same sort of betrayal you’re worried I’d do to you. I don’t do that.” He glanced at Quack’s fingers and assumed he was trying to feel out a lie. Lying had crossed his mind, giving him the name of someone he knew wouldn’t just be a sitting duck crossed his mind too. But he’d come here to ask for trust and he wasn’t going to treat this like one of his games with his brother. He shifted his gaze to look Quack in the eye before speaking again.

“What if what I’m willing to give, is a surefire way to send me to a pyre? I could give you enough evidence against me, that even if they did try and cover it up, it would turn a lot of folks against the crown. You know what I mean, right? What guarantees a pyre?” Cal asked, there was only one card to play that made sense to him. Even things up, make it all just as dangerous for him as it was for Quack, or as close as he could reasonably get.

“My whole life I’ve always been told what a useless, unwanted, failure I am. I have one thing that really makes me feel like that’s not the absolute truth. A little spark of hope; magic. A deeper well of connection than blood could ever be, something I can feel a claim to that isn’t rotten all the through. I’ve got all sorts of damning evidence tucked away too. Whole books copied in my handwriting, notes on what’s worked and what’s failed. So I can get you that, I can give the means to secure my destruction.”

A sneer twisted Sexton’s face, a cynical smile coming from bitter vindication rather than disappointment. The discordant pieces had clicked into place, confirming that the world matched his lowest expectations. His eyes glazed over Cal as if he wasn’t even there, whirling on Riona instead. “There ya have it. He ain’t serious ’bout helpin’ us. I ask one thin’ from him, prove he’ll lay everythin’ on the line just like the rest of us, and he balks!” Sexton let out a harsh, derisive laugh, his malice reemerging in full force.

… and set her ablaze. His rage stoked the thing within her, his hatred emboldened it, and it, in turn, ravaged her. Riona clutched her stomach, her breath escaped slowly through gritted teeth.

“He’s willin’ to sacrifice ourlivesand endanger what’s precious to us, but askin’ His Royal Highness to do the same? That’s a bridge too far. Ach, He’s his dad and mum’s bairn, awright.”

He paced back and forth, getting more worked up by the minute. Sexton ranted as though he and Riona were the only ones (alive) in the room. “A ‘surefire way to send me to a pyre’ my shiny arse. I knew he were daft, but to be this bloody moronic. Does he seriously believe he’s the only one messin’ with magic in his damned family? Where does he think all that evidence’ll end up goin’? The Queen sees all the high-profile cases and Morrigan is the bloody executioner fer feck’s sake!” In a flash of rage, Sexton kicked the bucket by the table. The impact sent it clattering across the floor, the metal scraping and echoing in the room as it rolled away.

Sexton closed his eyes and tilted his head upwards, trying to restrain his irritation. “The Prince is playin’ ya fer a fool, Riona.”
“He’s willing to sacrifice himself.”
“Pfft. Naaaah,” his dragged out the denial with a sigh, “it’s nothin’ that selfless. He just wants to prove to himself that he’s not a useless, unwanted, failure.” Sexton’s eyes snapped open, narrowing as he refocused on Riona. “Let’s say what ya say is true and let’s pretend his family won’t lift a damn finger when he’s tried for witchcraft. He’ll burn as a witch while we’ll be executed as traitors to the crown. The difference is, his death will end with him. Ours won’t.”
“But if we can expose the Danroses’ misdeeds—”

Sexton cut in. “We’re doin’ that with or without His Highness. What I need from him is commitment.” He stepped closer, holding Riona’s gaze intently. “We’re all riskin’ everythin’ here. I know he thinks he’s offerin’ a way to even thin’s. But it ain’t actually even ’til he risks losin’ all he has too. If he joins, he’ll find all our soft underbellies.” He scoffed, “And he expects me to trust him when he won’t show me his?” Another frustrated sigh escaped him. “Gets my dander up that he tried to bargain with a life he doesn’t give a toss ’bout.” The life being Callum’s own.

“You’re demanding a hostage. That’s a lot to ask.”
“Is it? Danroses are holdin’ the people hostage. Why can’t I get one from him? One that he actually gives a damn ’bout.” He hissed. “If we can’t back out when the goin' gets rough, then neither should he.”
Riona’s gaze shifted away from Sexton and searched Cal’s.

“…How far are you willing to go now that you aren’t scared anymore?”
“As far as I can.”
How far was that?

🗡 Roses and Daggers 🎕

Fritz "Ryn" Hendrix

Time: Late Morning
Location: Royal Gardens

A vibrant spectrum of magic energies moved through the air, brushing against each other, and sometimes merging together to create something new, only to dissipate before anything could manifest. The dance of auras emanating from each attendee mesmerized Ryn, but his fascination did not stop there. He also noticed the traces of magical imprints left behind on some surfaces and, in fewer cases, people. Though he knew not what that indicated exactly. Wayra once explained to him that magicae were like magical signatures, unique to each individual and ever-changing. While two people may possess the same color of magical energy, how the aura presented themselves differed from each other. Magicae told tales of their bearers’ innermost qualities—a blend of their experiences, emotions, and aspirations. Although he had the knowledge, Ryn did not quite fully grasp what Wayra meant until he actually saw it through the lens that was crafted using the knowledge gained from examining a magical spyglass.

Sola 22, 1739

Ryn & Peter

Ryn slid the last book into place with a soft thump and adjusted the lamp until the light speared through the holes in the orderly row of bookmarks. Peter let out a low whistle as the bookcase swung aside to reveal a dark passage beyond. But the excitement slid from his face as they crossed the threshold into a modest room. “That’s… only, slightly, very, extremely disappointing.” The redhead turned in a slow circle, gaze sweeping the area. “Where’s the treasure? The deep dark secrets? The big revelation? I expected more from a hidden room that has a puzzle for a lock.”

“Don’t dismiss it just yet. It was hidden for a reason.” Ryn crossed to the bookshelf and trailed his fingers along the spines until he found the one he sought. He eased a familiar embossed spellbook from its place on the shelf, just far enough to reveal the cover. “Starcatcher. Amongst other things of value.”

“Like this?”

Ryn turned his head at the question. Peter was peering through a spyglass, the end pointed directly at him. “That… wasn’t here yesterday.”

“You should check it out then.” Peter held out the spyglass.

Ryn lifted it to his eye, breath catching as the value of the artifact became clear.

What might he have seen if the spyglass had found its way to him sooner? Could Ryn have changed the course of events or was Udo’s fate sealed the moment he and Wayra cursed Ryn?

Morning, Sola 21, 1739

Ryn & Udo & Wayra

“What?” was all Ryn could say as he stared into the blue expanse that was Udo’s unfathomably calm eyes.

Udo regarded him with the infinite patience of a father striving to impart wisdom to a child not yet ready to grasp it. He rephrased, speaking slowly, clearly. “I will be dead before this day is done.”

The repetition brought no further enlightenment. “What...do you mean?”

Udo smiled, pitying the poor child. “Nnenne came while we slept and revealed to me what is to come. The powers that be are angry and they demand blood as payment for my—” Here he paused, reconsidering the accuracy of the word before continuing on, “—our, offense.”

“And Nnenne has granted her blessing.” At this, Udo’s eyes took on a feverish glint, his smile stretched wider in naked joy, and his voice infused with a strange euphoria. “Nnenne will allow me to die.” The rapturous delight in his own impending demise was a knife to Ryn’s heart. He looked away, unable to bear witness.

A large, warm hand settled on Ryn’s head, tousling the inky strands. Just as he did when they first met, all those years ago. “Do not despair for me, Fritz.” Udo whispered, voice as familiar and comforting as his touch. “You know I have long awaited this day.”

Indeed, Ryn understood it all too well.

Ever since the day a mighty wave swallowed the Eastern Islands—and Nnenne claimed a handful of “chosen” isles as her own—, reunion with his family, claimed by the depths, had been his long-held desire. His faith, the tenets of Nnenne’s doctrine, forbade him from seeking them out himself. Only an honorable death would reunite them. For Nnenne taught her Grandchildren to never squander one’s life, unless it was spent to preserve another’s.

Who was Ryn to deny Udo’s deepest wish? Though it grieved him—Creators how it grieved him—to let Udo go, would it not be the blackest selfishness to beg him to remain? The warrior was tired, so bone-deep tired, weary of living… Ryn must let him free.

Restless, biting sadness spread within.

Sensing the shift in Ryn, Udo traced patterns in the air and prayed. “Fritz Hendrix of Erwynn. May you one day be free of your chains and find true happiness.” Ryn closed his eyes, savoring the cadence of Udo’s baritone while they shared their last moments together. “If you cannot free yourself, I pray that you meet someone who can.”

Udo’s breath was warm against Ryn's skin as he brushed featherlight kisses to each closed eyelid, and then to the center of his furrowed brow, bestowing Nnenne’s blessing. Suddenly his arms were around him.

Ryn caught the scent of the salty sea, felt the heat of the tropical sun, heard the hush of waves breaking on distant shores and the siren song of that place Ryn could not follow, calling Udo home. Just as quickly, the sensations slipped away.

“Forgive me for not seeing your journey to its end.” Udo murmured.

Ryn shook his head, sinking into the solidity of the embrace one last time. “You’ve done plenty. Thank you for sticking with us as long as you did. We’ll miss you…” His voice hitched, “Creators, I miss you already.” The two held each other tightly, wordlessly, before finally letting go.

“Live long and well, Fritz. If Nnenne wills it, we will meet again in my next life. Maybe by then it’ll be a safer world where you can tell me your true name.”

“Why wait till then?” If reincarnation was possible, it was this Udo who wanted to know Fritz’s real name. Ryn had no desire to tether Udo’s new life to him again just to learn his name. No. Ryn would not have that. Udo should be free. Unburdened and unbound, ready to embrace whatever new life awaited him.

The wind whipped across the castle parapets, stirring Ryn’s dark hair and coat. “Like the rest of my family, I was given two names. One is Fritz Hendrix,” he began slowly, “the other is—”

A sudden cacophony of wings interrupted him as a shadow burst between the two men in a flutter of inky feathers. One of them brushed against Ryn’s throat, soft as a whisper. Hush, it seemed to say.

The raven alighted on the nearby merlon, fixing the pair with polished jets that glittered with uncanny intelligence.

“Wayra,” he breathed. They cocked their head to one side in response.

Udo and Wayra locked eyes. Then as one, they opened their mouths. “ᛚ̴̛̯͔̃ᚨ̷͙̆̾ᛒ̵̛̤̫̗̾ᚱ̸͚͇́͝͠ᚨ̴͎̫̏͆̑ ̴̹̌͝ᚾ̵̧̧̪̋̋ᛟ̸͇̅͜ᛋ̸̟͚͒̿̍ᛏ̶̥̅ᚱ̶̛͍̬ᚨ̴̗̳͎̑̍ ̶̨͍̠̈͝ᛋ̵̧͉̩͐̔ᛁ̶̰̌ᚷ̸̳̯̈́ᚾ̷͙̯͈̌ᚨ̵̠̘̅ᛏ̶̝̾͘ᚨ̸̹̘̌ ̷̥͍̣͌ᛋ̴̢̫̦́ᚢ̴̯͎͒̊̽ᚾ̸̼̤̣̀̿͘ᛏ̶̢̰̽̋͝,̶̛̘̝̘ ̵͇̀͜ᛟ̵̞͉͍͌̋̾ᚲ̴͙̊͛̅ᚢ̷̧̙̻̂͗ᛚ̶̪͙̿̾ᛁ̸͓̅̈́ ̷͈͓͔̈́̄͝ᚾ̷̙̉̿ᛟ̴̢̖͍͋͋͝ᛋ̴͙̯̃̿ͅᛏ̸̧̜̲͊̒ᚱ̵̖̉̃ᛁ̴̯͔̈͋̿ ̶̲̱͔͂ᚲ̸̢̦͌ᛚ̶̣̟̀͋ᚨ̵̨̳͉̊͌̃ᚢ̸̭͉̽̄ᛋ̷̛̞̱͇ᛁ̷̡̊͋̿ ̴͇̓̏͝ᛋ̸̛̼̄̑ᚢ̸̧̟͇̓ᚾ̷͍̈́ᛏ̵̣̀̕,̵͚̳̯̍̅ ̸̳͎̠̓̽͌ᛖ̴̦̎͛͜͝ᛏ̷̘̮̬̀̎̚ ̴̩͊̍͝ᚾ̴͖̘͈̌́̊ᛁ̸̝̯̈̋̚ᚺ̸͋̒ͅᛁ̸͉̄͋ᛚ̸̼̊ ̷̘͗̈́ᚨ̴͍̼͉͆ᚢ̵̲̪̫̾͘ᛞ̸̱̩̆̆ᛁ̶̦̭̇̋̽ᛗ̵̧̪̑̕ᚢ̷̣̝̤̆̇ᛋ̴͈̇̓̃.̸̧̿ ̸͚̝̳̈̂͠ᛏ̷̲̊ᛖ̶̛̻̑ ̵̼̩̩̋̚ᚾ̷̤͔͋̃̔ᛟ̶̛̘̙̐̔ᚾ̵̲̖͑̏͑ ̸͈̿̈́̕ᚲ̷͙̘͝ᛟ̷̣͔̆ᚷ̵̹͋͊ᚾ̷̹̉̀͠ᛟ̷̞̈́̚ᛋ̵̢͈̻̿͛ᚲ̸̛̦̹̏͠ᛁ̸̩̀͊̄ᛗ̷̩͚̓̓ͅᚢ̸̢͔̪͐́̔ᛋ̷̡̙̥͆͛.̶̳̺̳̓̾” Voices—not quite Udo’s and certainly not the raven’s—melded and multiplied like a wave of voices layered over one another, until incantation seemed to echo and bounce back from every direction. The words reverberated with power, worming its way inside Ryn. Magic entangled his thoughts and robbed him of something.

Of what, △△△ did not know until he attempted to reveal his name once more and found that he was unable.

He tried to speak, to give voice to the name on his tongue, but nothing came out. Even thinking it felt strangely muffled, the syllables jumbling in his mind. Both the names △△△ and ◆◆◆◆◆ sat just out of reach, hazy shapes behind the veil the spell had drawn across his thoughts. In fact, he realized with dawning unease that he could not so much as think of a single word or detail that would identify him… only the vagueness of their presence.

△△△’s mouth opened and closed mutely. He could say nothing to reveal who and what he was. Wayra and Udo had sealed them all away, just as they had hoped.

Udo gave a satisfied nod to the raven. “It worked.” Wayra shook their feathers, clearly pleased with their handiwork.

△△△ raised his eyes to Udo questioningly, “Why?”

“If my death was ordained because of those men I eliminated, there’s no doubt Black Rose is involved in magic. Considering the extent of their influence, we must assume they have access to powerful, dangerous magic. Including spells that can invade your mind.”

“We cannot risk your identity being revealed—” Udo grimaced as the curse took hold. When the moment passed, he looked at △△△, resolute. “I am a proud Grandson of Nnenne. I will honor the oath sworn, as you have yours. Your adversaries will gain nothing from me, in life or death.”

“Whatever happens, I will protect you.” And △△△ knew Udo meant it with every fiber of his being.

The magicae surrounding the attendees flickered and guttered like a dying candle before vanishing entirely from view as the enchantment of the lenses wore off. Ryn lifted the spectacles from his face then lowered it into his handkerchief. With a subtle sleight of hand, he replaced the ruined lens for a new one, the motion hidden behind the pretense of polishing.

The spectacles were ordinary in appearance—simple wire-rimmed glasses with circular lenses. However, there was more to them than met the eye. An extra slot on each side of the frames allowed for a secondary, bespelled lens to be swapped in and out. It was these additional lenses that gave Ryn the ability to see what normally went unseen. The two-lensed spectacles were crafted by studying the spyglass they discreetly borrowed from the hidden room tucked away in the castle library.

Ryn and Wayra spent hours analyzing the spyglass’s magical components before attempting to recreate the effect in a wearable form. Their efforts proved successful, if imperfect: the spell burnt out quickly, especially when exposed to strong magicae.

Still, the glimpses were worth it. Once the newest lens settled into place, the garden erupted into kaleidoscopic brilliance once more. Ryn spared a glance at the case that held the remaining lenses, mentally tallying the few left. He would have to use them sparingly if he wanted to keep observing the hidden energies that moved through this place. Until Wayra made more, that is. For now, he drank in the temporary sight. Soon this lens, too, would fade.

Ryn lifted the porcelain teacup to his lips, the surface smooth and cool against his fingers. Steam wisped up to curl around his cheek as he surveyed the auras of the Danrose members from over the rim, reading their magicae. He noted the variations in the auras of the Danroses present. Each color—blue, green, red, and orange—and the intensity in which each glowed, spoke volumes about the nature of each Danrose, betraying truths its owner never intended to reveal to others and perhaps even to themself.

When he saw King Edin’s magicae, Ryn hid his surprise behind another sip of tea. He had his suspicions, but he was still unprepared for the confirmation. Though it did not absolve King Edin of the atrocities committed against Ryn’s family or Caesonia’s people, Ryn pitied him. He wondered when the king’s magicae had first begun to take on such a coloration. Then another, arguably more ludicrous, idea surfaced: If Ryn uncovered—possibly even remedy—the cause, was there hope for a peaceful resolution? Could they all find salvation?

Ryn took another long sip of tea, turning away from the king. Across the garden, Lord Smithwood stood off to the side, not mingling with the guests as much as Ryn expected him to. The aura around the lord was predominantly white with a yellowish tinge. It pulsed slowly, rhythmically, reminding Ryn of the steady beat of a heart. The tempo was disrupted only when someone tried to converse with him. At which point, the pulse spiked and fluttered like a flock of sparrows startled into flight.

That was not, however, what disturbed Ryn.

At the fringes of Lord Smithwood’s magicae clung the faint imprints of someone else’s magical energy. The shadow writhed and twisted, shifting into anguished visages that opened their mouths in silent screams, eyes hollow. Even from a distance, their torment was evident.

Feeling his gaze, Ryn felt an odd sensation of the faces shifting their attention onto him. One after another they sharpened their focus until—

Nothing. The colors. The faces. All gone. The enchanted lens rendered into mere glass.

Ryn removed his spectacles from the bridge of his nose and placed them into their velvet-lined case with care. He should keep a close eye on Lord Smithwood.

TL;DR

Using enchanted glasses, Ryn sees the magical energies (and imprints) of everyone who attended the tea party at the castle garden. @princess@Helo@Lava Alckon@FunnyGuy@Potter@Mantou@Tae@Tpartywithzombi@SilverPaw@Infinite Cosmos

Flashback(s):

• Sola 22, 1739: Ryn and Peter enter the secret room in the castle library and find the magical spyglass (returns it the same day)
• Sola 21, 1739: Udo and Wayra curse Ryn to protect him

Avalia

Time: MORNING
Location: INT. MAMA MALACHI'S SUMMERHOUSE - RIVER PORT / EXT. WOODS - RIVER PORT
Interactions/Mentions: The golden lion furry @Helo; The lady in a purple dress @Tae; The guy cosplaying as an elf @princess; Giant spider(s) @Alivefalling
Equipment:

[+]

⋆ Attire from Earth
⋆ Backpack
⋆ Smartphone
⋆ Wallet and key
⋆ Computer
⋆ Headphones
⋆ Spare eyeglasses
⋆ Plastic bag
⋆ Letter

---

For a blink, Zion's guilt trip worked on Jun. Then renewed frustration replaced the torrent of shame. Why was he suddenly the bad guy here? Why should he owe Malachi anything for appointing himself group leader? How did having the human decency to feed his teammates and captive negate how the man judged Jun at every turn, patronized him, and ignored his wish to leave? On top of all that, he was supposed to be grateful? Being a pessimist didn't make him a masochist!

"Not from my perspective." His voice sounded as frosty as he felt. "I'm not part of your pride. I'm your captive." Jun jabbed his food with a fork. "You guys go. If there's any real danger, you're better off without me. What's the point of dragging around someone useless and unwilling?" He jabbed again. "Unless you want cannon fodder." And again.

The lady's "new friends," comment rang hollow in his ears.

If anyone spoke to him after that, Jun didn't hear it. He was only vaguely aware of shapes moving around as the others prepared to leave.

Suddenly, without warning, he felt a pair of large, very hairy, hands grab him. Before Jun could react, he was lifted up out of his chair and hoisted into the air. He let out an involuntary yelp as his view shifted, and Jun found himself being slung over Zion's broad shoulder. His feet dangled helplessly midair and his face was smushed into the lion's back. "I'm not going!" Jun protested, voice muffled by fur. He squirmed and wiggled, in an attempt to break free—he even pounded his fists against Zion but he just laughed, completely unfazed.

It wasn't long before Jun tired himself out, resigning to being lugged around like a sack of potatoes.

Save for one mumbled sentence ("Wherever the green stuff is," when totally-just-a-friendly-neighbor-who-can-hold-her-own-in-a-fight asked which direction Malachi headed), Jun stayed silent and limp as a rag doll after they left the house.

His ears pricked at the sound of crying. Jun pushed himself up and twisted his upper body into an Eschergirl pose, straining to get a better look at what was going on…. and saw the spider. Either that was the best animatronic money could buy, or climate change had whipped up extra large giant spiders down south. Or was this what they meant by island gigantism?

TLDR

Kenia, Zion, and dead weight Jun head into the woods where they find Malachi and a child surrounded by giant spiders. While Kenia jumps in, Jun is dumbstruck by the size of the spider.

Avalia

Time: MORNING
Location: INT. MAMA MALACHI'S SUMMERHOUSE - RIVER PORT
Interactions/Mentions: The golden lion furry @Helo; The lady in a purple dress @Tae; The other guy who’s also cosplaying as an elf @GingerBobOh; The guy cosplaying as an elf @princess
Equipment:

[+]

⋆ Attire from Earth
⋆ Backpack
⋆ Smartphone
⋆ Wallet and key
⋆ Computer
⋆ Headphones
⋆ Spare eyeglasses
⋆ Plastic bag
⋆ Letter

---

Jun raised his head from his breakfast. He kept his gaze fixed on the snout, afraid of getting burnt by the disappointment in Zion's eyes.

"Why wouldn't I?" What about the past week gave the impression that Jun wanted to hang out with his captors (at the risk of Stockholm syndrome setting in)? And really, "It's not like I'd be any help."

When the new lady spoke, he stared at her toned arms to avoid eye-contact. The "random-friendly-neighbor-who-dropped-by-to-say-hello" was better built than he was—not that that was saying much. Anything, even a leaf blowing in the gentle breeze, could easily take Jun down. Honestly, a dying man had better odds of survival than he did.

He nodded at the lady's suggestion. "I’m sure he'd appreciate the extra help." Glancing around at the group, he considered the composition of their team for the first time. They hadn't encountered combat yet, but their party build seemed decent enough. "You got a heavy hitting warrior, two mages—one focused on defense, one on offense—, and now a rogue who can switch roles if…" He paused and looked at the purple dress lady again. "Actually, are you a bard? Or maybe you're more of an assassin?" If the latter, they had a DPS heavy party. That would mean Enstille was their primary source for party buffs. "You'll have to make sure no one targets Enstille… but I think it should be fine if you guys stick together." Especially if the GMs were level scaling. Jun's stats alone should tank the enemy's level to 1. Unless they scale based on the strongest player. Then he'd be screwed. But, he'd also be the only liability. The fight should go smoothly for the others.

His mind drifted as he wondered how combat mechanics worked in Avalia compared to MMOs.

TLDR

Jun agreed that the others should go help Malachi.

Avalia

Time: MORNING
Location: RIVER PORT
Interactions/Mentions: Zion @Helo; Enstille@GingerBobOh; Kenia @Tae

---

"... Would you accompany me for a stroll?"

Jun tensed. Malachi was trying to separate him from the others. Why? What did he have to say or do to Jun that he couldn't say or do in front of them? Better yet, what was Malachi planning to do if he refused?

He clutched his backpack closer. Who was he kidding? There was never a choice. He could either prolong the inevitable or face whatever "Malachi" (the character Malachi or the guy roleplaying him) had planned now. Best case scenario, he wouldn't hurt him. Even better case scenario, Jun would be allowed to go home. Though, with his luck, Jun doubted either of those outcomes. If anything, the gamer in him told him that this was the best setup for a battle encounter, the perfect distraction to shove his concerns and wishes aside and advance the story campaign to the juicy bits that the others were itching for. "... Sure."

The spicy sweetness of the ginger candy invigorated him to rise to his feet, but didn't give him the courage to put his glasses back on. If this ended up being the worst case scenario, Jun rather not see it coming. Literally.

With the grace and elegance of a blind bat that couldn't echolocate, Jun navigated through the house. He stumbled over almost every piece of furniture in his path, bumped into what he thought was one of the LARPers, broke something he prayed was nothing valuable, and smacked into the pillar before he finally managed to shuffle out the door.

Unfazed by the spectacle, Malachi rose in tandem with Jun, briefly glancing at the others around them. "Don't do anything stupid," he commanded with an air of authority before following Jun. He watched nonchalantly as the young man navigated through the house with, at best, half a functioning brain cell. Determined to remain patient, Malachi gracefully maneuvered after him, biting on the inside of his cheek to keep from yelling.

Stay calm. Don’t say anything. Don’t do it…

Malachi's breath caught in his throat as a portrait tumbled off the wall thanks to Jun bumping into it, and he hurried over to the fallen frame. His usual grace abandoned him as he crashed to his knees and cradled the broken frame in his hands. The broken glass was shattered over the floor beneath him, poking into his skin. His heart pounded in his chest as he stared at it, his normally composed gaze darkening with emotions he struggled to conceal. His expression became inscrutable as he hung his head There was a long pause before he set it down and rose to his feet, the glass crackling audibly under his boots.

He moved after Jun and shut the door once outside. The bustling noise of the town filled the awkward silence finally. With the most unnatural, forced smile, Malachi spoke softly, “Lovely weather for a walk, isn’t it?”

Although Malachi controlled his voice, every syllable sounded strained through gritted teeth. Jun's head bobbed, "But... That's not what you want to say." The thought leapt from his mind to his lips before he could stop it. Jun's bottom lip shrank into his mouth. "S-sorry," he stammered for the tenth time since he broke the unknown object.

“No.” Malachi agreed, his eyes meeting his with unwavering resolve. “It’s not.” He paused at the sidewalk to allow Jun to catch up. The elf took a deep breath before continuing, his tone earnest and sincere. “But I would like to get along with you. I was thinking… perhaps you could explain to me your point of view. What you remember before you and I started this journey and how it’s made you feel.“

His gaze remained steady and serious. “ Then I’d like to also make you understand mine.”

Jun stared at the ground in silence for a good long time. "What's there to say?" he finally muttered. "I'm just some pathetic guy who fell down the stairs because he couldn't get a plastic bag off his face. You people found me and took me here… to 'Avalia'." His tongue fiddled with the ginger candy in his mouth. "Don't know why any of you thought that was a good idea… Whatever it is you want from me, you got the wrong guy. I'm no one and I've nothing valuable. I want to… have to go back home."

Malachi frowned. He paused before asking simply, “...Do you understand where Avalia is, Jun?”

"In a different dimension from Earth," Jun said to Malachi the character and paraphrased GM Vaeril's welcoming speech, "where 'magic pulses and the land is beautiful beyond comprehension.' It's ruled by the evil dark elves and you're on team good guys."

To the player playing Malachi, Jun said, "I understand the setting, it's a classic. Easy for newbies to get into and flexible enough to add details later. I like it, I do. A-and I know you guys put a lot of effort into this. I just—I have to go." He sighed, "Got adulting to do." Familiar faces filled his mind, making his chest tighten. "… People I miss…"

Malachi’s brows lifted. He folded his arms. Though the words did not exactly add up in his brain, he felt he was perhaps on a route to understanding his perspective. However, instead of commenting, he decided he’d hear out Jun as much as he could first. With a wave of his hand, he gestured for them to begin walking down toward the beach as he asked, “What do you mean by the setting, exactly? And… What are newbies?”

The weight on Jun's chest grew heavier as his heart sank at the realization that this conversation was a farce; "Malachi" wasn't listening, he was just pretending to be. This thought left Jun feeling more isolated and unheard than before.

Exhaustion suddenly washed over him.

Jun dragged his feet over to the closest structure and slumped against it. "Setting as in… where all this takes place," he explained to no one who actually needed the clarification. "Newbie, meaning newcomer."

Since this wasn't going to be about leaving the campaign, and not remotely brave enough to test his luck with the cranky team leader, Jun switched to the other topic mentioned. "Uh… so… What's your story, 'Malachi Elowyn'?"

“Setting.” Malachi repeated as if tasting the word. “...Like a chosen setting for a novel…”

He fell silent as he took a moment to mentally work out what was occurring here. In combination of the strange things Jun had uttered over the last week and what he had just said, he was starting to get a decent idea that Jun thought this entire situation was not real.

“Jun…” He paused to stare down at him. For a moment, he saw young elven child with long blonde ringlets and a pout on her face as she swore allegiance to her unique way of thinking. At first, he thought he had conjured her vision in his mind because Jun had requested his story, but he slowly realized that had not been the reason.

Regardless, It hurt to see her. He didn’t want to, yet there she was intruding in his memory even when he tried his hardest to push all of them away.

However, he could not push her away. He knew he needed to see her. Perhaps Rosamira would have been able to understand Jun in a way he could not. No matter what anyone had told her, she had always been determined to see the world in her own way. It had been difficult to get through to her, but when he had, it had been because he had been short and sweet. “This isn’t a fabricated scenario… This is real. ” He took a step back and opened his palm. Flickers of light appeared in small flashes as energy began to conjure above. A small ball of light energy began to grow from nothing, growing in size and brightness. “I have a feeling you may tell me you believe this is a illusion, but I ask that you hover your hands near it and feel the heat… From what I understand, no one on earth harnesses such ability. I need you to understand, for your safety, that you are not on earth anymore, Jun. You are in an entirely different place.” The light that danced in his hands reflected in his still blue eyes. Allowing a bit more intensity to fall into his gentle tone, he added, “I implore you to tell me what it is I need to do to make you believe me.”

Jun flinched as the figure he assumed was Malachi approached. Instinctively, he raised his backpack as a shield. However, whatever the other man had planned, he stopped short. Instead, a bright light illuminated the area. Without his glasses he couldn't tell, but Malachi was probably performing a pretty cool magic trick.

Believe me.

The sincerity in Malachi's voice took Jun back to the day he witnessed a patient having a psychotic episode in the middle of the ER. They ranted about the evil forces being upon them, urging everyone to unite and wield long-lost magical powers to fend off the impending doom. It had taken a team of nurses and a security guard to restrain them.

Was Malachi like that patient? Or was Jun the one losing touch with reality?

A long pause stretched out as Jun stared into the luminous display. "I don't know. There isn't much I think you can do," he finally admitted.

"Earth might not have real magic, but there are magicians and illusionists who do that kind of trick. With enough money and time, anyone can build a theme park like this. There's even communities that dress up like the people here and have fun playing pretend."

Jun looked up at the blurry shape above the bright orb. "… No one's given me a reason to believe any of this is 'real'." He hesitated. Just when he was ready to add further, the ginger candy made a surprise appearance in his windpipe, causing him to cough and splutter uncontrollably.

Once the coughing subsided, Jun, his eyes teary and voice raspy, managed to croak one question, "W-why should I trust my kid-kidnappers?"

Malachi’s face remained stoic throughout Jun’s words. He shut his hand, the orb dissipating, and then folded his arms. “There’s been reasons to believe it’s real Jun. It’s just easier not to… It’s easier to believe this is all a game and everything here is an illusion than to accept that your reality has changed… And perhaps you have lost everything. Believe I know.” He chewed the inside of his lip a moment.

The way Malachi said all that rubbed Jun the wrong way. This is starting to feel like an Asch Conformity Experiment, he thought.

“You can’t go home, Jun, because then-”

”SOMEBODY HELP ME!” A shrill voice suddenly filled the air. It was obviously coming from behind the homes and in the thick of the woods, but it was close enough to pierce through the air and cause several folks walking by to pause.

On cue. His gamer instincts were right: this "heart-to-heart" was the best setup for a battle encounter. Jun sighed and turned to the direction they came from."That's that then. Good talk. Time to save the day, hero."

“Come with me.” Malachi said without hesitation.

"No thank you. Go have fun." Jun kept walking. "I'll tell the others about the encounter so they won't miss out on loot and EXP. I don't want to participate." Even though he saw it coming from a mile away, he still felt salty for being used like this.

Not like they needed him anyways.

“It’s not an encounter, Jun….” He sighed with frustration. “Fine. Go inside.” He waved him off and waited to see Jun go back inside the house before running off on his own.

It took some effort to backtrack and find the door handle. Still, Jun managed to get back inside the right house and walk toward the voices. "Hey guys. So you know, Malachi ran off into the woods." Or, at least, that's what he thought the green mass was.

Having escaped the grouch's clutches, Jun relaxed. His stomach, which had been tied in knots, now roared for sustenance. Cheeks flushed with embarrassment, he hastily put his glasses on before getting himself some breakfast.

TLDR

Malachi and Jun took a walk outside to try to reach an understanding. Their conversation was cut short by a cry for help. Malachi rushed to the woods to investigate while Jun returned to the house to have breakfast. He let the others know where Malachi went.

🗡 Roses and Daggers 🎕

Ryn & Prince Wulfric
Part II

Date: Sola, 23^rd
Time: Early morning

---

---

Ryn’s gaze remained fixed on the prince, eyes following his every move with a sense of silent fascination. Positioned at a comfortable distance, the count stood nearby, an ever-present shadow that faded into the periphery.

The prince’s bewildered expression and clumsy movements were a stark contrast to his regal demeanor. His lack of culinary prowess could not have been more evident. Every attempt was met with tiny missteps, transforming the task of cooking an egg into an insurmountable challenge for him. Yet, despite the adversity, the prince persisted. Never once voicing a complaint, plunging headlong into uncharted territory.

Judging purely from the state of his office, Prince Wulfric appeared to be a high-achiever who was both self-reliant and self-demanding—qualities capable of shaping him into a king who could create a better kingdom for the people or a tyrant, thus perpetuating the cycle.

In the kitchen, Prince Wulfric only reinforced this impression. After explicitly stating what his skills were, Prince Wulfric challenged himself by choosing a meal that did not utilize those skills. He did not bother to ask what Ryn’s skills were; he simply decided to take on the task of cooking all by himself. What stood out the most was that, from start to finish—from the moment he scoured the kitchen for tools and ingredients, to the moment he extricated the overcooked, unseasoned, and excessively oily scrambled eggs from the skillet—, the prince never asked for assistance or advice from anyone. “You’re not used to asking for help, are you?”

Despite Wulfric’s lack of cooking skills, and the eggs he’d cooked being what they were, he arched an eyebrow at the count. “Why would I need help?” It was a simple dish - or so he’d been convinced.

“Did you not? Correct me if I am wrong, because it seemed like you were struggling from step one. There’s no harm in asking where the tools and ingredients are, or how to cook a sunny-side up.”

Though his countenance was of one who would very much like to stubbornly deny it, the prince remained silent; they both knew he had been. It would be strange to say that he shouldn’t have struggled or needed help, but that was closer to his sentiments. It was also true that asking hadn’t occurred to him, since people usually either offered their help (freely or for a price), gave critique unprompted, or he simply ordered them to do what needed to be done.

Ryn took a bite of the scrambled egg. Contrary to its creator’s grim silence, the dish was palatable. “It’s a wonderful first attempt, Adel! We can certainly make use of this.” Ignoring the prince’s skeptical glare, Ryn took another bite, his mind already exploring recipes that could incorporate the prince’s eggs. When he found the one, he turned to Prince Wulfric, “I have an idea. Why don’t we work together this time?”

“I assumed you would make the ‘bacon’ part of eggs and bacon,” he informed the count dryly. That’s about the level of working together he’d expected. But by the way he spoke, Hendrix appeared to possess some cooking proficiency. Still, the prince remained unconvinced. “You want to incorporate that,” with his fork, he pointed at the overcooked offender, “into your idea?”

“In which case, you must learn to articulate your thoughts more clearly, Adel.” Ryn replied with lighthearted frankness. “We, the common folk, lack the ability to read minds.”

Wulfric huffed, because this was about reading intentions, not minds. “I stated the goal,and proceeded to pursue it in part. Is it not clear enough that the remainder should be done by someone else?” That someone else in question had been entirely content to study him, earnest and zealously intent. Had it been someone else, he might have thought it was for personal entertainment. But while Hendrix obviously wanted something, he wasn’t yet sure what that was.

“No, it is not clear.” The count gave a quick smile. “That’s what makes assumptions so dangerous… and why communication is vital if you want people to work at top efficiency.”

Ryn regarded the plate of eggs resting on the table. Unseasoned meant that they possessed the potential to be transformed into something extraordinary with the addition of the right ingredients. Overcooked did not mean burnt or rotten. There was still room for improvement, a chance for change. “It’s not too late.” He said to the next king of the Danrose bloodline. “There’s still hope for you.” For a prolonged instant, the black pools of Ryn’s eyes remained locked on grayish blue before turning away.

Wulfric wasn’t aware of all the implications of those words, but he could very well tell when he was being judged. So, for that moment, as they locked gazes, he stared down at Hendrix, a sense of pride exuding from the royal. There was an air of cold, haughty superiority about the prince while the count formed whatever opinions about him that he would.

He stood there; unmoving, unflinching, unapproachable.

But perhaps, not truly unchangeable.

When the count moved onto their cooking mission, Wulfric eased his imposing demeanour. He was resolved to follow through, and wasn’t opposed to heeding Hendrix, since he was obviously the more experienced cook of the two. Thus, the two men began anew, this time with a more cooperative approach.

“We won’t be skinning anything, but I require your expertise in cutting, dicing, and slicing.”

Together, they gathered additional ingredients and neatly organized the kaleidoscope of colors on the countertop. At the heart of the culinary stage sprawled a slab of uncut bacon, its marbled fat glistening in the play of light. Beside it, a block of cheese displayed its proud golden rind and rich, creamy hue. A procession of produce encircled the central duo, each one a burst of life and flavor. Plump, sun-kissed tomatoes shared space with onions cloaked in delicate papery layers. Glossy bell peppers spanned a spectrum from vibrant green to fiery red, adding vivacious energy to the ensemble. While the verdant bundle of spinach and cilantro cascaded like elegant emerald ribbons. Amidst this medley, a cluster of mushrooms added an earthy touch to the composition. On the sideline, the quartet—the flour canister, oil cruet, salt cellar, and pepper castor—stood in unity, awaiting their moment to join the symphony of flavors.

After delegating the task of slicing and dicing all the ingredients to Prince Wulfric, Ryn measured flour and sifted it into a bowl. Adding salt, oil, and water, he kneaded the ingredients into a supple, elastic dough which were shaped into balls, rolled thin, and set aside. Ryn shifted his full attention to the prince and gave a few pointers as Prince Wulfric sizzled the meat and sautéed the vegetables.

Throughout the entire process, he injected abridged lessons about the economic and business aspects of agriculture in the Northern Kingdoms, using the ingredients as examples and highlighting the distinctive practices that set Caesonia apart from other countries—for better and for worse. Pausing in the middle of a lesson on occasion to share tidbits of trivia about the ingredients they were using or to impart advice on how to cook them properly.

Here and there, the count’s lessons turned into surprisingly in-depth discussions, since Wulfric was well-versed in economics. The prince argued the merits and demerits of particular models and practices. However, he also interjected with an idea or three on possible improvements pertaining to economy, business, and agriculture. Too, he shared the rare tidbit of his own experiences of coming across – to him – unusual meals, ingredients, or customs.

Abruptly, Ryn asked. “What did you notice when watching the kitchen staff?”

“They’re better skilled, and more used to working with each other,” he replied with a shrug, because that much was obvious. He turned half-way in their direction to regard them once more. They had advanced in their meal preparations; they weren’t making only the usual breakfast, brunch, and/or lunch. Today, they were tasked with supplying the Tea Party event as well.

“There is a particular order which I appreciate…” Wulfric gestured at the process unfolding in front of them. He expounded upon what, to him, was key: that each person acted in accordance to their role and skills; that those who could do more strived to prove themselves yet that the whole remained unimpeded by excessive, self-sabotaging competitiveness; that if there was a lack, someone else stepped in; the existent hierarchy; the efficiency of their operations, and the wondrous final products which emerged as a result of it.

It was unnecessary to follow Prince Wulfric’s gaze; Ryn already witnessed the seamless collaboration among these individuals the day before. Their livelihood and well-being depended on it. Although the prince’s acknowledgment of the servants’ efforts was appreciated, there were other matters the count wished him to take note of. “... Is there anything else you noticed or thought?”

“Each individual and their quirks,” Wulfric sighed. “Is that your point?” He guessed.

“Let’s see…” He tracked each of them, analyzing. He didn’t know any of them, but discerning people’s habits, traits, and motives was a common practice for him.

“The head chef,” he first settled on the older man with close-cropped graying hair and short trimmed mutton chops. “His work is very much a matter of pride to him.” That was apparent by how he regarded each meal, from its conception to its conclusion. Each success served as a testament to his expertise. “He’s confident, and feels secure in his position.” He was aware of the few talents surrounding him, yet was unthreatened by them. “But he’s somewhat rigid, and - how did Zarai term that? - a sexist.” In the few interactions he’d witnessed, the chef was attentive to his most immediate male underlings, but ranged from dismissive to denigrating of the female staff.

With the exception of one. “She’s the one he can respect, possibly due to her seniority.” That woman was old; thinned silver hair tied into a bun, face wrinkled, weathered, and dry. “She’s also the type of person for whom this is her life’s work.” Yet she wasn’t even the underchef. “She is more concerned with cultivating the next generation. Kindly, but can keep them in line. Knows how to conserve her strength, however…” She was tired, strained, and with a certain heaviness about her. Focusing visibly posed her a challenge. “The ailments of old age, I suppose,” he concluded.

Wulfric went on, picking and selecting a few people to focus on. “He likes to experiment, and is familiar with foreign cuisine. There’s some strife with his more traditional superior.” An energetic youth from Felipina with a warm brown complexion, his black hair pinned up and covered.

“She is meticulous and exacting.” A woman with a heart-shaped face and braided wheat hair, whose portly appearance and soft features were belied by her intense, singular concentration on a given task. “Good for fine, delicate work. Though, she struggles where speed is preferred over finesse.”

“He is evidently enamored with swords, and fantasizes of adventure,” he nodded at a young boy. Even after one of his overseers had already twisted his ear for the distraction, the small brunette still snuck an occasional glance over his way, marveling at his sheathed sabre.

“She is skittish, wary of the two strangers here…” The willowy, black haired woman happened to catch his gaze, and he immediately realized it wasn’t quite fear that was causing her furtive glances. “No, never mind.” He promptly went on to ignore her, lest she get the fanciful notion that she had a chance, here.

Wulfric fell silent then, because he’d frankly had enough of this exercise. While he had been attentive for the duration of it, he hadn’t exhibited much enthusiasm; now, he was simply bored. He was still idly watching the servants, more so for something to do, but wasn’t interested in attempting to dissect any more of them.

Prince Wulfric’s astuteness for discerning the characteristics of the staff solely based on their actions in the kitchen was truly impressive—a skill that held great promise for future business endeavors. Although he showed little enthusiasm and harbored a noticeable reluctance towards the task, he carried out what he assumed Ryn had asked of him. The longer he continued, however, his momentum waned, and he gradually abandoned his observations, descending into silence.

A laugh cut through the stillness that had settled between them. “I must confess, I did not anticipate you to delve into character analysis… though, I suppose it’s an essential skill in this treacherous terrain we call court life.” He extended the plate of scrambled eggs back to its visibly bored maker. “Could you season this with a pinch of salt and pepper, and then mix it with the other ingredients? We’re nearly finished.”

“Oh, it wasn't that?” But if not analyzing, Wulfric didn’t know what Hendrix had meant him to do. He laughed shortly at a part of his comment, however. “This treacherous terrain is called life,” he remarked, darkly humorous. At the following request, he inclined his head. With exceeding caution, he seasoned the eggs, then mixed them in with the rest. He was rather looking forward to being done with this…cooking.

Ryn carefully transferred the dough disk onto a hot, cast-iron skillet, where it sizzled and blistered, creating pockets of golden-brown and the scent of toasting flour filled the air. “One might think one would have a clearer view of the world from the ivory tower, but the truth is, when you’re so distant from it all, it becomes challenging to see and hear what’s happening. … Unfortunately, when you venture too close, scrutinizing every detail, you risk overlooking other crucial pieces of the puzzle.”

“Perhaps,” was as far as the prince was willing to concede him on that one.

The tortilla somersaulted through the air and landed back onto the skillet. “When the staff came to talk to me, how much were you paying attention to what they were saying?”

“To the general thread of the conversation, and…”

“Concerns about security? Rest assured, Adel.” Without diverting his gaze from the sizzling skillet, he pointed the spatula in a seemingly arbitrary direction. Beyond the flurry of activity, near one of the exits, a sentinel stood watch—a knight belonging to Lady Morrigan’s retinue. “My ‘freedom’ here is an illusion. Your cousin has taken great pains to ensure that. From what I could gather, she has taken it upon herself to be the vigilant eye in places that often go unnoticed by those upstairs.” A brief, subtle nod of acknowledgement passed between the prince and the knight before the knight withdrew deeper into the shadows. “… Word has it that she doesn’t shy away from employing brutal methods if it means safeguarding her family.” Though the same rumors suggested less noble motivations were at play as well.

That last sentence, in and of itself, didn’t mean much to the prince. For one, violence in the name of safety (and other such lofty goals) was very much in line with how his family, and to an extent the country - nay, even humanity as a whole - operated. “You might want to be more specific,” Wulfric noted.

“Ah… so you are not aware… I see.” For the first time there was a hint of disappointment in the count’s voice.

As Ryn continued to cook the tortillas, he started to list the names of the servants who approached him and what merchandise they sampled or requested. On the surface, the goods were mundane, spanning from kitchen utensils to an assortment of remedies. To the casual observer, there was nothing amiss. That is, until one paused to reflect. Why were these servants having to rely on a foreign merchant for the provision of essential items?

At first, Wulfric simply memorized what he was told. Eventually, a pattern emerged. Remedies for various ailments, from cuts, to bruises, burns, even torn or otherwise damaged flesh, and the like. “Hmm.” A frown marred his expression. It took him a bit to even begin to try and figure out the purpose of servants purchasing kitchen utensils - items which should be available to them at their workplace. Could it be they were being made to ‘replace’ something…? In a similar vein, they had to get treatment from outside sources, and in a seemingly secretive manner to boot. Combining all Hendrix had said and implied while accounting for Morrigan’s other profession painted a rather grim picture.

“I can see how that would be a problem,” the prince stated softly. His expression was tight, though his gaze was distant and indiscernible as he stared at nothing. He had witnessed Morrigan’s expertise several times. On criminals. If she was expanding her pursuits outside of those boundaries…

At one point, Wulfric’s hand had found its way onto the countertop, fingers tapping away while he was lost in thought. So, quite possibly, Morrigan was tormenting their servants. If so, shouldn’t she be stopped?

But even as a part of him thought of the possible solutions: remove her, convince her, find someone else, run interference–

–Another part of his mind conjured the innumerable senseless brutalities he was aware of.

A maid fainted? Execute her. Looked the wrong way at someone? Gouge their eyes out. Broke a vase? Off with the hand, and be grateful it’s not worse. Declared a heretic? What else but the stake. Petty criminal? Flay them alive. They didn’t show reverence? Hang them. Bored of someone? Throw them away. Oh, but if they’re useless, best send them to the afterworld! Why would it matter? They’re roaches, the lot of them.

Care? What care? Oh, one got too close? You let? No, no, it’s a delusion, a trick! That filth, it must be cleared, it should be expunged, you will understand this one day.

Just what is this?! Treason! Treason! To the guillotine with that traitor! And don’t you dare ever–

Sometimes, it felt like multiple voices were whispering, Kill. Kill him.

Wulfric’s restless fingers had long come to a stop. Even as storm clouds gathered in his gaze, overcasting the crystalline blue, there was no change whatsoever in his countenance.

Yet It could sense it, even from the depths of the abyss. The nascent stirrings of a storm charged the air with tension. An electric current hummed and crackled, causing every hair to rise on end. The breeze twisted and turned with increasing vigor as it carried the unmistakable scent of petrichor and anticipation. Wisps of dark shades swirled together to merge into an ever-growing mass that swallowed the once grayish blue expanse. Thunder rumbled, a deep and primal growl that reverberated through It. As It inhaled the thickened air, It savored the tingling sensation that teased Its tongue. And grinned.

Suddenly, he affixed the count with a look. “Ah, not to worry,” there was quiet intensity in his words. “I happen to believe there is a difference between discipline and torture.” He smiled. “I will inquire into this…and deal with it appropriately.” If there was a hint of menace, it was as fleeting as a mirage. “Thank you, Count Hendrix.” His smile was still edged with sharpness, but he’d gentled his voice as much as he could.

Assuming this was the true matter the count had been leading up to all along, the prince made to take his leave.

“Ah-ah-aah.” A hand grabbed the prince’s belt, preventing him from taking another step. “Are you not forgetting something?” Ryn’s eyes twinkled as he pointed at the fresh tortilla stack, shredded cheese, and bowl of filling, waiting to be rolled into neat, tightly wrapped bundles.

The count’s hand was captured before it could make proper contact, his wrist held in a firm grip. There was a clear warning there as Wulfric turned around. However, a look of amusement soon overtook his features, and he released the offending appendage. “Are we still doing that?” he questioned. At Hendrix’s prompt, he went on to help finish their breakfast burritos.

Nonplussed, Ryn demonstrated how to assemble a burrito. “Of course we are. It’s said that breakfast is the most important meal of the day!” Each tortilla received a generous spoonful of the filling, followed by a sprinkle of shredded cheese. He folded the warm tortilla over the filling, then rolled it to ensure all melded harmoniously.

“Thank you for indulging me. I’ve learned more about you in this hour than I have the past 28 years.”

If that hadn’t been phrased so strangely, Wulfric might have said the same. “Well, there is something to be said about learning via interaction,” he retorted, ever so dryly. “Since we have only met the other day, I have to question what you thought you’ve been ‘learning about me’ from around the time we both happened to be born.” Though he was sure he also knew far more about the count now, it was equally true that he had even more questions. The uncomfortable sensation that Hendrix had managed to get more out of this conversation, even after Wulfric had gone along with something as ridiculous as cooking to try and figure out the other man, left him feeling slightly grumpy.

However, the surprisingly delicious breakfast did make up for the prince’s troubles.

“That’s precisely why I believe it’s important to see some things firsthand and not rely solely on the words of others… that can lead to assumptions.” Ryn watched the prince enjoy the burrito that contained the scrambled eggs he initially deemed a failure. “It would be a shame to discard a potential future based on assumptions alone. Wouldn’t you say?”

His mouth being too full to answer immediately, Wulfric allowed a minimal eye roll. He had expected Hendrix to turn his words against him; after all, the prince had done the very same to the count with his own point about learning. When it was polite to speak, he met Fritz’s gaze. “Yes,” he stated. “After all, it does seem that my assumptions about you have also proven wrong.”

“Oh? For the better, I hope.” Ryn took a hearty bite out of the burrito and made no effort to conceal how delicious he thought it tasted.

Wulfric, who had done the same, simply gave a curt nod. He was hungrier than he’d realized.

The answer caused the count to beam. “Then we should do this again, Adel. Next time I’ll take you outside. Maybe you’ll discover something that Prince Wulfric wouldn’t be able to.” He took another mouthful of the burrito when he noticed a yellow clump on the prince. Ryn offered a napkin to him after making a wiping gesture.

A gesture he ignored, because he wasn’t finished with his breakfast yet. “If we must,” he sighed lightly. “But give me more room to plan for it,” he advised.

With his mouth preoccupied, Ryn could only nod in response. Meanwhile, his gaze clung to the stray scrambled egg with the same stubbornness as the egg clung to the prince. Retrieving the napkin, he attempted to remove it.

Wulfric had been peacefully eating, when that damned interfering man reached out much too far into his personal space - only to find the air in front of his hand obstructed by the business side of the prince’s dagger. Wulfric’s expression, for once, fully encapsulated the phrase what the fuck.

A juxtaposition to the count’s impassiveness. His stoic countenance turned into one of pity, then eased into affable nonchalance. He swallowed what he had been chewing. “Apologies, I didn’t mean to startle you. You have some egg on you.” Ryn pointed at it.

Slowly, Wulfric sheathed his weapon, and with equal care, removed the napkin from Hendrix’s grasp. He took a moment to finish his meal, watching the other man all the while, clearly bewildered. When he was done eating, he used the napkin himself, thank you very much.

“...Try not to get killed before then.” With that final warning, the prince departed.

“I’ll do my best.” Ryn cheerfully waved the prince off until he disappeared from view.

When his fingers brushed against the belt, Ryn sensed he had grazed something deep within Prince Wulfric. Of course there was discomfort, few welcomed the intrusion of strangers into their personal space, and the first prince seemed disinclined to tolerate such behavior even from acquaintances. Within that fleeting instant, Ryn detected something that went beyond unease. It was a feeling he had since their encounter in the entrance hall on the morning of the solstice, and grew stronger when the prince decided to equip an array of weapons and continued to wear them even within the safety of the castle. The feeling solidified as the prince’s mask shattered, revealing what had been there all along. A deeply ingrained paranoia, passed down from father to son. If King Edin was hiding behind peacock feathers, then Prince Wulfric was hiding behind weapons to protect themselves from “this treacherous terrain… called life,” where “enemies” lurked around every corner and one’s own shadow could betray them at any given time.

Ryn released a heavy sigh, contemplating whether this was what their forefathers had envisioned for their lineage. A prince who did not feel safe in his own home, another who loathed his own blood so much he punished himself for it, and a king who indulged in excess as if to fill a void. After all the sacrifices made to keep the Danroses in power, were any of these people content with their lives?

He wrapped the fork Prince Wulfric left behind in a cloth, minimizing any risk of contamination. Now he had two samples from the Danrose bloodline. Yet, instead of a sense of accomplishment, only guilt remained.

🗡 Roses and Daggers 🎕

Evening Sola 22, 1739: Callum & Riona Part 2

Callum & Riona

---

“As far as I can.” Cal answered, it was the most he could offer without accidentally lying. “The wall is for me, to look at and remember. Last night, was also mostly for me, to teach myself my own lessons in a way I won’t forget.” There was nothing left of his fingernails to chew at, he picked and scratched at the wound on his hand as he thought of how to explain it.

“Yesterday in that room with Darryn, it wasn’t Edin in charge, that was all Alibeth. Cold and twisted and ugly; that was her real face. I have spent my whole life letting myself think that because Alibeth did not hate me as Edin does, that she loved me. That I owed her something for that. So I had to know whether she could even try to care about the things I care about. Show her that every time she, or my family, hurts other people, it hurts me too. But if she has any love for me it is only in the same way that Edin loves mirrors, with the hope that I’ll reflect something back at her that she wants to see, assure her that she is a good mother. She is not and I’ve wasted too much of my life wishing for monsters and parasites to love me back.” Cal hadn’t needed to do anything to know he hated Edin, it had taken root long before his earliest memories, a natural instinct to reciprocate everything he saw behind Edin’s eyes when Edin looked at him. But severing himself from Alibeth had been like carving out something malignant, painful and messy, and if it hadn’t been like that he would’ve probably found a way to forget what she really was.

“There is something dark in my family, it’s in all of us, not just Edin and Alibeth and dozens of dead kings, it’s in me too. They like making other people suffer, and I like making myself suffer, but either way, someone has to suffer. And if I’m not suffering, what if I wake up one day, and I’m just like Edin, not caring about anyone else? So I can’t say I’m not going to do something stupid again, but it is not because I think I’m some righteous martyr. I don’t want to forget to care.” He stopped as his voice faltered, waiting for the tightening of his chest to relax. It was true, but it wasn’t the whole truth, and it was tempting to try and just leave that as his answer. Except if he was going to accept that they were friends, and he already had, he couldn’t just try and sneak by with half-truths.

“I care, I do, but it’s not enough to make me a good person. I’m not scared of them anymore, but I am scared of me. I am not built for fixing things, I am built for ruining them. Doing better, for me, I think that looks like doing whatever I can to tear apart the Danrose reign. But if you want change for the better, something good that will last, that’s not gonna come from me. But I would like to help clear the road for it.”

Riona slipped her hand into Callum’s, effectively intercepting his hand’s—his mind’s—relentless endeavor to tamper with the wound… his wounds. “Stop.” She said firmly. They stood there for a few seconds in silence before she smirked. “If you start bleeding again, you’re going to contaminate the ingredients.”

With a tender squeeze, she released his hand, the warmth lingering momentarily. Her steps carried her back to the table where she started removing a few objects from its surface. “I think we should try the lozenge next time. The process is too sensitive to certain chemicals. And if that burnt sugar smell on you is anything besides actual sugar, I’d rather we not risk blowing up the house.”

“I would not blow up a house, well, unless it’s my house.” He joked back, it just seemed the better way to respond to that statement. “And I wouldn’t come here too far gone and fool around with magic. I am not that stupid. But I am tired and another night is not a bad idea.” If Riona didn’t trust his current state, he wouldn’t argue about it, not when came to magic.

“I said we should try the lozenge next time. I didn’t say we shouldn’t try anything tonight. But if you really are tired we can just hang out. Don’t want your effort getting here to be a total waste.”

It was obvious this time Riona was the one diverting the conversation. She wanted to lighten the mood, but she was also buying herself time to mull over Callum’s words. His admission that his actions weren’t entirely selfless or selfish brought both a sense of relief and worry. His answer confirmed and denied Lady Morrigan’s claims. That meant that the scales could swing in any direction. If Riona told him, would he help her or would he ruin her?

“The shaking, is it because you drank too much or you didn’t drink at all?” An unfamiliar jar caught her attention, her hands picked it up for closer scrutiny. Riona’s eyebrows shot up in surprise as she swiveled to Callum, the beginnings of a smile filled with excitement spreading across her face. “Is this what I think it is?” She raised the jar of geshrow root.

“See, I pay attention.” He could tell from her reaction he’d at least gotten something right yesterday. “If you ever need anything, I can do that. Just think of it as misappropriating Edin’s money towards his own downfall.” He offered, phrasing it more as an act of treachery than a favor.

“The best use of taxpayer money.”

“You don’t need to worry about me, I’m good. Probably just didn’t drink enough is all. I was at the tavern earlier, but just to pay something off, and then I ran into Farim there. He’s from Alidasht and yesterday I think I made a pretty bad impression, fighting with Ana, so I had to make a better one. I had a few drinks with him and we might even be friends soon. You should hear about his dad, really rivaling Edin for being the worst. Anyway, I am expanding my social circle, and seeing things more clearly now. ” Callum wasn’t sure if he was trying to convince Riona or himself, but he knew he should try not to drag everyone else’s mood down to his. It was a better day than yesterday and that was good enough.

As Callum talked about how he was actively making friends and broadening his horizons through them, her smile grew wider. “That’s great. Maybe he’ll be able to convince you to leave Sorian and see the world while you’re at it.”

“Leave Sorian? Drink around the world, a thousand different taverns in a thousand different cities, running away from all my problems. Stopping by every now and then to remind my family I hate them before continuing a life that is one long indulgent vacation. Would you still be friends with that guy?” Cal asked, not that he needed an answer to know it wasn’t an option. The guilt, with his tendencies, he’d only rot away faster like that. The palace didn’t feel like a home but Sorian was home. He owed something to Sorian, even if it was just trying and failing, that was better than giving up.

“If you don’t tell me what the best taverns are in each place after visiting so many, then no, probably not. Stingy,” she joked. “But I know your other vice that’s stronger: learning. Once you get out of here, you won’t be able to resist the temptation of knowledge. You’ll be too busy learning things that being in Sorian could never teach you… You might even discover solutions to problems this place has.”

Riona rolled the jar in her hands before placing it, and all the other stuff in her arms, back on the table. “Now that we actually have the root,” she leafed through the pile of notes, “we have a better chance at the spells you said you wanted to do,” Riona pulled out the notes mentioning geshrow root and handed them over to Callum. “We can try one of these tonight or, if you are tired, choose which ones you want to do later. Just remember we don’t have that much root.”

“I’m going to make tea. You got two options.” Riona said as she started toward the back of the house. “One tastes Gods awful, but it’ll help with the shaking—useful if you want to work on the spells. The other is some fancy tea Sadie bought for me during her shopping spree. I want to find out if it’s worth the price or overpriced leaf juice. Which one do you want?”

He looked at the jar and back at Riona, who had suggested making lozenges to aid hungry people. He’d have never thought up something like that, all the good he’d ever attempted was really just a byproduct of something selfish. Even now with a powerful root within his reach, he could only think of things that protected his space and his secrets from prying eyes, or quick fixes for his own problems, or ways to send havoc through his world without a desire to predict consequences. What did other people need that he didn’t? He looked over the notes, trying to find something that wasn’t a selfish whim.

“Most tea is just overpriced leaf juice, but useful with a bad taste seems fitting, it is what I aspire to be.” He answered wondering why people even drank tea over just about anything else. Maybe his taste bud were all just shot from drinking, puking, and biting into raw onions.

He studied a page on purification, his frantic handwriting dragged out the memory of now abandoned hope that he could purify his own blood and erase the lifetimes of guilt, pain, and history that ran through him. But there was no clean slate for him, not if he wanted to avoid repeating the crimes in his family history. Stupid Callum, he thought. Stupid Callum, with stupid plans who gets to drink gross tea since I can’t be trusted with my own hands. Pretty sure people only drink tea because it’s slightly better than water.

He looked up from the notes. Water. Cal didn’t like drinking water but he knew he could without worrying about getting sick. He had that, anyone with enough money had that, but not everyone. They could change some things around, make the purification work on water instead of blood. Clean up some of the water supply and even though it wouldn’t last, it might help for a while. He put the notes down on the table, he didn’t trust his own ideas, but Riona had gone to make tea and he’d have to wait to hear her thoughts about it. Wouldn’t be doable tonight anyway, but a possibility. He tried not to get excited about the idea while he waited.

And he decided he shouldn’t be standing around waiting for Riona to serve him tea either.

Avalia

Time: MORNING
Location: INT. MAMA MALACHI'S SUMMERHOUSE - RIVER PORT
Interactions/Mentions: The guy cosplaying as an elf @princess; the other guy who’s also cosplaying as an elf @GingerBobOh
Equipment:

[+]

⋆ Attire from Earth
⋆ Backpack
⋆ Smartphone
⋆ Wallet and key
⋆ Computer
⋆ Headphones
⋆ Spare eyeglasses
⋆ Plastic bag
⋆ Letter

---

"Jun... Can we talk?"

Jun jerked at the sound of Malachi's voice. With a cautious slowness, he twisted his head to the source. Well, sort of the source. Technically, he was staring straight at Malachi's feet, but that was the best they were getting out of Jun. After all, when facing the armed and dangerous man, any sudden movements might be reason enough for Elrond 2.0 to bust some caps.

"Look… I come unarmed."

Tentatively lifting his line of sight, Jun confirmed that the spray bottle was, in fact, out of Malachi's hands. Still not out of reach, though. If he wanted, Malachi could snatch it back in a heartbeat.

Jun returned his gaze back to the bunny stain on the table, tracing its outline as he waited for Malachi to start talking. An awkward silence stretched between them. Malachi was expecting some kind of response. Jun shifted uncomfortably in his chair.

"You can do it!" The blotch bunny, and definitely not Jun talking to himself in a high-pitched voice, cheered. "Even if you embarrass yourself, what's the worst that can possibly happen?"

He can blast me with a real gun and dump my body somewhere, never to be found again.

"Damn, June-bug, that's real messed up! You wanna dial that negativity down just a skosh? Ha-ha!" The bunny's chipper laugh sounded suspiciously like Mickey Mouse.

Jun heaved a weary sigh and removed his glasses to rub his eyes. It didn't matter whether he dialed it down or cranked it up to the max. As long as these people refused to free him, there was no chance of escape. This could very well be his last chance to persuade them.

The sound of something sliding across the table and a loud "THIS HELPS" startled Jun. He squinted and scanned the blurry surroundings, but without his glasses, his world was just shapeless colors. His hands explored the table's surface until his fingers brushed against a small object. Bringing it close enough to poke his eye out, Jun discovered it to be a piece of candy.

Unable to identify which colorful blur gave him the gift, Jun just nodded his thanks to the space in front of him, then popped the candy into his mouth. The familiar taste of sweet ginger flooded his mouth, conjuring memories of grandma's can of mystery treat assortments. It was always a gamble what you'd pull out of the can. Last time, he got a packet of roasted crickets. He sniffed and rubbed his eyes with the sleeves of his shirt. Emboldened by the ginger candy, Jun found his voice at last. "I want to go home."

Silence. "Please let me go." Jun braced himself, fully expecting a torrent of words or water to attack him. When nothing came, he hesitantly continued. "I-if this week proved anything, it's that you need someone to replace me. Someone who can actually do what you want them to do. You know, someone competent and has time to w……………………………………………… adventure?"

TLDR

With the power of sugary ginger goodness, Jun mustered the courage to try to persuade Malachi.