JJ Doe

🗡 Roses and Daggers 🎕

Flashback: Night Sola 23, 1739

Callum & Riona Part 8

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Everything hurt again. He couldn’t get back up, the most Cal could manage was to press a hand against his side where a knife had been. He had definitely gotten blood on Wystan’s floor. He’d lost the scroll. He should’ve cast that curse again. He should’ve kept a better grip on the enemy. He should’ve tried to strangle him. He should’ve- he’d messed this all up…failed, again.

Cal closed his eyes. He felt the flames return. He felt chills rack his body at the same time. Is this what dying felt like?

The air was full of screams, they kept growing louder. Fire crackled; that awful smell caught in his throat mixing with the frothy bile. His hands moved to cover his ears and the screams only grew louder.

Something bad was happening. Pain that wasn’t his own coated the air as an immense sorrow bore down on him.

And Callum remained as useless as he’d ever been. Can’t get up. Can barely move. Useless. Failed. He tried to mumble an apology to Riona but couldn’t even get the words out. Can’t give up. He opened his eyes, moved his hands away from his ears, and slowly the room began to come back into focus.

“Ira.” He whispered as he pressed a finger into his stab wound, twisting it and hoping it made for a worthy sacrifice for the first spell that came to mind. His pain quieted to a murmur as pure rage filled him. Doubt melted away.

The rage spell gave him enough fight to half get up, just enough to launch himself at the red-headed man’s knees.

Irritation boiled over. Without releasing his chokehold on Riona, the man struck out in a vicious kick, single-minded in his determination to end her before turning on the prince.

The blow slammed Cal’s eyes shut. When they fluttered open he saw…

Something that shouldn’t be, couldn’t be, yet undeniably was. A being. A horror. A nightmare given form.

It towered over them, an entity with two monstrous heads built from countless writhing bodies. Men, women, children—all sizes, all ages. Some appeared almost normal. Others bore the marks of their demise. All were bent and twisted into impossible angles, crammed together to give the monstrosity shape. Their eternal screams and moans filled the air.

The two-headed thing gorged itself on the miasma that oozed from Callum and the redhead. With each wisp it devoured, the creature grew. Infinitesimally, but enough to make its components scream anew as their tormented bodies stretched and warped beyond all limits. Never allowed the relief of breaking.

“More…” the twin heads rasped. “More!” As the horrors pressed closer, Cal could make out the faces in pitiless detail.

Cal tried to cover his ears again. But he still heard it; a cacophony of suffering. Final screams and death rattles echoed and filled the room.

“Shut up!” He forced out a raspy command, eyes never leaving the demonic apparition, its skin bubbling with faces of the dead.

Near him, a cluster of faces fell suddenly silent. Recognition dawned on them. Pain gave way to sheer hatred. They roared. Thrashed against their prison of flesh. Hundreds of hands grasped for the prince, teeth bit at the invisible contours of the entity, straining to break free and tear him apart.

Several eyes moved as one and focused on Callum. Hands grabbed for him even as tried to crawl away. His hands reached out for the sword, his thoughts focused on an obsessive desire to destroy something.

Among the legions, Cal saw his own face. Familiar eyes burned with loathing. A cacophony of condemnation battered him from all sides, but it was his voice that rose above the din. “I hate you.”

Cal’s hands found the hilt, his arms shook as he lifted the blade and swung wildly. No form or precision behind his strikes, it was the wild fury of a child’s tantrum fueled by rage that only intensified and expanded with each passing moment. His attention split between the apparition that had added his face to its quilt of faces, and the redheaded stranger.

The stranger twisted, using Riona as a human shield against Callum’s wild flailing.

“The burning smell intensified. Small streams of smoke rose from the tips of Riona’s shoes as if they were about to catch fire.

“Stop.” A voice cut through the maelstrom of hate-fueled noise, firm yet gentle. “Alaric.” Then came a soft touch.

A hand, callused and strong from years of hard work, broke through the flesh cage and grasped Cal’s arm.

“Shh, easy now,” the voice murmured, conjuring images of a stablehand calming a skittish horse. “It’s okay, everything’s going to be all right. Just breathe. Close your eyes and focus on breathing.”

Something grabbed his arm. Called him Alaric. And he could think of only one person called him that. He threw an elbow back, dropping the sword in the process, hoping to hit hard enough to silence the voice.

“That is NOT my name.” Aggravation only flared at being told to breathe. Being talked to like an unruly child. It reminded him Morrigan snooping around his room, her constant backhanded comments, how she walked around acting like she knew everything, how she only ever called him by his middle name. His rage burned brighter. “Do not tell me what to do!” An impetuous command flew out, and he flung his elbow again. All he saw was a confusing blend of smoke, twisted faces, and a blanket of red.

But the hand didn’t let go. “Even knowing that will kill her?” the man’s voice asked. Although the mass of bodies covered the owner, Cal sensed the man’s gaze turn to the two heads that continued their feast. “Continue to feed that, and it will kill Riona.” The pressure on Cal’s wrist increased slightly. “No one has to die here tonight. I don’t want anyone to die. Not you, not Riona. I’m begging you.” The man’s voice cracked on the final word, “Please stop.”

He struggled to no avail to free his hands. Even knowing that will kill her. It sounded like a threat. A voice that belonged to someone he couldn’t quite see. Threatening him, his friend, in his house. He stared at the two-headed beast, a ghoulish illusion he could only assume had been cast by the intruder.

Callum wanted to fight. He needed to hit somebody, hurt someone, destroy something with his own hands. An urge that consumed and burned away any other thoughts. It felt righteous, justified, to unleash all that on a man who’d come here to ruin all of his and Riona’s work. To snatch their small victory from them and turn it over to Edin.

But the strange voice broke as it uttered, please. “He needs to die.” Callum whispered, with single-minded focus, as he tried again to jerk his hand free towards the redheaded man. “He’s trying to kill her.” He argued with a voice he wasn’t even sure was real.

The owner of the hand didn’t reply right away. None could deny the lethal intent in the stranger's eyes.

“This spell feeds on the very things that birthed it. Rage. Hate. The purer, the stronger it becomes… which is rarer than you’d think. There’s plenty of anger and hate around here, but they usually contain ‘impurities’ of other emotions that the spell has to sift through.”

Cal pulled and thrashed against the force that held him back. Break free. Kill the stranger. Break free. Kill the stranger. His mind was sharply focused, he grew increasingly desperate as each wild attempt to free himself and charge forward was continuously thwarted. Break free. Kill the stranger.

The unseen gaze left him to look at the two heads again. The energy it drew from him and the redhead seemed the same, and yet… “There’s more fury coming from you than him.”

Yes. Yes! I am fury. My rage is pure. My wrath is justice. The voice understood. His rage was pure, it was perfection. No mercy to dilute it, no other desires to pollute it, only pure and perfect wrath with a single target in mind. And his mind thought of what he could do once his arm was freed. Fingers digging into eye sockets, teeth gnawing through flesh, fists and skull used like a battering ram. He wanted it. Needed it. Break free. Kill the stranger.

The mass of bodies shifted violently, accompanied by piercing screams and a stifled grunt from the hand’s owner. Fumes seeped from the writhing tangle of limbs, coalescing into the unstable, flickering form of the redheaded stranger. It was saying something. A lot of things.

Callum’s knees buckled as a symphony of shrieking rattled his bones, and pounded against his head. “Stop doing that.” He half hissed, half whined. No beating or hangover could compare to the pain those screams left writhing inside his head. He wondered if a sound could crack a head open, he wondered if it already had.

His ears strained to make out the fragmented sentences. “It wasn’t supposed to be like this,” the voice that wasn’t quite the same voice as the redhead said. “Why couldn’t they just leave the f**king sword behind?” Other details escaped Callum’s understanding, but one name stood out: Riona. The redhead wished they had contacted the maid, believing she could have helped them.

Cal’s eyes flickered from the redheaded to the distorted doppelganger. A confusing mix of words came from one of them but he wasn’t sure which. “My sword. Mine. I’LL KILL YOU! You. You! Here to steal. Here to spy. A thug with cheap tricks.” His violent thrashing came to a sudden halt following a faint pop.

—the entity vanished, along with the others.

Callum sunk to his knees, his arm hurt too much to move it. Riona is going to die because I can’t be useful, not one godsdamn time. Not now. Not ever. The cold thought blew through him. Despair turned Callum into something so cold and hollow that the rage couldn’t burn. It was suffocated out of him. “Just take it. Take the stupid sword and let Riona go. Please, kill me, let her go. She’s just a servant.”

Silence stretched. Then, a single word: “What?”

The redhead stood motionless, amber eyes boring into Cal. “What... did you just say? ‘Riona’?” His gaze snapped to the maid in his chokehold.

“F*ck.” He let go. Riona’s body crumpled to the floor, lungs heaving for air. “F*ck,” he repeated, the word gaining heat. “F*CK!” The third time, he punctuated it by slamming his boot into a nearby chair and sending it skittering across the room.

Minutes ticked by, marked only by the sounds of “f*ck” and wall kicking. Finally, spent, he braced himself against the table, chest heaving. “F*ck,” he whispered, the fight drained from him.

There was another pause while the redhead seemed to weigh his options. With a grunt, he shoved away from the table, fishing a vial from his pocket. He uncorked it with his teeth and knocked back the contents in one swift motion, then tugged his mask back into place. A second appeared in his hand. Carefully, he knelt beside Riona, cradling her head as he tipped the liquid past her lips.

Callum continued to sink onto the floor, his good arm moved to press against the wound in his side. He heard the stranger swearing, shouting, and a body dropping to the ground. The gasps of air that followed told him Riona was still alive. He heard furniture and the wall being kicked at, he recognized the irony that their best chance of getting out of this was for the guards to hear and show up.

As the room grew quiet he turned his head to look at Riona and saw the stranger forcing her to drink something. Poison! He lifted his leg enough to stomp his foot against the floor. “Help.” He tried to shout but his voice came out faint and tired. He stomped his foot again. “Riona. Sorry, I let you down. Again.” He whispered as he tried to stop his foot once more only for his heel to slide weakly against the floor.

The ginger-haired man huffed as he lowered Riona to the ground. He strode over to Callum and just splashed the rest of the liquid over his face. It seemed to dance across Callum’s skin, knitting together the gashes, soothing away the discolorations, and shifting cartilage until his nose realigned itself with a muffled pop.

Rough hands fisted in Callum’s shirtfront, yanking the fabric up. “Why’d you have to pull it out like an idiot?”

Fresh agony lancing through his midsection as something brushed against the raw, aching hole. But soon after, the peculiar sensation followed. Sinew and skin crept together, sealing the ugly puncture as the pain ebbed to a distant throb.

The redhead released him and rocked back on his heels. “Let’s make a deal,” he said. “We both weren’t here tonight.”

“I’m not making a deal until I know who, and what, I’m dealing with.” Callum answered, sounding more confused than anything. The stranger had won, so why had he stopped and given them healing potions? “You get your rocks off sneaking into windows are starting fights? Can’t say that makes you seem trustworthy.”

“I didn’t kill you even though I coulda, still can, I really want to, and,” he pointed at himself, “I asked nicely first.” He then pointed at Cal. “You started it.” As if to remind Cal what he was thinking before the man kneed him, he patted the boot that contained the spell scroll. “So, we both weren’t here tonight. Agreed or should I just finish you off for good?”

“Nicely? You broke in through the window, looking like an assassin, and threatened to tell Edin I was up to something. Not nice. You started it.”

The redhead made an exaggerated show of rolling his eyes. “Wow, well excuuuuuuse me, princess. So, I’m ‘not nice’ because of my clothes? Shame on you.”

“And yeah, considering how I let you talk and continue to let you talk? I’m a holy saint.” On cue, two blades appeared in his hands, one was the knife that stabbed Callum, the other belonged to Riona. He tucked his own weapon away but held onto Riona’s. “Course, I’m happy to fix my mistake if Your Royal Highness would prefer.”

“Maybe later, for now, let’s start with tell me why you’re here…Is it to kill Wystan?” Callum asked, curiosity stronger than any concern for himself. “And give me back my scroll.”

“Tell me your business first and I’ll think about telling you mine.” The stranger propped his chin on his free hand. “Sure, but only if I get to take her.” He flicked the dagger in Riona’s direction.

“Try it and I will shout for the guards.” Cal glanced toward Riona, only turning his attention back to the redhead once he was sure she was still breathing. “Isn’t my business obvious? I’m snooping, digging around the palace for secrets. And forbidden reading materials.”

“What a coinkydink, me too.” The words came muffled through the stranger’s mask. His amber eyes locked onto Callum, unblinking and curious. A heartbeat passed. Two. “Why?” he asked.

“Because I’m a spiteful goodfornothing shithead? Because I felt like it? Because I know they hide things that shouldn’t stay hidden. Pick one.” Cal offered. “If I ask you why, are you just going to copy my answer again?” He asked.

“Ha! Maybe. Wanna have a go at it?” The man waited for Cal’s response, clearly amused.

When Cal asked why, he answered. “I’m a grade-A a**hole with an ax to grind. See, there was this one scumbag I never got to settle up with, so I’ve been taking it out on every other scumbag I can find.” A humorless chuckle escaped him. “And these types? They’ve all got skeletons rattling around in their closets. Dirty little secrets they’d rather keep buried.” The stranger leaned closer to Cal. “I’m the spiteful-good-for-nothing graverobber who’s gonna dig ‘em up and use ‘em as clubs.”

Callum laughed, hard enough that hurt his sides but especially the side that had recently been stabbed. “You should’ve led with that. I think we’re more alike than you think. I’d be more than happy to help you dig up every skeleton in this place if you club my old man with a rotten femur.” His laughter turned to wheezing.

The stranger scoffed. “Don’t go insulting me now, obviously I’m more good looking.” He stood, brushing dust from his pants. “So, are we keeping this powwow off the books or what?

“Off the books, but I’ll curse you with boils if you harm Riona again.” He said with a smile and offered his hand for the man to shake on it.

A weary sigh left the stranger as he reached down, clasped Cal’s hand, and hauled the prince up to his feet. “I’m already going to get an ear full for this.” His gaze traveled down to Riona, who looked to be stirring. “If you’re not full of sh*t,” the stranger said, strapping the sword onto his back, “tell Riona: ‘Remember what the giant said in the alley.’ She does that, she gets your scroll back. Play nice, and the sword might find its way home too.”

“Weird request, but sure. Deal.” Cal agreed, it wasn’t like he had another option anyway, no way was he up for round two.

The stranger gave a curt nod. Then, in a blink, he ghosted across the chamber, vaulted through the open window, and melted into the summer night without a sound.

TLDR

As the fight against the mysterious figure continues, Callum sees a nightmarish entity appear, burning Riona from her feet with its arrival. The entity seems to feed off the volatile energy in the room, and while it speaks, and shrieks, with many voices, one voice stands out and attempts to reason with Callum. As the entity vanishes just as suddenly as it appeared, the fight ends once the intruder hears Riona’s name. Callum and the intruder come to a begrudging agreement before the man leaps out the window.

🗡 Roses and Daggers 🎕

Ríoghnach "Riona"

Time: Daytime, Sola 25th
Location: Royal Guest House
Interaction(s)/Mention(s): @Helo@Lava Alckon

Riona wheeled the cart out of the kitchen, the extra breakfast Lordling Smithwood had ordered balanced atop its surface. It had been some time since she'd delivered his morning coffee and croissant, laced with her “special seasoning.” Now, summoned again, she made her way to his guest room.

As she walked down the hallway leading to his room, Riona found a cluster of Smithwood’s servants huddled by the door, whispering to each other. She arched an eyebrow. “What’s going on here?”

The servants exchanged uneasy glances. “It’s... well,” one began, then turned to the half-open door. “you'd better see for yourself.”

Curious, Riona edged closer and peeked in. The scene inside was... not what she expected. At all. There, caught in a fit of near-hysterical laughter, was Lordling Smithwood struggling to extricate himself from one of the chairs Shehzade Farim had selected the day before.

He seemed to have skipped right past merry and landed smack in the middle of tavern-drunk territory. Riona wondered if the powder she’d slipped into his earlier meal was having the same effect as the potion she gave the other day. Well, his laughter sounded normal, enough. So maybe not exactly the same.

Riona rapped her knuckles on the door frame and pushed the cart inside, acutely aware of the other servants’ eyes on her back. "“Good morning, milord. Your extra breakfast, as requested.”

Smithwood’s only response was another burst of hysterical giggling. She waited, watching quietly. When enough time passed and it looked like he was getting no closer to freeing his butt from the chair’s clutches, Riona stepped forward. “Would you like some assistance, milord?”

As she came closer, a sharp scent assaulted her nostrils. The unmistakable reek of alcohol, heavy on his breath. Riona’s brows knitted together. “Are you... drunk?”

♤ THE CURSÈD WEST ♤

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" W E L C O M E Y E L O S T S O U L "
" W E L C O M E Y E L O S T S O U L "

" J E S S E L I "
" J E S S E L I "

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_____________________________________________________ _____________________________________________________ " Y I E L D Y E R N A M E ? " " Y I E L D Y E R N A M E ? " JESSE LI _____________________________________________________ " S O W H E R E Y E F R O M ? " " S O W H E R E Y E F R O M ? " MIDDLE OF NOWHERE, ON THE ROAD, UNITED STATES _____________________________________________________ " Y E C A N F I L L O U T T H E R E S T " " Y E C A N F I L L O U T T H E R E S T " Personal Details ★ Age? 21 ★ Birthdate? October 13, 1867 ★ Height? 5’4” (162 cm) ★ Weight? 130 lbs (59 kg) ★ Ethnicity? Mixed (African and Chinese descent) ★ Gender? Female (Posing as male)

______________________________________________________________________________________________ " T E L L M E ' B O U T Y E R S E L F " " T E L L M E ' B O U T Y E R S E L F " Personality Jesse Li is a resilient and determined young woman, shaped by life on the road. Cautious and practical by necessity, she approaches situations with a resourceful mindset. However, beneath this grounded exterior lies an idealistic spirit and a touch of naivety, fueled by an optimistic outlook and a curiosity that sometimes leads her into trouble. ______________________________________________________________________________________________ " D E S C R I B E Y E R S E L F F O R M E , Y E A H ? " " D E S C R I B E Y E R S E L F F O R M E , Y E A H ? " Appearance Jesse has a compact, athletic build, honed by years of constant travel and training. Her mixed heritage is evident in her features, with warm brown skin and slightly almond-shaped eyes. To maintain her disguise as a man, she cuts her curly black hair short, binds her chest, and wears loose-fitting, practical clothing suitable for the harsh frontier environment. Her typical attire consists of sturdy leather boots, wool trousers, a utility belt laden with pouches and holsters, and a cotton shirt under a vest. The long duster coat, neckerchief, and wide-brimmed slouch hat shields her from both the elements and curious eyes. ______________________________________________________________________________________________ " S O W H E R E Y E B E E N , W H A T S Y E R P A S T ? " " S O W H E R E Y E B E E N , W H A T S Y E R P A S T ? " History Born in 1867 to a former slave and a Chinese immigrant, Jesse Li grew up in a nomadic caravan formed by various outcasts and fortune-seekers. The caravan, known as the ‘Wandering Emporium,’ was a motley collection of wagons and makeshift homes, banded together for survival and opportunity in America. Among the caravan’s eclectic mix of merchants, artisans, and entertainers, the Li family carved out a unique niche. They specialized in procuring and trading supernatural materials and rare ingredients, their keen eye for the arcane and deep knowledge of mystical phenomena setting them apart. This expertise not only ensured the family’s place within the Wandering Emporium but often proved crucial for the entire caravan’s survival when traveling closer to The Storm. Life in the caravan was far from ordinary, with constant threats from the wilderness, twisted creatures born of wild magick, and regular old humans, alike. The landscape they traveled was as unpredictable as it was dangerous, with weather and terrain warped by arcane energies. Jesse witnessed emerald thunderstorms that left crystallized lightning in their wake, forests that rearranged themselves overnight, and rain that flowed up to the sky, defying natural laws. These supernatural phenomena were often accompanied by terrifying creatures. Jesse would never forget the night they were pursued by a pack of ‘shadow coyotes’ - spectral beasts that could phase through solid matter and whose howls induced paralyzing fear. The caravan once lost an entire week’s worth of supplies to ‘rust locusts’, metallic insects that devoured anything made of iron in seconds. Perhaps most terrifying were the ‘mind-weaver spiders’, arachnids the size of wagons that spun webs of pure thought. Anyone caught in their traps would have their memories and personality unraveled, leaving behind an empty husk. Even the plants posed a threat, with carnivorous trees that could uproot themselves to chase prey, and fields of whisper-grass that drove listeners to madness with their susurrating voices. Human threats were equally perilous. Outlaws and bandits, desperate men hardened by the unforgiving frontier, frequently targeted the caravan. They saw the Wandering Emporium as a treasure trove ripe for plundering, often unaware of the supernatural dangers that came with some of the goods. Beyond the outright danger of bandits, the caravan faced a more insidious threat - the discrimination and prejudice from the settled folk they encountered. Many saw the caravan as a collection of misfits and ne’er-do-wells, untrustworthy and undesirable. It wasn’t unusual for towns to refuse trade with them, or charge exorbitant prices for basic supplies. More than once, the caravan was run out of a settlement by an angry mob, spurred on by rumors and fear. Jesse’s family taught her invaluable skills to navigate this unforgiving environment. Her father and mother had both studied the supernatural extensively over the years and did their best to pass on their knowledge to Jesse. Her father, a shrewd businessman with an uncanny ability to sense the potential in seemingly mundane objects, taught her how to appraise the value of supernatural materials and drive hard bargains. Her mother, a skilled apothecary and master of herbal lore, showed Jesse how to identify and harvest ingredients, and how to use them to concoct basic remedies. From her brothers, Jesse learned the art of combat. They taught her how to shoot a gun, how to fight with a knife, and how to use the environment to her advantage. Jesse idolized her older brothers and longed to join their monster hunts. Instead, she was left behind in the relative safety of the caravan, tasked with a never-ending list of mundane chores. While her brothers went on their adventures, Jesse mended clothes, cooked meals, packed and unpacked wagons, sorted goods, prepared remedies, ran errands, and cared for animals. Despite the supposed freedom of the nomadic lifestyle, she felt trapped, restless, and craved more from life. Deep down, Jesse felt a call pulling her beyond the horizon. On some nights, she’d slip away to sit under the stars, wondering what it would feel like to finally answer that call. Her frustration grew with each passing day until, not too long after her eldest brother returned from his ‘Lone Star Journey,’ a rite of passage for young adults to prove their ability to survive independently, Jesse’s frustration hit its limit. For months, years, Jesse begged her parents for the chance to undertake the rite with little success. Her parents, acutely aware of the dangers facing a young woman of color in the frontier, resisted. They insisted she was safer - and freer - with the caravan. “Am I? A moving cage is still a cage, 妈妈.” Her words struck a chord. Reluctantly, her parents relented, and the caravan would drop her off at Amistad, Texas. Mr. and Mrs. Li half-expected, half-wished, that their naive daughter would quickly learn how cruel civilization is and come to her senses, returning to the Wandering Emporium. ______________________________________________________________________________________________ " L A S T , W H A T B R O U G H T Y E H E R E ? " " L A S T , W H A T B R O U G H T Y E H E R E ? " Amistad, Texas To test her ability to survive independently, the caravan intentionally left Jesse in this frontier town. Amistad was chosen due to its strategic location near the Rio Grande and its reputation as a growing boom-town, offering both opportunities and challenges for a young person seeking to prove themselves. If Jesse could thrive here, she could handle herself anywhere in the untamed West.

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The Cursèd West

Avalia

Time: A.M.
Location: River Port Forest
Interactions/Mentions: @mole
Equipment: Knife, drugs, and wallet looted from dope peddler

✠✠✠✠✠

“You look like you need food,” he heard the elf say.

Vasco hummed as he remained laying on the forest floor. He probably did. He couldn’t remember what he ate last. Unless giggle water and nose candy counted as eats.

Rowan’s voice broke through his thoughts, mentioning about some joint nearby with a flop and chow. Well, ain’t that the berries? Lady Luck must’ve been feeling generous - he’d figured they’d be bedding down with the skeeters tonight, serenaded by the croaking of bullfrogs.

“Follow me,” came Rowan’s command, followed by the sound of his footsteps crunching on the leaves. Vasco groaned, reluctant to move. After a moment, he forced himself to his feet.

“Don’t run off. We have enough problems on our hands, and remember, this is your idea,” Rowan tossed over his shoulder. Vasco had about as much idea what the elf was jabbering about as he did about the price of tea in China.

“If you need me to carry you the whole way, just in case, let me know,” At this offer, Vasco flinched, but kept his trap shut, chomping on his bottom lip instead.

As they neared the lodge, Rowan yanked him into the shadows between two buildings. The elf's hands were in his hair. Fingers running through his hair felt... nice. Soothing almost. And Vasco found himself enjoying it a lot more than he ought to.

“You’re a human. You smell like one, too,” the elf stated the obvious, wrinkling his nose. “It shouldn’t matter. They don’t understand your scent yet. With your hair like this — don’t touch it, we should be able to get by until we get you a disguise.”

A low, amused rumble came from Vasco’s throat. “So you’ve got my smell down pat, is that right?” He leaned in close to Rowan, his breath hot on the elf’s ear. “Been getting a good whiff this whole time?” Smirking, his fingers traced the waistband of the elf’s trousers. “Good to know.”

Side stepping, Vasco eyeballed their destination. “Once we get our flop, I’m going shopping,” he declared. “Unless you want me going toe-to-toe with nothing but my mitts and a knife, I need some real heat.” He gestured at his threadbare getup.

Not waiting for pointy-ears to run his mouth, Vasco marched straight to and through the front door. True to form, the first thing he did was exactly what Rowan told him not to do: talk. “Hey, what’s the good word? You got any rooms we can crash in for the night?”

🗡 Roses and Daggers 🎕

Fritz "Ryn" Hendrix

Ryn kept a watchful eye on Lord Smithwood after they left the Gentlemen’s Grill and Cabaret and made their way to the spa. Though the lord’s sudden pinkness was the result of nothing more than a dye job, the enchanted glasses revealed a familiar magicae imprint—one Ryn recognized from the day Lord Smithwood’s voice had climbed to a squeak and sudden, uncontrollable laughter overtook him.

Thankfully, the imprint was far less strong or menacing this time, reduced to wisps of tiny, surprised-looking faces swaying at the edges of Lord Smithwood’s magicae like stalks of ryegrass in a gentle breeze.

A field of… tiny little faces... Eerie, but harmless. Even a little adorable, as it turned out.

With every contented sigh and blissful groan elicited from Lord Smithwood by the masseur’s skilled hands kneading away the knots of tension, the heat of the sauna’s steam seeping into his weary bones, and the scented bathwater cleansed the day’s troubles, the faces faded away, their expressions softening into something almost resembling smiles.

Long before the dye washed clean from Lord Smithwood’s skin and hair, all remnants of the magicae imprint had vanished. Still, the count lingered at the lord’s side, until the deepening creases in Lord Smithwood’s brow warned Ryn he teetered on the brink of overstaying his welcome.

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Time: Sola 25, 1739; Daytime Hours
Location: Edwards Estate, Backyard
Interaction(s)/Mention(s):@Lava Alckon@princess

Just as he had done for the Damien’s masquerade party two nights ago, Ryn arrived early to Lord Edwards’ fête with the intention to catalog the unique traits of each person’s magicae as they filtered in.

Not to toot his own horn—though a small toot might be forgiven—he became rather adept at identifying the hosts of each magicae. He circulated the garden with an easy smile, exchanging pleasantries while continuing his observations.

At last, the birthday boy made his entrance, resplendent in his fine clothes and immediately surrounded by well-wishers. Ryn crossed the garden to pay his respects, greeting those who surrounded him politely before turning his attention to Lord Edwards himself. “Happy twenty-fourth birthday, my lord,” he said warmly, clasping the man’s hand. “I trust you’ve recovered from yesterday?”

Avalia

Time: A.M.
Location: River Port Forest
Interactions/Mentions: @mole@Conscripts
Equipment: Knife, drugs, and wallet looted from dope peddler

✠✠✠✠✠

The damn forest floor swam beneath Vasco’s feet and the trees blurred into a dizzying mish-mash of greens and browns. Nausea hit him in waves, each wallop more of a doozy than the last. His stomach churned, and he could taste bile rising in his throat. “Jesus, Mary and Joseph,” he muttered, his usual swagger more of a stagger now. Vasco knew he was on the ropes, and he couldn’t go on like this.

Pressing his back against the rough bark of a towering oak, he sank to the ground. With a groan, he lowered himself onto the soft bed of moss and fallen leaves, squeezing his peepers shut. Flat on his back, Vasco focused on his breathing, willing the world to stop its wild spin.

Slowly, the vertigo eased off. He became aware of the cool dampness of the moss against his back, the earthy scent of rotting leaves filling his nostrils. The gentle rustle of leaves overhead replaced the roaring in his ear.

Just as things started feeling halfway normal again, Vasco sensed he had company. He kept his eyes closed, not wanting to risk stirring up another round of the spins. Besides, he didn’t need his eyes to know who it was.

Vasco arranged himself into a picture of nonchalance. He crossed his arms behind his head and propped one knee up, draping the other leg over it like he was catching a mid-afternoon siesta.

To anyone giving him the once-over, he’d look like a guy just kicking back, shirking his duties without a care. Better Rowan—and the others—saw him as nothing more than a lazy good-for-nothing bum. It beat the hell out of the truth, that’s for sure.

A crooked smirk quirked Vasco’s lips. “Ya score us some grub and a place to flop, mac?” Vasco asked Rowan.

🗡 Roses and Daggers 🎕

Farim & Riona Part 2

---

Flashback: Afternoon, After The Royal Curd’s Grand Opening

He took a moment, scanning the area as if to look for something in particular. ”If things do not work out I will make sure you will know so you can tell me that you told me so.” The Shehzade chuckled.

She wondered why he felt the need to tell her that. “Have I given the impression I desire your failure, Shehzade?” Riona followed his gaze skyward.

”Not particularly. I was just making a joke as they say. You bring tides of warning, and it is appreciated. It is a wonder that you even warn me at all - I have not done much to curry any form of favor yet here you are.” He keeps looking at Thara as she circles around overhead. ”We all are flawed in our own ways. Even if her outlook is not quite what most would want it to be - she is her own woman. If we are not meant to be, then it will become plain in time. I wish to see where things go and how she fares. There is more to that woman than some may believe.” Farim’s eyes looked down at her, his brows raised as if to silently appraise the woman he was speaking to - or even hint that she too was more than meets the eye. But he had no way of knowing such things, and thus merely smiled as he continued. ”But perhaps I am just being an optimist. I hear it is one of the few traits I get from my mother.” A brief sadness crossed his eyes as he thoughtlessly brought her up, but he moved on quickly.

The subtle quaver in his voice drew Riona’s gaze just in time to catch the flicker of sorrow in his eyes being tucked away deep inside. “Your mother sounds quite like my cousin,” Riona said. “He always sought out the best in others, regardless of how much of a طيز they were.” With deliberate timing, Riona placed her hand over her mouth and coughed into it, as if it was not too late to mask the crude word she used.

“And he was endlessly forgiving, no matter how poorly he was treated. I loved him very much, but that part of him also frustrated me to no end.” Riona shadowboxed using only her shoulders. After a few “punches,” she turned to Farim and gently ventured a question. “What other traits have you inherited from your mother?”

He couldn’t help but laugh at the use of foul language. Farim held back his snickering as best he could and looked at her to answer her question. ”To be frank. I do not know. I was removed from my mother once I was able to walk. But I was…reminded how much I seemed to inherit her charm and good will. Oh and her hair - something about the way it curls or some such.” Farim explained this while returning to a slightly more contemplative look. His thoughts wandered to what he saw back at the ritual the other night. Was it real? A premonition? Or all just one bad drug trip? Despite his thinking he played it off with a shrug. It would do him no good to think on such things now, but he decided it was time to get some answers soon - perhaps tonight even.

“Removed? Why?” The question came out before Riona could catch it. She winced inwardly, realizing too late that she’d stumbled into potentially sensitive waters. “I beg for your forgiveness, Your Highness. It is not my place to pry into personal matters.”

Farim crossed his arms and furrowed his brows as they walked, the man's finger tapped on his elbow as if to contemplate something. His tone however, was still pleasant as he spoke. ”Apology accepted. I take no offense, it is only natural for one to be curious or worried over something like this. But to answer your question….” His eyes darted around, as if to look for someone who may be watching. Farim leaned into her ear and a venomous whisper dripped from his lips, as if the malice contained in his words threatened to physically manifest. ”Because Hafiz is a cruel man who wishes nothing more than the worst for the son who refuses to be his trained puppet.” For the moment, his eyes portrayed that same malcontent his words carried.

Once Farim finished, however, he switched back to his more personable demeanor. The Shehzade straightened his posture and looked at Riona. ”To further explain, I believe it was to exert a form of control over me. Or to simply traumatize me. I was never told the reason behind her ‘departure’. When I managed to see through that lie, all I was told was she was taken for my own good. One lie replaced with a load of crap.”

The maid’s eyes widened fractionally before she schooled her expression. Life in Alidasht was known for its harsh strictness, but this… And for the Grand Vizier’s son to refer him by his given name spoke volumes. “That’s terrible,” Riona said frankly and without hesitation. “What kind of person would do that to prove some twisted point? That’s just—” Realizing she was getting herself worked up, she cut herself off. Stopped walking. Closed her eyes and exhaled sharply through her nose.

After a thoughtful pause, she asked softly, “Did you ever discover what became of your mother?” The unspoken questions hung in the air between them: Was the woman even still alive? And if she was, was there any hope of finding her?

Farim could only offer a slight shrug in response - his eyes beginning to glaze over with that of a forced indifference. If he thought too much on it, his emotional self would likely bubble forth. ”I have my theories. She is likely being held in some safehouse - or prison - and unless I … persuade him then I do not think I would learn much about her whereabouts.” The man huffed as he added another clause. ”If she is still alive that is.” Farim turned to face her, gauging her reaction and whether or not she wanted to dig further down this rabbit hole.

Riona’s face lit up, and she felt a spark of excitement. “Then there is still a chance! You—” The words died on her lips as she noticed a familiar look in the eyes of this man she barely knew.

Her mouth worked soundlessly for a moment before she finally found her voice again. “I… have another cousin, younger than the one I mentioned before. You remind me of him.” Though they looked nothing alike. If the Shehzade was the sun, then her cousin was the moon dancing with the stars. “He had a terrible habit of suppressing his emotions, often behind a smile.” She shook her head. “No, habit is not the right word. It was a necessity, a skill he learned, practiced, perfected... to survive.” Riona never forgot the time she found her cousin quietly crying alone, hidden in the shadows of a dark room. Or the times she’d watched the essence of who he was slip away during a particularly brutal training session, leaving an automaton in his place.

Riona’s brows stitched together. “At the risk of overstepping my bounds, Your Highness, may I do something that I should have done when I knew he was pretending to be fine?”

Farim offered a tilted smirk at the comparison to her cousin. It was nice to know his tale seemed to be a shared one - even among souls he did not know. There was a moment of contemplation to himself as she shared the experience of her extended family. Was this all just an act? A skill developed just to survive his cruel and unloving upbringing? He didn’t entirely dismiss the idea, but to say his happiness was not genuine might not be the most accurate statement. It was an interesting morsel of food for thought. As Riona posed her question he stopped their walking pace and faced her with a gentle beaming expression.

”I am sorry your cousin - and frankly myself - have had to endure such a life. If it is any consolation - my demeanor is a genuine one. Misfortune is everywhere, and I choose to smile despite it. I want my friends, and enemies, to know that I persevere no matter what. I am by no means impenetrable emotionally - I have had my sad moments, my angry moments, and bitter moments. I wear my heart on my sleeve - as foolhardy as it all sounds.” The Shehzade pauses for a few moments to let his words sit for a moment, then replies to her earlier question. ”And yes, I grant you permission to do whatever it is you may want to do - if you only tell me first.”

“So you were not suppressing your emotions when you were talking about your mother?” Riona eyed Shehzade Farim, saying nothing. She wasn’t buying it—that glazed look was the opposite of wearing his heart on his sleeves—but she bowed her head anyway. “Then forgive my presumption, Your Highness. I misunderstood.” She smiled briefly. A blend of polite and pinch of teasing. “It appears my offer is unnecessary.” Without telling him what the offer was, and she continued their walk.

After a few steps, Riona spoke again. “Are you certain your father is the only one who holds the key to your mother’s whereabouts? If he has proven untrustworthy before, why believe him now? What if your father is misleading you so that he can continue to have some hold over you?” She frowned. “If you truly wish to break free from his influence, to uncover the truth... perhaps you should seek her out on your own. It would certainly be a powerful message to your father.” Her expression softened. “And if you found her alive. That would be... quite the victory, would it not?”

He seemed to be befuddled for a moment, pausing in stride before jogging to catch back up. ”Now hold on!” Once he caught up he would resume their strollong pace. ”How cruel to pique my curiosity and then decide against telling me.” He breathed a slight chuckle. ”It is more than that. I do not really have a uniform ‘rule’ for how I carry myself. I am simply doing my best. It would be inhumane of me to not frown at the thought of my mother - let alone any of the horrible things that man has likely done to her.” His face became more stoic as he steadied his breathing. ”But to explode into tears or sadness over every errant thought that crosses my mind would not be healthy either. Life is all about balance, young lady.” He addressed her casually in his Mother Tongue with those last few words - smirking at the playful nature of his banter.

“... An errant thought so intense that it threatens to overwhelm you with sorrow is not something to be dismissed, Shehzade.”

🗡 Roses and Daggers 🎕

Flashback: Night Sola 23, 1739

Callum & Riona Part 6

---

with @princess

To be honest, Riona expected a library with towering shelves crammed with musty old books and classified documents… not a storage filled with forgotten relics and curios from who knows when. Not that she was complaining. If anything, Riona was intrigued. Someone had gone to great lengths to conceal this trove. “It’s a lot of effort to hide stuff… Think any of it’s magic?” she asked Cal as she approached the colored scrolls. Her fingers traced over the one tied with a green ribbon. Carefully, she tugged it loose and unrolled the parchment to see what was written on it.

Riona’s eyes widened and lips parted as she read. “Cal…” She spun to face him. “Cal, look.” Thrusting the paper his way, she pointed at the incantation, barely able to contain her excitement. “Spell scrolls!”

Callum took a few cautious steps toward the mirror in the center of the room. Dust that had accumulated on the glass obscured his reflection, but a strange handprint was burnt onto the mirror. He slowly reached out his hand, letting it hover but never quite touching the burnt print as he measured the size of the hand. He wondered what would happen if he touched it. Probably something bad, he struggled to keep that in mind. His eyes moved to the strange crown, glowing and gilded with sharp spikes that clearly warned not to touch, and yet before he realized it, his hand was already reaching towards it.

Riona’s voice broke his trace and he turned to scan the scroll she’d opened. “Curse scrolls.” He whispered, a gleeful grin spreading across his face. “Do you think anyone else knows about this room? Doesn’t seem like anyone’s been here in ages.” He eyed the other scrolls for a moment before reaching past Riona and taking the red one. Opening another couldn’t hurt, and even as he unfurled the scroll his eyes wandered around the room again. “What do you think would happen if I drank that?” His attention turned to a small glass bottle with a shimmering liquid.

Riona moved through the room, her maid’s eye taking in every detail. The air hung heavy with neglect, undisturbed by any hint of ventilation. The layer of dust that blanketed the floor was untouched, save for the footprints she and Cal made. She walked over to the pedestal topped with a pair of gloves and a wooden box, and examined the accumulation of grime before swiping a finger through it. “Even if they did, they haven’t been here in a decade. At least.”

“Looks like these curse scrolls have a fire theme going for them.” He commented as he read the spell’s effects aloud. “And I’m liking the sound of this one.” He added before rerolling the scroll and stuffing it into his pocket.

She picked up the music box, brushing away the dust in search of markings, but it was a plain as a box could be. The hinges creaked as she opened the lid and peeked inside. There was a tiny wooden dancer figure, ready to twirl upon the box being wound up.

Closing it again, Riona cranked the handle as her gaze flickered to the mysterious bottle. “Besides getting sick from drinking something that’s probably well past it’s expiration date?” She shrugged. “Your guess is as good as mine. But if you’re dead set on chugging it, can we do it in or next to an infirmary, just in case?” Maybe a sip first, to be extra safe. If it the effects were powerful in small doses it’d be a terrible idea to drink it all at once. And taking a sample to study it’s components wouldn’t hurt either.

“If it’s anything like these scrolls, probably best not to.” He agreed with a disappointed sigh.

Her hand suddenly jerked to a stop when the small handle refused to turn further. With a flick of her wrist, Riona opened the music box again.

A sweet, lovely tune began to fill the air. The song would lure both Riona and Callum in with its enchanting sound. However, Riona would begin to hear the music shift into something more sinister that only she could hear. The song gradually became a nightmarish cacophony of the screams of those most dear to her. Those she loved most would scream in agony and cry her name with desperation.

It was a tune Riona knew all too well—agonized screams, shrieks of pure terror, the wails of the heartbroken, desperate cries for help. A song that had seeped into her dreams and waking thoughts for fourteen long years. Familiarity didn’t make it any easier to listen to, but it let her endure, listening far longer than she should’ve.

The chorus of suffering changed, voices from people she met after the massacre joined the ensemble. And when she heard his voice among them—Riona slammed the lid shut.

Her first instinct was to smash the music box against the floor, to shatter it into a thousand splintering pieces. Instead, she fumbled it back onto its pedestal and backed away, her breath coming ragged and shallow. Tears tracked hot trails down her cheeks, and she scrubbed at them frantically with shaking hands.

As soft music filled the room, Cal continued to look around while absentmindedly humming the tune that played. For a moment the music lulled him into believing maybe everything in here wasn’t entirely dark after all. So when he reached a shelf containing a compass whose needle spun erratically, he thought nothing of picking it up for a closer look. The compass seemed to point at the mirror momentarily before moving straight to point at the crown. Then he heard the quiet thud of the music box being slammed shut and turned to see Riona wiping tears away.

“What happened?” He asked. “You alright?”

For a while, Riona just wrapped her arms around herself and said nothing. The words seemed to stick in her throat. “No,” she managed at last, “I heard… screaming. Endless screaming. My family, my friends—everyone I love crying out in agony, begging me for help…” Her voice cracked and faded away. She walked over to Cal. “Sorry, I just…” she sighed and tried again. “I could really use a hug right now. Please.”

Callum set the compass back on the shelf, the needle continued to spin only to rest in the direction of the crown once again. But the strange device was momentarily forgotten, his curiosity tempered by the anguish in Riona’s words. “You are helping them, right now, and every day. Keeping them from being forgotten, seeking justice for what happened - that’s the most meaningful way to help them now.” He said as he wrapped his arms around her and held her close.

Riona clung to Callum, her arms tight around his body, fingers digging into his back to anchor herself and chase away the echoes of those terrible screams. She needed this, the solid reassurance of someone real and present, someone—something—-who wasn’t just another voice in her head. Pressing her face against Cal, Riona inhaled deeply, breathing in the smoky scent of the bonfire that lingered on his clothes, mixed with the earthy musk of the forest undergrowth he’d trekked through. Each inhale, the steady rhythm of his heartbeat, and the rise and fall of his chest, brought her closer to composure.

As the tension drained away, self-consciousness rushed in to take its place. Riona sniffled exaggeratedly, grabbed a fistful of Cal’s clothes and blew a loud, wet raspberry against the fabric. Pulling back, she made a show of wiping her “dirty” hand on him. Cal only laughed at that and patted her shoulder.

For a beat, she just stared at him. Then a smile tugged at the corners of her mouth. “Thanks,” she said. Her voice was still a little rough around the edges, but the gratitude in her eyes was genuine.

Turning to face the room, Riona sucked in a long breath. “Okay,” she huffed, her brow furrowed in thought. “I’m starting to think these were hidden for a reason. Maybe they’re cursed. Or just too dangerous that not even the people who knew about this place wanted to touch them with a ten-foot pole.” The cobwebs and dust coating every surface were proof enough that no one had set foot here in a long time, and it stood to reason that no one used the artifacts either.

“I touched this,” He said, grabbing the compass again and offering it to her. “And nothing bad happened, it just points out stuff.” He shrugged, it couldn’t all be bad, something here had to be useful. Tonight couldn’t just be a waste.

She glanced at the entrance, toward Wystan’s room. “Why stash all this behind the Royal Battlemaster’s bedroom? What if it’s not just about preventing the artifacts from getting stolen? What if it’s about protecting people from them?” Her shoulders sagged as she grimaced, “But if that’s the case... this isn’t the scandal we were hoping for. It makes it sound like the Crowns were actually doing their jobs, locking this stuff away so no one, not even they, can use it.”

“If they wanted to protect people from these things, why not destroy them?” Callum refused to accept that the crown was ever capable of doing anything good. It wasn’t even a possibility. “It was hard to get here, sure, but not that hard that they could reasonably expect them to never be found.” He wasn’t willing to let all this work be for nothing, something here had to be useful.

“Cal… you do realize the only reason why it’s easier for us get in here is because we live in the castle, right? That’s not the same for everyone.”

“Castle’s can change hands. Or have traitors living in them.”

She felt her heart jump slightly. “... And when’s the last time the Castle changed hands? Riona didn’t think Cal knew the exact answer, but she wanted to make sure. “Traitors, sure, but you’re missing the point: it doesn’t matter if there’s traitors in the castle. What matters is how much the Crown knows about this room and what’s in it.”

Riona started to walk around the room again. “Look, I’m not saying that the Crown have been protecting it’s people from dark magic this whole time. But it’d be easy to spin that story in this situation wouldn’t it? Even if we tried to use the items to incriminate Edin and Alibeth.” What would be the ramifications if people actually bought that tale? And what if the only reason why these items were untouched until now was because the Crowns never knew about it? Her eyes focused on the music box. “As for destroying cursed items… it might be more complicated to do that than we think.” Especially old, powerful ones.

“So this isn’t the room we really need…” Callum trailed off, distracted by the compass as it pointed at the crown.

“Still could be something here we could use against them.” He was mumbling now, paying more attention to the compass than the conversation. Even when the needle spun it eventually landed back on the crown again. Callum decided that had to be it. Without any more thought, he moved towards the crown. There was no denying that it looked sinister; it held an unnatural glow, made of twisting metal branches covered in dramatic spikes. Sharp too, even as he carefully lifted it from its cushion he still managed to slice a small cut in his finger. Just holding it he could feel its draw, a powerful presence radiated from it, called out to him to wear it, just for a moment.

“Cal.”

He shouldn’t, he’d never desired a crown of any kind, why start now? Or he hadn’t until he picked this one up. Just for a second, he could take it off and leave it in this room after. A second or two couldn’t hurt, just a small indulgence. He didn’t know why he wanted to wear it so badly but it felt like it was here for him, like it called to him.

“... Cal?”

With a quick impulsive motion, Callum lifted the crown above his head.

“CALLUM!”

And then he sneezed. The sneeze came without warning, powerful enough that Callum dropped the crown and it clattered across the dusty floor. “Huh,” He mumbled, and waited a moment to see if he sneezed again, it was probably all the dust. After a moment passed he moved to pick the crown up again.

Suddenly, a blur of brown came flying out of nowhere, smacking his hand aside with a sharp crack. Another one—the matching leather glove—whipped through the air and struck the crown, sending it skittering further out of reach.

Using the glove as a makeshift barrier to avoid touching the headpiece directly, Riona pinched it off the ground. She fixed Cal with a withering glare, “What made you think wearing a creepy crown would be a good idea!? Did you miss the part about us being in a room full of mostly harmful magical artifacts? The crown is literally one of the two things here that unambiguously looks like it will curse you!”

“The compass pointed at it!” Callum immediately replied while rubbing the hand the glove had hit. “And I was only going to wear it for a second. Just to see.” He added, and it still sounded like a mostly reasonable thing to do.

“I’m keeping the compass.” He returned to where the compass rested and picked it back up. Its needle spun; glove, mirror, and eventually pointed at the crown again. “I think it’s saying ‘Callum wear that crown and know all the king's secrets,’ how can I pass that up?” He asked.

“... Cal, you’re not making me feel reassured by telling me the compass is trying to tempt you.” Riona shoved the crown into the corner before retrieving the gloves. “And you know ‘just a little’ can lead to a lot more.”

When she returned to Cal, she looked down at the compass in his hand and watched it carefully. “That’s pointing at a lot of things. How are you sure that it’s saying touch this and not don’t touch this?”

“If we don’t touch things, how will we know what they do? If they’re useful?” He asked, but now he suspected he’d only decided the compass pointed to things he should touch because that’s what he wanted it to mean. “It does always land back at that crown…but I’m not going to touch it again.” He noticed she was still armed with the gloves she’d thrown.

“I’m all for studying them so we can harness their full potential without it backfiring. What I’m not for is using random super suspicious magical on yourself and hope for the best.” The jolt of fear Riona had been holding onto suddenly left her body and her shoulders dropped.

“When I saw you trying to put that crown on… I got scared. I get you don’t care about what happens to you but what if it was cursed? And you died or you started committing indiscriminate genocide or something? What then?”

“Then I trust you’d put a stop to my evil plans. But point taken, no crowns for Callum. I won’t test anything else on myself.” He said, despite still wanting to take a sip of the potion that sat nearby.

Riona’s eyes narrowed slightly when she saw Cal’s gaze flicker to the side. She rubbed her eyes as she sighed. “Take the potion if you want. But like I said, if any ingesting is going to happen, we’re doing it in an infirmary… and in small doses.”

“What do those do?” He asked looking at the gloves.

Riona removed her fingers from her eyes and looked down at the gloves. Then she hit him lightly with them, “They give those who wield it the power to stop boys from doing stupid things.”

“Like you need magical gloves for that.” He paused and took another look around the room. “This room could still be useful, if we ever need something incriminating against them. Under the right circumstances, show this room to the right people, clean up the dust…we could make it look like the crown keeps dangerous magic here for their own uses. I’m not saying it’s honest but hey, neither are they. Just something to keep in the back pocket.” Cal spitballed his thoughts, thinking up scenarios where the idea could work.

The idea hadn’t even crossed Riona’s mind—she’d been so focused on uncovering the untainted truth to expose the Danroses and see them face the consequences of their crimes. But how feasible was that, really? The possibility that they might’ve already destroyed everything incriminating always lurked in the recesses of her mind. But, if that was the case, she’d assumed she would just activate the spell and be done with it. The truth would be lost forever, her mother’s family name never restored, but at least she would have exacted her—everyone’s—revenge.

Could they fabricate it, then? Spin the narrative, just as the Crown had done? “Hm. It’s worth considering,” Riona mused. “Let’s keep digging up some proper dirt to bury them with. But if that doesn’t work out…” She let the thought dangle in the air, unfinished.

She surveyed the room, then glanced toward the exit. They’d been here too long already, and Wystan could return at any moment. “We should go,” she said. “We can figure out what to do with all this once we’re somewhere safer.”

“Yeah, good idea.” He agreed, if they stayed any longer he was going to touch, or ingest, something he probably shouldn’t.

Riona turned back to Cal, a thought striking her. “Do you want to take the sword that opened the door to this place or should we leave it where we found it? It’ll prevent others from taking this stuff.” A shrug, “Of course, we’ll need to find a decent hiding spot… And hauling a blade around every time we want to pop in for a visit won’t exactly be inconspicuous.”

“As much as I want to take it, make sure no one else can get in here…Wystan would notice. Best not to alert the Watchdog.” Cal suggested.

“You think he actually knew about the sword and the fake wall?”

“I think it would be a mistake to underestimate Wystan and how much he knows. Knowing things is his job, and this is in his room.” He paused for moment. “Or…this might be a good way to see just how much Wystan knows. If we take the sword and he seems on edge in the next few days, we learn a little bit more about the Watchdog. I’m willing to risk it if you are.” He offered. “Wulfric and Auguste wear swords all the time, I could pick up the habit.” It wouldn’t be that strange to see a prince wandering the palace with a sword, he’d just have to make it seem less strange for him.

“I am,” Riona said after giving it some thought. “As long as you promise me you won’t use the artifacts on yourself.”

“I will not drink any strange potions or place any evil hats on my head.” He promised. “Well, not in this room.” That received a look from Riona and she slowly raised the gloves like a warning. “And I won’t come here alone either.”

She stared at him for a little longer before lowering the gloves. “Okay. Let’s get out of here then. Did you get everything you want?”

“If I say no are you going to hit me with a glove again?” He teased.

“Only if you use them without thinking.” Riona teased back, “Or if you ask nicely.”

“Would I like to test everything in this room until I find something terrible enough to ensure the demise of Edin and the aristocracy? Absolutely. But you’re right, that’s a bad plan and there’s probably little good in this room. Better to look elsewhere another night.” He shrugged, held up the compass with one hand, and patted the scroll he’d tucked away in a pocket with the other. “Something’s better than nothing though.” Callum said before placing the compass in a pocket.

TLDR

Riona and Callum inspect some of the magical artifacts in the secret room. Callum is prevented from placing a very evil-looking crown on his head. Riona leaves with a pair of leather gloves while Callum takes a scroll with a curse and a compass before they exit the room.

🗡 Roses and Daggers 🎕

Stratya & Riona Part 2

Stratya & Riona Part 2

---

Shite. That went over well. Stratya groaned softly, “hrmmgh.” she sighed, rubbing her neck awkwardly, “”that's no’ wha’ I mean’..” Her hand dropped and she shook her head, “anyway.. It was this mornin’. I found ‘is ‘ead behin’ the stables. Folk ‘ad been complainin’ about an awful stench from there, tae boot, so it wasn’t too ‘ard t’ find. He’d been bea’en, poor fella, presumably before it ‘appened. I ‘ad a dog follow ‘is scent, through town and into the woods. I found the rest of him there. That’s when I got the samples. There’s bits of bone and fabric intact. You’ll see that the vials have different compositions within them, as well. I did my best to gather a bit of everything there was.” She wouldn’t mention the sword. That would be her little secret. Her trap to spring on someone who shouldn’t know about it. It wasn’t a hard secret to predict, but the certainty with which someone might allude to its specifics would be the giveaway.

“Hm..” Stratya eyed Riona and took a slow breath. She didn’t like asking these questions of someone who seemed to have been close with the lad, and now she'd somehow managed to lose her good repoire. Great. Smooth. Luckily, Riona still seemed motivated to help. Hopefully, that would be enough. “When was the last time ye saw Darryn?”

The image of Darryn’s severed head tangled with the memory of her father’s death. Frustration toward the Knight-Captain flared into anger and redirected itself to the killer. “The morning following the annual ball,” she answered.

Riona turned, picking up the first sample with careful fingers. “Illustrious Dame Inquisitor Knight-Captain Durmand, I hope you will permit me to ask a few more pointed questions. Though it is not my place given my lowly station, if you could find it in your heart to indulge me, I would be forever grateful.” The words tasted like ashes, but Riona had spent years learning to stroke noble egos, and the speech rolled off her tongue with ease.

Stratya sighed again, remembering the previous night and where she'd been. She managed to get a rather humorous reaction from Wulfric, but now, “is this how The Prince felt abou’ ‘is crow ti’les..?”

“This ‘awful stench’ the people spoke of, did you smell it yourself, ser?” The odor seemed unlikely to have originated from a naturally decaying corpse. Last night’s weather had been mild, lacking the oppressive heat and humidity that hastened decay.

Key word being naturally.

“The odor from behind the stables was tha’ of rot. Due to the location on castle grounds, it had to be cleared up. The odor in the forest, however, smelled more.. boiled.” Stratya rubbed her chin thoughtfully. She didn't know, herself, how long it would take to boil a body down, but surely the timeframe was too short? It all kept on pointing to impossibility, pointing to something supernatural.

The answer only sparked more questions. Even if last night had been a hot, sticky night, a body wouldn’t reek enough to draw complaints for at least a day.

Riona uncorked the vial and took a cautious sniff. Holding it out to the Knight-Captain, she asked, “Pardon me, ser, but does this resemble the boiling odor you described?”

“‘at’s it, alright.” Stratya nodded, coming away from the stench quickly.

Back at her workstation, Riona divvied up the samples into individual vials. “Did anyone manage to pinpoint the source of the rotting smell?”

“The hound followed the scent from the head, through town, and into the forest. Right past the enforcement centers. Very bold..”

And very weird. Wasn’t the complaint that there was a smell coming from behind the stables? How in the world was the source of that smell in the forest? Also, why the change in smell? Did the melting process cause the rotting stench and change to a “boiling” smell over time? Was the body melted behind the stables first before being moved to the forest then? What about the head?

“You mentioned you found Darryn’s head, most honorable and valiant Dame Inquisitor Knight-Captain Durmand. May I humbly inquire as to what condition it was in?” Riona figured it couldn’t have decomposed or melted too badly if the Knight-Captain could tell that Darryn had been beaten, but she had to be sure.

Stratya took a slow breath. This would not continue. However, handling this with authority would only make things worse. She did, however, know someone who could tame an irritated young lady. What would her mother do..? Mm. Too aggressive. It might work, but it might backfire. Hm. How about, “you're no’ using more adjectives for me than y’do if you ever address a member of the Royal Family or a count or such?” That might be bad, “if someone were looking for an excuse to do something, we shouldn't give them any opening, no matter how small. Then again, I s’ppose you know the dance be’er th’n I.” The knight shrugged and looked at the door, rubbing her face slowly once, “proba’ly jus’ paranoid.. it'd be a real pain if someone wanted to be petty, though. Could make you take a whole minute each time you address them. A cer’ain rooster I could think of migh’ do such a thing..”

Riona paused her work to face Stratya with a carefully neutral expression. “You wish for me to use fewer epithets than I would for royalty or other higher-ranking nobles? As you wish…” Riona inhaled deeply then in one breath said, “Most gracious, valiant, esteemed, chivalrous, honorable, illustrious, gallant, revered, intrepid, august, dauntless, magnificent, stalwart, exalted, steadfast, serene, resolute…” She turned back to her work, hands moving with practiced efficiency as she mixed ingredients and observed the reactions, all while keeping up a steady stream of words and phrases. “...noble-hearted, loyal, courageous, and indomitable Dame Inquisitor Knight-Captain Durmand.” There. One fewer epithet than the longest byname ever bestowed upon any Caesonian noble on record.

Riona made a few notes before glancing back at Stratya, a hint of mischief in her eyes.

“Al’ight, so I'm bein’ silly and paranoid, please sto’.” She was getting stressed and overthinking things. She needed to calm herself, but this badgering wasn't helping. Riona had been amicable until Stratya said one wrong little thing to her, and all that had once been ease was being turned into frustration.

The impish light faded from the maid’s eyes as she studied Stratya. She then gave a single, curt nod.

A sigh of relief. “Thank ye..” She rubbed the bridge of her nose. “As for the ‘ead, it was intact, but..” It was hard to tell her. Stratya’s hand paused. Nobody wants to hear that the people they care about suffered. The knight chewed her next words, “he was.. bea’en so bad I barely recognized ‘im.” Riona and Darryn had been close, Stratya could tell that much. It must hurt, to hear.

“... If I may clarify my question regarding the state of Darryn’s head—I was hoping you could provide some additional details. Were there signs of decay or liquefaction? Or did his head appear relatively… ‘intact,’ save for the bruising and trauma?” She paused, her fingers fidgeted with the writing utensil. “More specifically, I am interested in what caused the head to separate from the body.” Did it rot or melt off? Or was Darryn’s head taken clean off his shoulders by a weapon of some kind? There’s no way someone ripped it off... could it?

Riona was taking this all rather well. Perhaps she was just ready, mentally, for this kind of thing to happen? It seemed more like she was driven, than she'd particularly prepared herself. It was just her kind of personality to move forward, then? As she thought about the scene, she remembered the picture. It would have the blade on it, so maybe hiding the blade wasn't going to pan out like she thought. She took a breath, her mind settling. “The head was,” she thought briefly about which word to use, “er, in ‘normal’ condition?, apart from the missing body and the beating. Ehr.. I did.. not, find anything unusual about its state, apart from-” she cut herself off and cleared her throat. She'd already said that part. “It was severed by a blade. The rain had washed away any blood.” Strictly speaking, she could not confirm the executioner's blade she found nearby was used for this. It seemed like the obvious conclusion, but it could be a trick is. Maybe if she'd woken up earlier.

Riona bit her lip, disappointment plain on her face. “That is unfortunate… I was hoping we might find traces left of whatever was used to…” She grimaced. “Melt the body.”

Her brow furrowed deeper as the cogs of her mind whirred and clicked. “So they lopped off Darryn’s head first, then liquified the rest of him. But… why?” The question wasn’t directed at Stratya, Riona was mostly thinking out loud. “Leave the head, destroy the body... Someone wanted proof he was dead, but not the how or why of it. Like there was something about the body they didn’t want anyone to discover...”

“Aye, tha’s one thing botherin’ me. Why? I can only assume some.. message is bein’ sent, and tha’ ‘oever it is intended for will understand what tha’ message is. Twisted gobber, to ‘ave such cursed handwritin’.” The knight leaned up against the wall nearby, her eyes watching Riona at work with a passive interest. Stratya seemed to be relaxing a bit. Looking at Riona work the way she was prompted her to stretch her neck, resulting in a nice “pop”, “ooh,” in either direction, “ooooh~, hoh hoh hoohhh.”

A message…

Riona checked the time, jotted a few notes, then turned her attention to the vials. She added measured amounts of this powder and that liquid, a pinch of herbs, drops of different tinctures into the samples. “Knight-Captain, how much of Darryn was left when you found him in the forest? Was it still recognizable as a body or was it literally just bits of bone and fabric?”

The daughter of a guardsman pushed off the wall and moved toward the table, “Nae body, jus’.. what had once been a puddle.” Stratya removed the small pauldrons she had on, carefully laying them with the interior up, on the seat of a chair. She then stretched her shoulders across her chest, getting some nice, thick pops, after which she'd carefully move her arm in a full circle. “T’was nae well hidden, jus’ dumped deep enough in the forest you couldnae smell it from the train station.”

That narrowed down the list a lot: there were no flora or animal byproduct readily available in Caesonia that could liquefy a full-grown man within a span of a few hours.

“And yet, the odor was pungent enough for people to complain about the stables?” Riona shook her head. “Something does not add up.”

She'd start to put the couple of pieces she laid on the table back on. It took longer putting it back on, naturally, but she seemed able to manage, even with the awkward position of reattaching something to her own shoulder. “Gonna ‘ave to go down for a bevvy on the pub, I think. I'll ‘ave to repor’, first..”

Riona could use a stiff drink herself.

With a sigh, the maid carefully placed her notes on the table before her. “I am afraid this next part might take a little while, Knight-Captain. And based on what you have shared thus far, I would not hold out much hope regarding the results.”

Quiet settled over the room. Riona watched the Knight-Captain put pieces of her armor back on until she finally said, “I want to believe that my initial assessment of you is accurate, Knight-Captain. That you are an honorable and honest person who would protect both highborn and lowborn alike. The kind of person who would ensure that justice prevails regardless of societal standings or titles.”

Riona straightened her posture. “I apologize for causing you frustration. It troubled me that you seemed to prioritize the manner in which I posed my questions over helping me, help you, figure out Darryn’s murder.”

Stratya was just finishing with fastening on the first pauldrons, listening as her hands worked. She nodded thoughtfully, “’at’s fair.”

“Furthermore,” she placed her hands on her hips, “your remarks about the adjectives and ‘knowing the dance’ came across as patronizing. Why bring any of it up in such a roundabout way if you truly believed I knew better?” Her voice became increasingly impassioned. “But if it was not obvious, then yes, I do know the dance very well. There were times when it was literally beaten into me. I am also acutely aware of the pettiness that people are capable of, having been punished on their whims for things utterly outside my control.”

Riona stopped abruptly and took a moment to compose herself, exhaling slowly. Don’t start up sh*t again. Just apologize. “I recognize that my approach was counterproductive, and I would like to believe your warning was sincere,” she said. “For that, I am sorry. I will not, however, apologize for prioritizing uncovering the truth behind Darryn’s murder over adhering to the proper etiquette of questioning you, even if you are nobility. Nor will I apologize for taking offense to the manner in which you chose to admonish me.” Now to see how right or wrong she was about the Knight-Captain.

Stratya was fussing with the second pauldrons as her movements slowed while Riona formed a carefully worded complaint. She nodded slowly and resumed, “Nae, you're right. I'm sorry, too. Makin’ a right arse o’ m’self, like tha’.”

Beaten? Yes, Stratya heard that right. Somehow, the murder had not been a reminder of the cruelty of nobility. Yes, Riona was at the mercy of such whims. Such lowly behavior. Yes, the knight supposed it was better to tell Riona what secrets she was working with. At least, then, she knew what she was getting involved in.

“I’ feels like I've been dancin’ ‘round this.. great, big.. thing in the middle o’ town. It's so ‘uge, every time I loo’ at it, I cannae help but wonder ‘ow I could even do anythin’ to it? So I stay away, dealing with the lit’ler things on the wayside. Lit’le rocks I can pick up and throw. But, now.. it feels like I've run smack into the damn boulder in the middle of i’ all. It's go’ me right spooked, lookin’ up at this massive thing that feels like it could crush me just by turnin’ over. So.. sorry, for bein’ an arse.”

She took a deep breath, looking at her hand as she flexed it, “S’ppose I better go report to the Queen, and get some other evidence processed.” The knight looked at Riona, thought carefully about their conversation, and smiled, “shall I come’n get ye, when I go for the pub?”

Riona felt the tension drain from her, glad that Stratya took the complaint in stride and even offered an apology of her own. She decided she did like this knight.

But the mention of the Queen sent a fresh jolt of tension through Riona’s body. She chewed her lip, uncertain whether to mention what she saw. If there was even the slimmest chance it could be connected to Darryn’s murder, shouldn’t she bring it up? “Knight-Captain, when you have audience with Her Majesty… could you inquire as to how the Royal Advisor is faring?”

“Oh? Ah, sure. Erm.. Any partic’lar reason?”

Judging by her reaction, the Knight-Captain didn’t know about the incident then. “Ser, can you trust me, as you have trusted me with this analysis?” Riona asked.

Stratya stepped slowly toward the door. A blind question wasn’t her favorite thing to ask the Queen, but, “well, a’right..” She stopped and turned, just before opening the door, “but you never answered my question.”

“I withheld an answer, Knight-Captain, because I thought it best that you enter the situation with a clear and unbiased mind.” Riona’s gaze drifted to the vials, pale bits of stableboy suspended in different colored liquid. “Truth is, I cannot say if this bears any connection to Darryn’s death. If it does not, I see no reason to add to your burdens.” She wrapped her arms around herself as her eyes returned to Stratya. “However… I fear the boulder you speak of might be the tip of a mountain.”

Stratya bobbed her head, “Eh, aye.. it does kinda seem tha’ way, don'it. The other question, though.”

Riona blinked, genuinely confused. “The… other question, ser?”

“The pub?” Stratya's gauntlet gave a soft “clack” as she motioned with a thumb over her shoulder. “It'll ‘af ta be on the evenin’, I think.”

Riona blinked again. A drink sounded tempting. And she could raise a glass to Darryn’s memory too. “I will join you.” she answered. “I should be done with my duties and the analysis by then. Which establishment did you have in mind? I would like to dress appropriately.”

“Figure we can pop on down to Ol’ Toughy, yeah? No’ as stuffy.” Stratya’s other hand rested loosely on the door as her gesturing hand wiggled vaguely.

“Just two colleagues on a night out.” Riona proposed as their cover story, then bowed. “Until then.”

The door clicked shut. Riona just stood there, counting silently. One. Two. Three… Only when she thought Stratya walked out of earshot did she let the tears come, quiet sobs muffled against her sleeve.

TL;DR

Riona asks questions about Darryn’s murder and agrees to meet Stratya later to give the results of the analysis.

Ríoghnach "Riona"

Time: Nighttime, Sola 24th
Location: The Tough Tavern
Interaction(s)/Mention(s): @CitrusArms

It’s been a while since she’d been in a tavern. She’d forgotten how lively it can be. And dirty. She felt her fingers twitch, itching to grab a rag and start scrubbing every surface in sight. Pushing aside the urge, Riona settled into her seat and placed her report on the table, careful to avoid the suspicious stains.

When the drinks came, Riona slid one across to the empty seat, raising her own in a wordless toast to Darryn’s memory before taking a long swig.

As she lowered her mug, Riona’s gaze drifted to Stratya. The Knight-Captain was clearly in her element, belting out a tavern song with gusto. Riona allowed herself a small smile. Let Stratya work it out of her system. There would be time for serious discussion later. For now, Riona was content to nurse her ale, tap her foot to the rhythm, and soak in the lively atmosphere.