[The evening of the day that the rifters arrive....
Scipio, in the tavern, puts his face into Rafael's upper arm. He is clinging to the bar like a man clinging to the last scrap of decking after a shipwreck, one arm looped around his mug of wine.]
Terrible. [A muffled moan, but Rafa will be able to decipher it. Twerwarbwr.] Terrible, terrible, terrible...
[ Rafael turns but does not lift his face from the mug of ale that he is nursing. Being poor is the worst, so much the worst that he has been pondering ways to fix it despite the whole Warden thing. ]
Yes, I know, everything is terrible, Skip. I don't think drooling on my sleeve is going to help.
[Cold feet. He frowns, as he wiggles his toes in his boots, but misery doesn't allow him to pull away from his best friend, his only hope and strength in this world.]
Many things, one of them being-- Rafa, I've never seen anything like it. Eyes, like gimlets-- and I don't mean that dwarf's that runs the delicatessen on Cavo Street--
Most things. Everything other than being out of the snow and having a drink. And not being dead yet.
[ Rafael is busy making his own list, attempting to find something else to append to it and failing before turning his mind back to Scipio. It's a familiar and affection sort of inattention, like they're so used to thinking on the same wavelength that it's not really necessary for him to listen to everything. Except now he's confused, but also Scipio is speaking in fragments. ]
What does Cecco have to do with this? He isn't here, is he? That cheap bastard still owes me three andris for that ham, it didn't taste anything like despair.
[ Rafael is only growing more confused instead of less. This is not how this is supposed to go. His reaction is not dramatic in the least, unless increasing exasperation counts. He is baffled as to what an elf and hunger and a dwarf's eyes and despair have to do with each other or with anything else for that matter. ]
What? What elf? Did he steal your food? We can get more, you know.
[Food is important. Food is of the utmost important, second only to--]
She.
[--Well. She is not necessarily of the utmost importance, but she's certainly weighing heavily on Scipio's mind. Fears renewed, he grabs again for a firmer hold on Rafael's arm.]
She. Not he. There was no food. I only wish there were food. I was in the library, sleeping--only for a moment! And when I woke, she was there, and I asked her what help I needed, and, and the next thing I knew, she was-- staring at me. Through me. I thought she was going to strike me down, there, where I stood. Maker, Rafa--
[ Food is extremely important, and right now Rafael is beginning to fear he may never eat again once Scipio succeeds in cutting off circulation to his fork arm. He doesn't shake him off, but sets a hand on his friend's shoulder and gives it an encouraging pat. ]
Elves are always angry, Skip, that's just how elves are. Surely she didn't mean it personally. Nobody dislikes you at first sight unless we mean them to. You weren't in character, were you? No fake nose or anything? What did she do, then? Did she explain?
[He droops, mournfully, comforted by the weight of Rafael's hand. It is unfortunately less-than-difficult to remember how awful it was under the razored gaze of the elf in question, even here, in amid warmth and laughter and conversation and food. And drink, which, speaking of, Scipio grabs his mug and takes a draught.
Better.]
I was only myself. No noses. Nothing. But she looked at me, and it was-- like the way a rat must feel, when he eats of a poison. All shriveled up. Awful, Rafa, and I hope that you never feel anything of its like. You're so good, and strong, you must stay this way forever-- [He reaches to pat a hand against Rafael's cheek, weak, boneless--] --while I languish.
[A little exaggerated, but exaggeration makes him feel a little better. Like playing a character, and he can distance himself from reality. Only when he thinks of it that way, he thinks of that reality, the spool of song played faint at the back of his head. Sobering like nothing else is. That's what gets him to say:]
She knew, Rafa. About-- She had never heard of Wardens before. I don't know how, I didn't ask. A hermitage, maybe, one so far removed no tale has ever reached its shores. But she knew. She said my blood was poison.
hi this is dated vaguely sometime @ the end of Guardian
Do you remember, the blacksmith in Antiva City, from which we bought the very nice daggers? But-- not bought. The counterfeit coins. You remember, when these were in style, yes?
The counterfeit coins that we got from Morelo? The counterfeit coins that, when bitten, did not dent but held their shape so well, even when placed in the mouth of the bank's wisest horse? The ones that convinced even Pocco Perso the Dwarf of the Gold Mine? The counterfeit coins that were so good one found its way into the purse of one of the Princes of Antiva City?
The counterfeit coins that we used to pay off the one-armed blacksmith who is here right now I have seen him Rafael he is here!
We had two batches from Morelo, one that the horse ate and then another that made it to the prince's purse but it was actually Morelo's cousin who-- wait.
The one-armed blacksmith?! Why didn't you just say it was the one-armed one! He is here? Now? Did he recognize you without the mustache?
Imagine a future where we don't all die horribly and have to continue living in close proximity for more than a few months. If you can. And take into account that he's already ridden a horse through the courtyard to ask her to a ball.
[ he wasn't serious before, but now he kinda is. there are too many types of imminent death hanging over them right now for it to not hit a nerve, stupid as it is ]
And if I did not succeed I would try again, and again, haunting your steps and those of everyone you loved until you were dead or wished for it. We do not joke about killing Scipio.
It is as you say! Everyone here, they are such madmen, with little respect for the sacredness of the drink! Such interruptions! Such violence! The tavern, it can be violent sometimes, yes. Such things should be allowed for. But surely there are times when the tavern should serve its other purposes too, yes? The purpose of the temple of song, and wine! These are rites most sacred. [Without breaking the flow of conversation at all:] Incidentally, you spoke of the moustache. You were jealous of my moustache at that time, yes?
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aktchion
Scipio, in the tavern, puts his face into Rafael's upper arm. He is clinging to the bar like a man clinging to the last scrap of decking after a shipwreck, one arm looped around his mug of wine.]
Terrible. [A muffled moan, but Rafa will be able to decipher it. Twerwarbwr.] Terrible, terrible, terrible...
que?
[ Rafael turns but does not lift his face from the mug of ale that he is nursing. Being poor is the worst, so much the worst that he has been pondering ways to fix it despite the whole Warden thing. ]
Yes, I know, everything is terrible, Skip. I don't think drooling on my sleeve is going to help.
oh mi scusi acción
[Cold feet. He frowns, as he wiggles his toes in his boots, but misery doesn't allow him to pull away from his best friend, his only hope and strength in this world.]
Many things, one of them being-- Rafa, I've never seen anything like it. Eyes, like gimlets-- and I don't mean that dwarf's that runs the delicatessen on Cavo Street--
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[ Rafael is busy making his own list, attempting to find something else to append to it and failing before turning his mind back to Scipio. It's a familiar and affection sort of inattention, like they're so used to thinking on the same wavelength that it's not really necessary for him to listen to everything. Except now he's confused, but also Scipio is speaking in fragments. ]
What does Cecco have to do with this? He isn't here, is he? That cheap bastard still owes me three andris for that ham, it didn't taste anything like despair.
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[He switches his grip from the edge of the bar to Rafael's arm, giving it a brisk shake in order to get his attention.]
Despair! We can talk about despair--Rafa, I met this-- elf.
[Horror. He pauses for a reaction.
Although.]
--And, I'm a little hungry.
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[ Rafael is only growing more confused instead of less. This is not how this is supposed to go. His reaction is not dramatic in the least, unless increasing exasperation counts. He is baffled as to what an elf and hunger and a dwarf's eyes and despair have to do with each other or with anything else for that matter. ]
What? What elf? Did he steal your food? We can get more, you know.
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She.
[--Well. She is not necessarily of the utmost importance, but she's certainly weighing heavily on Scipio's mind. Fears renewed, he grabs again for a firmer hold on Rafael's arm.]
She. Not he. There was no food. I only wish there were food. I was in the library, sleeping--only for a moment! And when I woke, she was there, and I asked her what help I needed, and, and the next thing I knew, she was-- staring at me. Through me. I thought she was going to strike me down, there, where I stood. Maker, Rafa--
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Elves are always angry, Skip, that's just how elves are. Surely she didn't mean it personally. Nobody dislikes you at first sight unless we mean them to. You weren't in character, were you? No fake nose or anything? What did she do, then? Did she explain?
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[He droops, mournfully, comforted by the weight of Rafael's hand. It is unfortunately less-than-difficult to remember how awful it was under the razored gaze of the elf in question, even here, in amid warmth and laughter and conversation and food. And drink, which, speaking of, Scipio grabs his mug and takes a draught.
Better.]
I was only myself. No noses. Nothing. But she looked at me, and it was-- like the way a rat must feel, when he eats of a poison. All shriveled up. Awful, Rafa, and I hope that you never feel anything of its like. You're so good, and strong, you must stay this way forever-- [He reaches to pat a hand against Rafael's cheek, weak, boneless--] --while I languish.
[A little exaggerated, but exaggeration makes him feel a little better. Like playing a character, and he can distance himself from reality. Only when he thinks of it that way, he thinks of that reality, the spool of song played faint at the back of his head. Sobering like nothing else is. That's what gets him to say:]
She knew, Rafa. About-- She had never heard of Wardens before. I don't know how, I didn't ask. A hermitage, maybe, one so far removed no tale has ever reached its shores. But she knew. She said my blood was poison.
hi this is dated vaguely sometime @ the end of Guardian
[this is the kind of slinking guiltily around tone that a guilty dog would use, if guilty dogs could talk.]
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[ This is the kind of wary and braced-for-exasperation tone that the owner of a guilty dog would use. ]
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hi.
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[ so suspicious ]
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What about it?
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The counterfeit coins that we used to pay off the one-armed blacksmith who is here right now I have seen him Rafael he is here!
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The one-armed blacksmith?! Why didn't you just say it was the one-armed one! He is here? Now? Did he recognize you without the mustache?
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How did you escape? Did you reconcile with him or flee? Does he know where we sleep?
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SIGH these 15 icons are all the same why doesn't dw just let me chooooose
And if I did not succeed I would try again, and again, haunting your steps and those of everyone you loved until you were dead or wished for it. We do not joke about killing Scipio.
because it wants you to suffer
But you've also got to stop him.
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Why do I have to stop him? She is not a child or anyone's wife.
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