Becoming Accustomed to Happiness [Archive]

Visla Eraclaire

04-27-10, 03:42 PM

Closed to Duffy

A warm well-cushioned bed sat upon the polished slats of an oaken floor. The cool night breeze drifted in through the cracked window causing deep violet drapes to flutter like the banners of a regal procession. Beneath silken sheets and down-stuffed quilts, Visla found herself unable to sleep any longer. As her eyes shot open with frustration, the sun burst to life outside the window.

The whole room was bent to her will, a faithful recreation of her childhood bedroom on a crisp fall night. The air was filled with just enough chill to drive her beneath blankets for warmth. There she could sleep forever with no songbirds to trumpet the dawn, no dawn at all, just an endless night. Time outside her private sanctum ticked by, unmarked within and unheeded.

Morning came when she awoke, the sun peaked when she felt the hunger for a mid-day meal, and the celestial sphere drooped with her eyelids until sleep overtook her once more. She had spent ten such self-apportioned days within the confines of her hermit’s realm before curiosity got the better of her.

“I wonder how long I have truly been here,” she asked.

She made a habit of talking to herself within the conjured walls, lest her voice turn raspy and her faculties fail her. The words she spoke were not the whole of her inner thoughts, for some were still too embarrassing to hear aloud, even alone. Lamentations and regrets she robbed of their voice, and spoke instead questions and decisions that would drive her forward. Without initiative, her ivory tower could swift descend into an oubliette darkened by her own mediocrity.

“I’ll go out today, but where to?”

Her feet touched the floor, still cold and she savored a brief shiver before letting the sun’s rays warm them. Pulling herself out of bed, she glanced out the window and let the scenery beyond drift with her thoughts. The redbrick steeples of Uiria dotted the horizon in perfect semblance of the view from her window there, then crumbled to dust. It was still too soon to see Elenore again, though Visla did not let such shameful words out of her mouth.

The rolling fields of her family’s estate emerged outside the glass, but the manor itself still billowed with smoke. The shadow of her father’s death still hung over the land like a menacing storm cloud with no respite of rain or fury of thunder. Here too, she could not go.

The high streets of Radasanth, bustling with people, unfolded before her. The scent of fresh tea and the sound of the everpresent crowd drifted in through the cracked window. Visla’s eyes remained on it for a time, tracing the contours of its great arcades and following a mother and child as they pushed their way through the swarm of market goers. In the end, though the place held no shame, its din was too loud and so she pulled the window shut and turned back within the room.

“There must be somewhere,” she glanced at the finely appointed décor for answers it could never give, then down at her own hands. The pearlescent orb on her left hand brought only ill memories of the Salvar wastes and the souls of the people there that still dwelt within its metallic confines. She could hear the howl of a snowy gale behind her even from the slightest glance at it.

The signet ring on her other hand could stir memories of her home once again, and yet a different scene appeared as she turned back to her little portal. A square with a modest fountain sat outside the theater of Scara Brae, or rather a motley little inn draped with banners and converted into a makeshift playhouse. Visla couldn’t help but laugh as she recalled being stuffed into a dress and dragged to the production staged there so long ago.

Grifted by a child thief, she lost a silver chain that her signet ring once hung by. A group of brigands dared challenge her at the height of her demonic power, before the Withering had begun to take hold of her. Dire words and threats of death at the claws of her succubus had secured the return of the ring itself, but in the end the chain was not worth the cost of children’s lives. At the time her blood boiled to be insulted so, but in the mists of memory, what she remembered most was the feeling of Aelva’s arms wrapped around her as she drifted to sleep after the long day.

“It is decided,” she proclaimed.

Soon the runes of her spell book papered over her wistful remembrances as she scrawled sigils onto the circle that would deliver her from this hollow haven of seeming perfection into the genuine world with all its endearing faults.

Duffy

04-29-10, 01:48 PM

Duffy had never worked out how to be subtle. He was the sort of individual that thrived on drama, shock value and disgust. He was irrevocably in ‘one’s face,’ either with humour, enthusiasm or sheer and utter energy. It had served him well in his current occupation, but it had also been the cause of much discomfort through his earlier childhood. A reluctance to ‘fit in’ with his street runner contemporaries had seen his youthful nature and boyish good looks finished off with a dagger to the palm, and his over excited nature had gotten him banned or issued with death threats in several of the seedier inns on the island.

He supposed in the end he was just like any other citizen of Scara Brae. They were world renowned for their stubbornness, and their ability to say no to whatever, or whoever made a request of them. They said what they liked, when they liked, and as much as they liked. For many years he had never had any quarrels with this approach, until one fateful afternoon when he had encountered a very strange and spurious individual. It had been almost a year since the performance had gone awry, and almost a year of punishments later, the scamp who stole that person’s ring was just beginning to forget her face.

As the sun stroked temples and boulevards into architectural beauty, and spring lived up to its name, Duffy wondered if they would ever meet again. He had crossed paths with many people in his life, but never wished to see any of them again after they had departed for the road. He shrugged the thought away, and looked back at the page of his notebook, to find it blotted and stained as a result of his daydreaming. He cursed as he dabbed at the mess with a corner of his sleeve, his little halcyon illusion shattered without a thought. He was so clumsy, he almost fell into the cold and shimmering waters of the squares elegant and lavish fountain.

Market Square was as busy as ever and the clock tower that rose above the cityscape chimed with three great peals of its ancient and weatherworn bell. Long ago, when the royal house of Scara Brae had commissioned the tower as a memorial to a duchy of some forgotten lineage, the square and the surrounding district would have been glorious. Now, with time grinding away at the stone and cobbles, it was a shadow of its former triumph and a pitiful cling to power amidst the slums and red light districts of Scara Brae’s eastern half. “Pity,” Duffy commented, before turning to a new page and scribbling a roughshod title.

Becoming Accustomed To Sorrow

It was a little trite, but it fitted the nature of the play and the characters that had formed in his mind. Whenever he wrote, he put his very soul into the words, so when he was happy, they were happy, and when he was sad, they cried tears on the script. He was not sure what exactly it was that was getting him down, but he had thought long and hard to discover the solution. The various members of the troupe were all so busy with their own lives they did not get to rehearse as often anymore. Whilst he had in turn become accustomed to the anathema Happiness of the play’s title, he wondered secretly as he watched the traders and housewives pass buy, just how long that happiness could last when it was not shared or enjoyed in the company of others.

“I just want someone,” he wrote the opening line and penned it elegantly and carefully. “Anyone will do, be it a kind soul or a gentle heart.” Once more, Duffy sat and waited on his laurels for something magical to happen. Whilst the surroundings were bustling and vibrant, they were actions of the everyday, little routines played out as threads of a greater weave. He was not concerned with the bigger picture, the social revolution of Scara Brae’s zenith; Duffy just wanted to revel in the little interactions between two likeminded people, or the oppositions in a nemesis and his prey. He wanted very much to have the same spark and domineering presence she did, and as he wrote, the weight of the silver chain that had burnt a hole in his mind tugged at his trouser pocket, beckoning his thoughts to think of his past mistakes.

Visla Eraclaire

04-29-10, 08:26 PM

Visla finished her ritual and stared at the results from her perch at a small reading table with a surprising trepidation. The circle hummed with energy and the promise of a new day, or night; she hadn't a clue which it was beyond her will-forged walls. With a cursory thought, the table before her turned from a stately academic desk into a vanity complete with a polished silver mirror. It was a wonder that those who owned the things were willing to admit to calling them “vanities” she thought, staring at her reflection.

The face that looked back at her had changed a great deal since she had last seen it clearly. Catching the warped shadow of one's features in a pool of water, a windowpane, or worse a burnished shield was a poor substitute for even the most crude mirror. Visla lacked such a luxury since she first left the room that her sanctum was modeled after. A servant woman held up a mirror to her the day she departed for the Academy, and that was the vision Visla had of herself until she exchanged glances with the grim woman within the silver frame.

She had never been beautiful, or even pretty, really. Those who wished to be kind to her had called her elegant or mysterious. Recessed and passionate eyes and dark locks draped over pale skin, a nose that was a bit too long and other sharp features led to a face frequently described as having “character,” not unlike the knotted wood of antique furnishings. On the whole, little had changed. She was still the same dour looking young woman, more or less, less young to be sure. Though her cheeks were never girlishly full and round, they seemed all the more harsh and gaunt. Her lips were dry and colorless, her hair tangled, and a dozen other minor faults and variations from the scared face of a girl she had seen in the mirror so many years ago.

Still, the toll that time had taken on her was a small price to pay for what she gained. No longer the frightened girl, she rose and stepped toward the circle she had drawn on the floorboards. She positioned herself in the center and vanished, but not before snatching her cloak from the wall and pulling up the hood. She told herself it might be cold, but felt the shameful prick of vanity all the same.

Her conjured reality bled away into the grey eternity of the astral plane as she was shunted toward her destination. It appeared only as a blur, swiftly replaced by the busy streets of Scara Brae, though not quite those she expected. Down an avenue, beyond a crowd, she could see the square of her memories. The imprecision suggested to her that perhaps her recollection was clouded or seen through a rose-tinted lens.

“Hm, afternoon,” she said aloud, looking up toward the sun, just cresting past its zenith.

As she glanced back down she met the bewildered eyes of a group of children. The merchants and salarymen, beggars and brigands, all had something on their minds, enough that Visla's sudden appearance had gone largely unnoticed. Yet the quintet of idle youths stood with mouths agape at the cowled woman that appeared in a flash. The boldest among them waddled awkwardly up to her and poked at her thigh with a maple switch.

Visla snapped her fingers and the tiny branch burst aflame. The boy's eyes lit up and he turned to present the small wonder to his compatriots. The sorceress grinned beneath the shade of her hood as the little rapscallion chased a girl off with the torched twig. The whole group scampered away, having already forgotten what was enough to transfix them only moments ago, leaving the way to the square open.

Before she had made it even halfway down the street, Visla found herself winded, having only traversed the short distance between desk and bed for some time. She reached into the pockets of her cloak and produced an ocher potion, uncorking it with her teeth as she continued to stumble down the cobbled way. She quaffed it as quickly as possible, even as an over-sweet aftertaste clung to her mouth, and by the time she reached the square, she took her cane up under her arm and walked confidently toward the center.

Her whole body felt lighter and more vibrant, at least for a time. As she cupped her hands and scooped water from the fountain to drown the lingering flavor of honey and tree sap, she figured that night would fall before she needed another dose. By then she was sure that the outside world would weary her again and she would be eager to return once more to her solitude.

Duffy

05-05-10, 08:28 AM

Time span and the clock hands over the square moved on, and on, and on. Very quickly, the troubling memory of that fateful afternoon was washed away under a deluge of long winded words and claptrap dialogue. He had come to be a slave to the habit of excess, writing whatever came to the mind knowing full well he could edit and revise anything produced before it appeared in the troupe’s folio. People had barked brevity! at him so many times he felt guiltily content at being able to write as he pleased, even if it was just for one solitary afternoon.

People passed the oblivious rogue as he turned a page and continued into the second scene. There were courtesans, sailors, soldiers, city guard, clandestine mages and murderous villains alike, each a perfect opportunity for real world inclusion, but they were as ignorant as Duffy; too busy rushing to whatever exotic or mundane destination awaited them in their busy lives. In the space of an hour, the first act was roughly penned out, and Duffy’s buttocks grew tired. He rose from his slouch against the ornate fountain and turned to drop a coin into it as was the age old custom.

His jaw dropped just enough for the Narrator to add a little dramatic drum roll. “There is no chance…” he muttered, looking at the woman stooping to conquer the same sparkling waters. Paralysed with shock and confusion, Duffy wondered what exactly it was he had done to deserve such a cruel punishment as this. He had expected magic of an emotional and excitable nature, not raw sorcery itself in taut breasts and a rather fetching black hair-do. The weight of the chain in his pocket tugged at his guilty conscious once more, and he sighed, his shoulders slumping with premature defeat. “We meet again, Miss,” he said, the sound of a copper piece splashing into the pool accompanying his nervous voice.

Visla Eraclaire

05-05-10, 01:34 PM

As soon as she heard the voice, Visla started to recall the memory that had brought her here in a much different light. She had never truly forgotten the theft and the petty stage performance with its overwrought acting and foppish play-actors. In retrospect, however, she had forgiven all the slights and chosen to remember only the closeness she had felt with her former companion, the demon who had threatened death to avenge the slightest insult. Now as she stood on the streets of Scara Brae without Aelva and hearing the coy voice of the troupe's fool leader, she bristled. Her hands clinched and her fingernails dug into her palms as she recalled the genuine rage that had lurked beneath her grandiose words.

She turned to face him and caught his eyes dancing over her body. Only the most despicable lech would leer at the meager offerings of her figure, she thought as blood rushed to her cheeks. As her pale skin flushed red, her spite roused arcane energy from her very veins. Before she could even force out words, crackling orbs of deepest crimson erupted from the air around her and began to dance around her waist. Most of the crowd was still oblivious until a noblewoman gasped and drew her husband's attention to the sudden display. The minor invocation was far from terrifying onlookers, but those brazen enough began to stare while others discretely backed away and went about their business with renewed vigor.

“Lady Visla Eraclaire, peasant,” she snapped as soon as her emotions let lose her tongue. “You should know from the signet your little urchin stole. Are you and that ruby-lipped harlot of yours still turning tricks on Scara Brae's streets?”

Though the deadly bolts of energy still circled her, Visla felt much less angry once she spat the words at him. It had been long enough that seeing his face was shocking, but also so long that holding a grudge seemed petty. Still, Visla knew that she was not above some measure of pettiness and she would let the young man stew in his guilt a while before forgiving him. She drew one of the orbs to her fingertip and pointed straight at him.

“I should warn you before you try to snatch my purse that I am not the fragile woman you dealt with before. I have wisely invested the time since our last meeting, and I do wonder if you can say the same,” she gloated.

The greatest insult when she faced the Tantalum before had not come from them. It was the powerlessness, the dependence on Aelva to fight her battles. Even as she had fondly remembered the woman's embrace only moments before, now she relished the power that freedom from that grip had granted her.

Duffy

05-07-10, 07:28 PM

Without the slightest of movements the Tantalum glared at the energy that crackled around his old adversary. He followed each orb as cleared his throat. He had only just become accustomed to living; he did not wish to try the same with a sudden and worthless death. “I,” he began, stopping to mince his words very carefully.

“I have no desire miss to ‘urt you again,” Duffy held up both hands in earnest, looking abashed and bruised by her accusations. “Our run in before was at best a misunderstanding and one that has certainly been drilled into a certain rogue’s noggin’.” He did not expect her to even begin to understand why it was the Troupe took to theft in times of trouble. On paper, she had accused and assumed they were everything they appeared to be, petty criminals, but it was more…complicated than that.

He cast his mind back to the incident and remembered the ring flying through the air as some sort of compromise between certain death and sanctuary. She had certainly shown her contempt for being robbed, but it was not her malice or her commanding persona that proved irksome for the thief, more so the devil that walked in her shadow. The noise and chatter of the traders eased the tension that bridled over the fountain, and helped remind Duffy that she would have to be a very subtle sorceress indeed to get away with murder in broad daylight. Even amidst a sea of people he could not help but felt suddenly and inexplicably alone.

“I don’t intend to try and snatch your purse. That was an unfortunate accident in an attempt to survive in this cruel world. We have mouths to feed, and some of us do not have the luxury of a title and birth right to cater for the whims of social fancies. Forgive me if I might seem…stupid, but, I invest my time in trying to be mediocre at what I do,” he nodded at the notebook in his hand, which he pocketed away. “Might I ask what you are doing in this fine city, Lady Eraclaire?”

There were a few assumptions to be made about her innocuous appearance by the fountain side. The first was sheer coincidence, but Duffy believed guilt to possess magical properties; he had been thinking of her and the chain, and now here she was! The second was revenge, which was the most likely option given the sleight Pete had inflicted upon her. The third was something altogether vaguer. Duffy thought she might be looking for something more but for now, she would have to do with plain old him.

Visla Eraclaire

05-07-10, 08:22 PM

Excuses were to be expected. At first they seemed empty, easy ways to wave off responsibility. And yet the more she thought back to her own past, the more she found that his reasons were better than hers. She had done much worse than petty theft and she could hardly call it survival. Revenge was more like it. She had loosed her powers against the world itself to exact a punishment for her misfortune. Innocents had lost much more than a loop of silver because of her.

Her haughty smirk disappeared, but she was far from despair. Her bloodstained past was more a trifling embarrassment than a tortured secret. Still, as her mind turned to introspection, the orbs around her fizzled. The keen edge of her spite dulled and her fearsome demeanor was replaced with a more sober one. She looked around the square, avoiding the glance of the man she had just accused. Her searching eyes wandered over buildings until they fell on one that attempted to drive the thorn of guilt into her hardened heart.

A small tavern in the corner was just welcoming in the late afternoon crowd, eager to drown a day's work in frothy malt. The innocent scene was quaint and heartwarming, but carried within it the seed of a horrible memory Visla had hardly considered since it had happened. Her mind projected a wreath of flames around the humble wood structure and a glance of terror into the eyes of the barkeep. She merely shook her head, not one to be haunted easily by specters of the past.

“If you're worried I came for you, then you have an altogether unreasonable opinion of yourself. I came today for the same reason I came then, a diversion,” she said, finally meeting Duffy's gaze. “Scara Brae, much like its seedier residents, is good for a cheap evening now and then.”

She turned away and stared straight that the tavern, daring her recollection to try and terrify her. There was no guilt in her memories. A great many things could have gone differently, but to Visla life was a rich tapestry. A loose stitch might seem to be an error, but if one went tugging at every imperfection, the whole thing would unravel. Every retrospective change could only bring her further from the life she had finally attained. It was not a perfect one, but for the first time in her life, perhaps, it was one she was satisfied with.

“If all you seek is to be middling, then you'll be quite a success. Why don't you come provide mediocre conversation to go with the unimpressive drink I plan to order?” she offered, and started off toward the bar.

Even as she spoke the words, she wondered how she could go from threatening him to inviting him along so quickly. She'd hardly be willing to attribute it to any charm on his part, but preferred to think of herself as overly magnanimous. No longer the vulnerable young woman who feared and despised everyone by necessity, she could afford now to act on a kind whim and see where it took her.

Duffy

05-12-10, 05:26 PM

Duffy chuckled at the put down and rested his hands on his hips. As she sashayed off towards the tavern, his opinion of Lady Eraclaire changed at the drop of a hat. She did not seem so terrifying alone, although her demeanour and eloquence intimidated the thief very much so. The clamour of Market Square faded from his mind as he set out to follow her across the cobblestones and refuse. People were very much caring of their city, seedy or not, but only as far as saying so with exclaimed voices and waving fists. Much like the upper classes, there was a lot of talk, and a lot of heated debate, but not much action.

This woman seemed like she wanted action, although what she thought she would find here of all places, Duffy did not know. With a cheeky amble and a smile, he strode beside her and waved his arm over the tavern front like an over enthusiastic guide fleecing eager tourists. “A fine choice, one of the city’s very best,” of course it was a blatant lie, and he knew she knew that he knew that she knew, but he felt like playing the part into which he had been type cast. “Middling lyricist and trifling bard I may be, but I’m sure I can tell you a story or two about this city that would pique your curiosity!” Sadly, most of them involved prostitutes or gross innuendos about carrots.

“I would not however,” he cupped his hands together and tried to sound sincere as he skipped excitedly, “order anything green, red, or possessing more than one accent in its name. I love the barkeep to bits like, but I suspect he scoops up the dregs and sells ‘em right back to ya.” His natural accent returned only through a lack of need to impress anybody. He doubted he could even if he tried. She had stripped him bare and cast Ruby aside without so much as a hair out of place; nothing in his repertoire could change the fact that she had him in the palm of her hand.

He however had her memories in his, clasped in a defiant embrace. The necklace might not be worth much in the spirit of hawking on the black market, but somehow, like the cutlass from the Red Scourge or the dress he had worn in their first comedy performance in Numarr, these trinkets of the heart possessed a greater sense of wealth – they were sentimental, personal, and provincial. He had every intention of returning it to her, he would relish in the fact but he kept it hidden just to tempt fate and kindle some form of trust between them. He made a great show of stepping to one side and bowing politely as they approached the entrance. “After you!”

Visla Eraclaire

05-15-10, 10:39 AM

Visla strode into the tavern and her first reaction was that of a drop of oil falling into a bucket of water, a simple repulsion borne out of the very nature of the two with no malice or contempt. She composed herself and continued on before her reflexive distaste made too much of a scene. As she glanced around at the patrons, she thought that perhaps they were the oil and she was the clean water.

The décor was simple, what one wishing to dote upon it would call rustic or quaint. The furniture was little more than wood blocks imitating chairs or stools or tables. The lighting was poor as the storefront turned away from the setting sun and oil lamps dangled precariously above the heads of greasy patrons. A row of glassware lined up behind the bar, beneath a grime encrusted piece of metal only barely distinguishable as a mirror. The glasses seemed more like a decorative fixture than anything else, as all the men and women within gripped metal or wood-carved tankards in their grubby hands.

Visla slid between crowded tables up toward a largely empty bar. The afternoon crowd seemed a social one, gathered in circles throughout the room rather than clinging sullenly to the dispensary. Still, one or two bedraggled figures, indistinguishable as man or woman, hung from the bar looking as if they hadn’t moved in weeks. The sorceress took her place furthest from them and leaned in to signal her readiness.

The man who received her message seemed to appear straight out of the woodwork, a thin youthful man with wiry hands and a close-cropped beard. He was not at all the ball of flab and muscle she expected as barkeep, but as he spoke, she found his voice would fit a larger man just fine.

“What’ll ye have?” he said, taking one of the glasses off display and wiping it with the cleaner side of a rag around his waist.

“I would have said red wine, but I’ve been warned off of it by my guide here,” she said, pointing at the figure of Duffy behind her. “Give me something clear, Coronean light rum or Salvic vodka or anything that’s seen a filter at least once in its life.”

She realized how snobbish she must sound and was almost ashamed to look the man in the eyes as she spoke. He was by no means attractive enough to be worth impressing, but Visla had developed a heightened awareness of herself ever since she left the company on her demon. It was all well and good to have some time to herself, but best not to be that way forever.

“In fact, start me a tab and get him whatever he likes,” she added gesturing back toward the rogue. “I suspect his stories will get more interesting if I stay a while.”

Grinning with a combination of wickedness and genuine pleasure, she pulled herself up onto a rough-cut stool and settled in. If she was going to take a diversion, there would be no half-measures.

Duffy

05-18-10, 12:37 PM

Duffy blinkered his sudden enthusiasm at the mention of a tab and cast the barkeep a glance that said ‘Hello there, long time no see, how have you been?’ without the need to actually exchange pleasantries. They had the sort of business relationship that came about through fortuitous incidents and a satisfactory stream of gold from the coffers of the troupe to use this tavern as a hideout and stage front. Neither of them had anything in common beyond the thief’s frequent visits to the establishment and the more frequent incidents involving the city guard which often followed. He nodded as his company turned to find a seat, approving of her drinks choice with a hand sign that resembled a dove. In Scara Brae, making a bird shape with your hands to any of the bartenders simply meant ‘I’ll have one of those with an extra something’ and the moustache bobbed a silent yes in response.

The glass was filled with vodka and the secret ingredient. Duffy was too naive, as were most of the patrons to realise that it was in fact a slice of a fruit called a lemon, but the longer the brewery branch of the Guilds-man Circle kept the people of the city in the dark, the longer their profits and gold piles continued to grow. He sipped it tentatively and let the coarse burning liquid perk up his afternoon lethargy before strolling over to where Lady Eraclaire had perched herself. He sat opposite, placing his drink, his dagger belt and his leather-bound notebook onto the table to one side in clear view. He had no intention of starting a fight this time, and it was customary to have at least the visible weapons you carried on clear display.

“So tell me, exactly what interests ya? I can’t find a distraction without knowing what to look for usually. I mean, there’s plenty of sights in the alleyway bazaars stretching out from market square and naturally, you could see one of the many plays ongoing in the city this fine afternoon…but I gather you prefer a more…luxurious affair,” he made that slowly spoken assumption based purely on her disdain for the Tantalum’s performance. He did not know the circumstances surrounding her appearance alone, or if indeed the winged creature he had seen previously was gone or merely absent, but he envied the sudden empowerment she must feel being able to do as one pleases without the constant belittling from kith and kin, or the re-assuring iron embrace of a superior individual controlling his every movement.

“I feel I owe you the drinks personally, but your hospitality is humbling and I aim to repay it either in footwork, song or a guided tour of the most awe inspiring places this city has to offer!” He raised his glass and offered it out to her, proposing a toast to the whittling down of the day in whatever way Fate decided.

Visla Eraclaire

05-18-10, 05:05 PM

Visla joined the toast first before answering the rogue’s question. Her cheeks flushed as the harsh gulp of vodka poured down her throat. She had been a moderate to heavy drinker at times, or more accurately at one particular time. Her habit, however, had been wine. It was a much slower and more velvety intoxication than the sudden hammering of liquor. All the same, she preferred a new sensation to wallowing in her old ways, comfortable as they might be.

“It doesn’t take much to amuse me these days,” she said, pondering his offer. “I need no grand productions. Even this conversation and drink are more than I’ve done in weeks.”

It was a sad admission, but she felt no reason to put on further airs in the present company. Visla had lived a sheltered childhood and her recent years had been spent on the fringe of society. Normalcy was an interesting vacation for one so accustomed to lurking in the shadows, whether they be cast by the curtains of a secluded manor of the invocation of an infernal pact. She glanced down at her glass and took another hasty swig before continuing.

“If you asked me what interested me on a normal day, I’d say arcane knowledge, but if that was what I sought, I’d never have set foot in Scara Brae,” she scoffed and exhaled sharply as the second shot-worth of vodka landed in her belly. “I came here because it’s just the sort of place I wouldn’t normally go. My previous attendance was far from voluntary. Aelva wrapped me up in a borrowed dress and flew me here like a high-priced hostage.”

She was surprised that the bard had let her talk so much without interjecting a story of some kind, but it was to her liking. The time she spent in isolation was all passive, all reading and absorbing what she could and she had had her fill. Her mind was full enough of knowledge and stories that if anyone tried to tell her more, something would surely spill out.

“Oh, that was the name of my succubus, if you don’t recall,” she said, lingering somewhat on the turn of phrase, which implied a control and ownership that never truly existed. “I suppose you might, since she came within an inch of killing all of you.”

Visla laughed, only slightly from genuine amusement, moreso to gloss over the awkwardness and get a reaction. She’d rather be seen as a tinge mad than genuinely repentant. She polished off the last of her drink to complete the illusion.

Duffy

05-22-10, 08:37 AM

Duffy winced. He did not like to be reminded of all the times he had nearly died, they were too numerous to be a comfortable prospect for conversation. The green coalescent flames of the daemon’s nightmarish magic had certainly felt like certain death, although he did not understand enough of the magical arts to know if it carried any true threat beyond words. He sipped his drink for a moment and considered the route to take as a response. Should he hide behind awkward babbling wit or a calm and collected shrugging away of the topic?

“Yes…” he said meekly, finishing off his beverage and dropping the cup onto the table. “I remember all too well. We can put that down to an error of judgement and be done with it; there is a certain degree of magpie in Pete that will not resurface for a good few years I would reckon!” He had been toughly against booting the boy himself, but he could not stop Ruby giving him earache for several weeks. That was punishment enough for anybody.

“I am afraid that arcane knowledge beyond roguish luck is nothing I can talk of. Having said that, I am sure you could find somebody in the city that could help you or pique your interests in that regard. The University may stifle creativity under a repressive regime, but it offers the right students a profitable tenure. I have certain, connections in the black market and the troupe itself that can help you, should you wish to make a habit of knowledge finding. Of course, you simply must stay for another drink, or three, and put up with my incessant questioning!” He waved at the barkeep and got a gruff nod in response. He settled back into his chair and crossed his hands politely over his lap. Whilst the keep tended more alcohol, the thief thought long and hard about his next question.

Memories were a pitiful thing to be weighed down with; they caressed the heart and crushed it in equal measure. His memories were beyond Visla’s aide, all except one that was theirs together. “Tell me, Lady, what does cold steel and roughshod craftsmanship hold so dear to you? I get the impression that as meek and humble as you come across, losing the ring for a fleeting moment and the chain that it hung from was something that affected you. Something that affected you as much as it did me.”

As the barkeep appeared at their side and cleaned away the empty vessels Duffy rummaged in his pocket and felt the cold reminder of the chain connect with his fingers. He waited and smiled as the empty cups were replaced with filled ones, and then he pulled it out. He hung it loosely from his middle finger and brought it up to eye level. “Why rest the weight of the world on material things, if you’ve no-one left to share them with? I think that you came here not for trinkets, power or sorcerous adultery, but for the company even we paupers, pipers and pragmatics can offer.”

With a delicate movement he moved the chain over the table and nodded, signalling she was free to take it. With his other hand he downed the vodka, and saluted his company and her generosity.

Visla Eraclaire

05-22-10, 09:04 AM

Visla stared intently at the chain that the rogue held. It meant nothing to her, in truth, but the fact that he seemed to treat the chain and the ring as if they were one in the same was irritating at best. She snatched the newly offered drink and took another substantial gulp before answering.

“First, I must say you’re the worst thief in history if you think all the boy stole was cold steel. The ring is solid silver, and finely worked at that. The chain is cheap, true. That’s why you still have it and I haven’t burnt a hole in your chest to take it back.”

Visla smiled and raised another toast, presumably to his continued survival. As the drinks clanked together a plume of fire erupted from Duffy’s for a moment, streaking close to the lamp that hung above. It lasted only a split second, short enough to be dismissed by patrons as a drunken hallucination.

The rogue’s words seemed to tip the delicate balance of power in the conversation and amiable as she sought to be, Visla was intent on reasserting herself. Before she spoke any more words, she wanted this man to know and always remember that it was not just her former companion that could end his life.

“Beyond its material value, it’s a signet ring. It’s the very symbol of one’s nobility and to have it stolen by some street urchin is a grave insult. The dignity of a noble house is something, I suspect, you cannot understand.”

With a grave tone and a lecture of the nature of nobility, she sounded like her father. The fact of the matter was, it wasn’t something Visla understood either. She could play a noble, but at heart she was merely fortunate. It was a distinction Baron Eraclaire made often to her. One was not born a noble. One was merely born lucky and rich. To be a noble was something more, a refinement of attitude that she learnt to imitate but never internalized.

“Now that I’ve mocked you with two possible answers, I’ll tell you the truth. He could have stolen anything from me and I would have been infuriated. He could have stolen a piece of trash I was ready to throw out. The loss of the thing is not the issue, but the loss of respect is everything. Having the item returned saves some face, but your little child took something that can never be returned, not by him at least.”

Visla eyed the remainder of her second hefty drink. She could sense that she was already tending toward the melodramatic, teetering on the edge of a deep precipice. Rather than pulling herself back at the last moment, she leapt off and quaffed the last shot’s worth.

“Another” she called, raising her hand before continuing her explanation.

“Maybe this doesn’t matter to you. Since you live a life of very different circumstances, but being robbed is an affront to more than property. It’s an affront to the person. It is a message from the thief that you were powerless to stop him. I will not have my power questioned, not then and not now.”

Visla pondered her next revelation for as long as she was capable, but the words, well lubricated by liquor slipped out of her mouth before full consideration was possible.

“I disposed of Aelva for that same reason. I loved her dearly, but she was an obstacle to me independence. As long as I was with her, I was merely ‘the girl with the succubus,’” the words stirred something in her in a way that only drunken admissions can. Speaking normally, Visla would consider all the implications and never be shocked by her own thoughts, but as they sped past her minds eye, some truths passed by that she did not fully appreciate until they sounded in the dingy air of the tavern.

“I will not be bound.”

Duffy

05-22-10, 09:21 AM

The flash of fire and the stern turn in the airs and graces of his companion came as little surprise to Duffy. He winced again, and sat and took each dripping vowel and poisoned consonant as it barraged him with her tale. The pieces of the puzzle slowly placed themselves together and with the weight of the chain and the lacklustre talent he possessed a source for her enjoyment once more, suddenly things seemed normal. He shrugged and dropped the chain on the table next to his daggers, obviously she considered it worthless despite all her wit.

“Whilst I do not truly understand the notion of respect or rather, anger through losing it, I can empathise truly with the notion of not being bound. It is sad,” he slouched back into the chair and watched the patrons as he spoke, “that no matter whom we are or what we are, we are tied to others inescapably. Try as we might to find freedom in the highways of life, or the low slums of depravity, we always end up falling on our faces and crying out for the people we abandoned,” he snapped back to Visla with the last word, and smiled.

“I understand the pain nobility causes, I have seen it in Ruby’s heart long enough to know that she was bound to it, and cursed by it, and hated all of it regardless of the fine clothes, wines and stifling company. She unchained herself, as I expect you did, and is happier in doing so. She is not free, for she is now bound to me, and to our objective – but the choice is eternally hers, her life is what she makes of it. You could say,” he pulled off his bandana and ruffled his unruly hair to hang-ten his futile nugget of wisdom, “that she is accustomed not to happiness, but to the sorrow of being as happy as one can be given all the factors in life.”

Duffy started to sound every bit the procrastinator he was. Visla’s words and her determination were somewhat sickening to him, not in the revulsion he felt, but in the jealousy that rose in his gut at not being as driven as she was. He felt sorry for her in equal measure, he could not dream of a life without his friends, they were his strength, his sorrow, his material objects to idolise and terrorise. Without them, there was no Tantalum, without him, they were no troupe.

“Respect can be re-earned, apologies can be accepted, and servitude paid in sweat and blood to appease the guilt of long lost regrets. Perhaps, and just perhaps, a quotation might serve well here.” Slightly coddled with alcohol or at least playing the part, Duffy rifled through his book and rested a librarian-esque finger onto the first page of Act One, Scene One of I Want To Be Your Canary. He cleared his throat and leant forwards to speak only to Visla. The line was the great memorable declaration of Marcus’s love to his bride to be, showing her that he cared not for her titles and family, but only for her, who she was, what she was.

“Cast away thy trappings of royalty, and I shall swaddle thou in a gown of pure love! Never again will I part from thee!” He closed the book, “you are no more trapped by your lineage and your regrets than a bird is prevented from flying because It has clipped its own wings. It has taken me a great deal of time to discover that my title, my job, my reason for being does not stifle me in anyway. If you want something, or want to be somebody free of all the chains you’ve wrapped yourself in you can. Picture them broken, stand, and rise to the challenge of the new life you’ve found!”

“You can end my life a thousand times, but it will not bring you any joy. You can retake a thousand silver chains, still you will have no satisfaction. Forgive a humble artisan for his crimes ill judged and take his offer of repaying that debt? Altruism is its own reward.” He tried to smile and look sincere as the last of his intelligence drained from him. He was empty and dry and as pitiful as the glass before him. He had said all he had to say, and he hoped it at least delivered a ringing in her ears.

Visla Eraclaire

05-22-10, 09:39 AM

Visla’s fingers twitched from time to time as she listened to the rogue’s monologue. It was almost funny, but also a profound misunderstanding. Someone so brightly optimistic could never understand, she thought. For every kernel of truth in what he said, there was a thick coating of sap, nonsense, and ill-founded idealism. She wavered between laughing and growling with every sentence he spoke, but ultimately did neither. Her newly arrived third drink simply diminished further with every strained suggestion or overwrought belief, until there was merely a few drops sitting lazily at the bottom.

“Even the stilted words from that play seem more realistic than the blatant fantasies you espouse as truth,” she said, and tipped her glass to let the last few drops of vodka trickle into her mouth.

She did not order another.

“I do not think that servitude is unavoidable. We might always feel obliged, but guilt, remorse, and even love can be overcome by a steely resolve. I have broken many chains and escaped many gilded prisons.”

She slid her seat back and stood as she pronounced these words, setting the stage for a dramatic exit, and cutting off any opportunity for counter-point.

“If I had let my noble obligations keep me, I might be sitting on the dreary throne of a tiny island, a fate consigned to my poor sister. If I had given in to the dictum of my teachers, I might be a fettered archmage, teaching that which I did not truly believe to a new generation of fools. If I had relented to my heart, I might have lived wistfully in Aelva’s shadow as a treasured doll for her amusement.”

She pushed the stool back in and strode past the rabble toward the door. For all her dramatic flourish, none seemed to take notice of her at all, save the rogue. Her words went only to him.

“I am alone, but I am free,” she slipped the silver band off her finger and tossed it feebly toward him, barely making it within his grasp.

She pushed the door open and stepped outside, staring up at the sky that had fallen into darkness while she drank. Her gait staggered a bit and she could feel the need for another dose of medicine to keep her frailty in check.

Reaching into her pocket, she felt the keystone, but she did not speak the word that would take her away from this place. She crooked her head back to see if her exit had been followed, to see if there was any reaction in the rogue. He had seemed so intent on returning her chain; she could not resist the lure of curiosity, to see what he made of her. Under pity and disdain, she felt a meager gratitude to him, if only for serving as a foil and hardening her resolve.

“Perhaps not so free,” she muttered as she turned fully around.

Duffy

05-22-10, 10:13 AM

The ring rattled on the table top and started to roll. Duffy scrabbled for it before it dropped to the ale soaked floor and let out a sigh of relief as he felt it between his fingers. By the time he had caught Visla she had left. A brief chill draft washed over his ankles and spurned him to chase her. He barely had time to scoop up the chain and his belongings and re-attach his dagger belt before she could be long gone. “Wait!” He roared, dashing between the tables towards the door.

It was evening as he collided with the invigorating air and saw the back of his sullen date for the afternoon. He held out the ring as if he wanted to be shot of it and yelped, “Memories!” He had something more dignified in mind but hesitated. “What I mean is,” he shuffled his feet and looked up at the moon shining bright and vibrant in the sky. “You should never just throw things away. You might not have a use for it, but you can conjure this ‘steely resolve’ you speak of in the hard days to come by drawing on the reminders, the little trinkets we keep. Your mind will fade, the days will darken, and you will forget what made you who you are…”

“Just, please, I don’t want it.” He shook it and stepped a few steps closer, his boots sounding out hollow footfalls in the quiet evening. The busy hubbub of Market Square was long gone and the cobbles were scattered with rotting vegetables and a wayward lethario plying his seductive wares. “I didn’t want it then and I certainly don’t want it now – think what you will of me but don’t burden me with my mistakes anymore, I’ve enough mementos for one lifetime!”

Visla Eraclaire

05-22-10, 10:28 AM

She listened to his words, searching them over for meaning. As satisfying as it was to hone her sharp tongue and dauntless stoicism on him, she wondered if beneath the fluff and sentimentalism, there might be something worth hearing. In truth, no matter how firm her resolve, any such decision is only ever a suit of armor to cover over a soft heart beneath.

Visla snatched the ring out of his hand and gripped it firmly.

“Very well. For someone so displeased with materiality, you put a lot of stock in a ring. You could have sold it to pay bar tabs, traded it for a nice gift for your lady, or used it as costume jewelry. And yet you so fear the twin manacles of memory and regret that you cast it away. You disappoint me, bard.”

She glanced over at the fountain and considered tossing the ring there with a flick of her wrist, but realized quickly enough that hypocrisy that would lie in throwing the thing out herself. The sorceress slid it back on her finger and rummaged in her pocket for a pouch of coins.

A small tower of gold pieces replaced the ring in the rogue’s hands and Visla bowed graciously.

“Thank you for an interesting evening. Pay our tab and keep the rest. As much as I think such concerns should be beneath you, I can tell you deeply desire to hear me say something. You are forgiven. One less blight on your name does little to ease the burden, but there it is.”

Visla reached back into her pocket and clutched the keystone.

“Home.”

She left the rogue standing in the darkened streets, all but empty, chillingly still.

He was bound, but he was not alone.

Duffy

05-22-10, 11:05 AM

Duffy felt very relieved as the ring was taken and replaced with gold. As dishonest a profession as thievery and bardic beguiling was, he had every intention of settling his tab and putting the hard earned spoils of their conversation straight into the coffers of the Tantalum. He watched, almost tearful in a way as she vanished from sight and left a tantalising scent of possibility in the air. He had started the day with every intention of filling the last few pages of his notebook with scribbled half-lines and potentate openers. Whilst he had not accomplished this, the strange woman from long ago had given him more than enough material to work with for many a lifetime.

With a frown and another telltale sign that Duffy Bracken was defeated, he clenched the silver chain in his left hand and the gold in the right and turned back to the tavern door. With a heavy heart and a heavier pocket, he glumly walked over to the bar and deposited the money on the table. The whiskery moustache of the barkeep swaddled Duffy in an ironic scrabble for the coin and then he was once more poor. He pocketed the rest, flopped open his book, ordered a Scara Brae Banger and settled in with his thoughts and his dreams. He would remember Visla by writing her tale into the stars and the fables of the city, gifting her plight with eternity money most certainly could not buy.

The first few lines he penned onto the page opened up a whole new world of theatre in the city. Gone now were the comedies, the dramas and the petty tragedies. Duffy would write a tale befitting of the noble houses and one which would be remembered. He poured his heart into each delicate flick of the quill as he measured his talent against the messy calligraphy. He scribbled out the previous title, considering it dire in the circumstances.

It now read, in sprawling letters,

Becoming Accustomed To Happiness

The End

Spoil:

A Penny For Your Thoughts: I'd like to request the usual 10% reduction in gold for Duffy be waived for this thread, via Visla's charitable donation to Duffy's sorrow.