Les Liaisons Dangereuses or Busywork at the End of a Blade

[Lent]

The end of the road.

A man was one thing. You could fight a man. Trade punches. Take some hits. Grit your teeth and keep going. A man was a man. A beast? Yeah, that was one thing too. Claw and fang. Fur and muscles. Venom? A tail? Bad Breath? Take some cuts. Grit your teeth and keep going.

Gods. Gods were something else entirely. You grit your teeth. You kept going. Kept fighting. You screamed at the top of your lungs against the storm as it washed you away. Utterly. Perhaps your memory would matter. Most likely, that got washed away too. In Myrken, it was even worse than that. Here gods twisted you. A man tried. He wasn't a GOOD man, because who was really? He tried though. He tried and he failed, and then, after the bottom dropped out, after it all fell apart, the Gods twisted what was left.

Sympathy, then? No, to try was to reach too high. To extend yourself. Do that and you leave yourself up to the fall. You could live without trying, without caring. It just involved putting one foot after the next, after the next. You would FIND life that way. Try to care? Get too close? Embrace life in Myrken and it would smother you. He died once. The man he had been had loved, had cared. The man who remained was empty. He filled his hole with senseless danger and constant libation. And when came to care just a little once more, when he tried to make those endless steps have some meaning, one after the next, after the next.. it was taken away from him again.

He had no sympathy for himself. He had no sympathy for his prey. Victims, the young, the foolish, those who didn't know better. No sympathy, but he'd drink to them, to McCoy, to the Constables who were cut down and the innocents who deserved it even less. His sentiment was in liquid form. Drink to a memory. Piss on a grave. Spit at those Gods from a distance.

All well and good, until now. He cried wolf for three years and now the wolf's arrived. No one listened until the bodies appeared, until it all went sour and bloody. Now it was too late. A man you could fight. A beast you could survive. Gods? Nine gods? You needed help.

You needed to find someone who could fight gods. Sometimes Myrken provided. The file had been practically shoved into Kurt Lentham's hand. Two Inquisitory scholars had pushed the grizzled and ragged Detective Constable off in the right direction. It was raining. He didn't care. Physical shelter would do the rest of him no good. So as stormy night fell, Darkenhold's gates would receive dark company.

[Carnath-Emory]

Aesthetically-speaking, Darkenhold is at its best under two circumstances. Summer mornings bathe the structure in a golden light which coaxes a fierce shimmer from brick and leaves tall windows an incandescent blaze. Turbulent nightfall transforms the home into a stronghold; darkness clings like a shroud to blacker stone, obscuring the structure's gentler details and confusing its lines so completely that only the intermittent lightning serves to illuminate one stern outcrop or another. And each brief flash of light draws such a cold glitter from volcanic rock...

Lentham's chosen an excellent night for his first visit.

Still, although the skies are a tempest, Darkenhold's atmosphere has lost much of its tension. Behind tall gates there paces a man whose hip glitters with ready steel - but he is surely their only guard, and while the grounds are marked by a scattering of hurried figures, it's soon enough clear that their business is the very mundane. Windows must be shuttered against the winds; stables must be attended -

The fellow at the gate, incidentally, wonders if their visitor cares to share his purpose.

[Glenn]

Soggy outside and in, in every way except for the one that mattered the most, Lentham just stared at the man. "Dire tidings." A dry swallow, a sideways glance to the fortress as if he was seeing it for the first time. The sparkling, dignified polite uniform of the Constable had become tarnished and blackened over time. Dust-covered roads had been the least of it. A winter in the woods chasing his prey. Strange excursions to even stranger places. The stubble upon his face never quite made it into a beard; he had a rusty dagger for that, just rusty enough that it never got too close to the skin. A clean shaven face would look unsettling in the midst of the greyed, dirtied clothes anyway.

A man's manner was unsettling enough. No reason to compound the crime. It was bad enough that he had only that sideways glance for Darkenhold. Stone. A worthy effort. It'd last long after he was gone. There was something to that. Better stone be used for this than to mark graves. You walked as much as Lentham and you learned to figure out where the graves were. A child's felt different underfoot than an adult's. A good man's felt different than a scoundrel's. Of course, they all felt like scoundrel's, but he'd know. "Dire tidings and great need." A harsh, rasping, voice for the withered lump of a Constable.

Despite the tone of his words, there was no haste in his motions, no heavy emotion in his weathered face. He was perhaps thirty-five, perhaps forty, ancient for Myrken, forty going on death, of a height that would have fallen just slightly taller than normal, were his posture not so gnarled. "Succor. Guest Right. A Constable's Tithe." Perhaps that last one was fabricated, but there was such an air of assurance in the man that it was hard to deny it. "And a talk with the Lady of the ..." a hand waved at the building before him. In it was an object hard to make out in the light, a small, portable container of some sort perhaps. He brandished it for emphasis as if not sure what to call Darkenhold. "Stone."

Now, though, the object was brandished at the guard and sharp, piercing eyes to go along with it. "But first, dire tidings. The walk was long, too long, too empty. Libations." The object was practically shoved in the poor fool's face. Didn't he understand? The Flask was EMPTY.

[Carnath-Emory]

One expects that a liveried doorman will glance twice at so disheveled a visitor, and perhaps display some of his distaste. This guard, being nothing of the sort, has offered little less than a wrinkle of his nose and a heavily-accented question. Lentham, being what and who he is, might be aware of what's trod through these gates in the past: constables and dignitaries, governors and exiles. Demons! Ashfiends! Kaczmareks! It can be no surprise that a man only slightly haggard is received so casually. Still...

"Is Myrken," the guard's responded, his near-indifference quite contradicting his inspection of this man, a slow consideration that surely absorbs both the nature of that uniform - and its quality. "Tidings is always for dire." And: "Is Darkenhold," he's answered this talk of constables and their privileges, as if he imagined that their reach might not extend to this stretch of land at all. Something in the eyes, then; something to the set of his jaw; something like quiet arrogance, neither unfriendly or quite yielding. Perhaps he means to move away, then; perhaps he means to move Lentham on - with a tilt of his well-shaped jaw towards the gates bars, silent indication that one of them is inside and the other is out, but -

But Lentham's thrust that flask at the guard's face, widening his eyes and provoking a bark of rich, delighted laughter. This is a moment of frank astonishment, as if the constable's audacity were too good to be true - but see? That the gates are opening, that the guard's grinning still as he gestures Lentham past him. "Da bachgen," he's laughing now as he steps away, pointing the stables - a focus of some activity. "You, she see."

[Glenn]

She. She. She. Somehow he didn't think she was a busty barmaid, missing a few teeth but quite liberal with the necessities of life. Normally, that'd be problematic, but in this case, the various needs of Kurt Lentham happily dovetailed. Of course, you couldn't find any of that happiness on the man's face, just a satisfied nod as he ventured forth. There had been little reaction to the obvious distaste; the Constable was used to that. There was, perhaps surprisingly, just as little reaction to the change in attitude. Shoulder slapping and guffawing wouldn't solve either of his problems.

Hell of a long walk, really. Long, underpopulated, undertaverned walk. Bad weather too. No sense in stopping anywhere you couldn't get a refill. Better a flood than a drought.

"Hn." There, a noise to go along with the matter-of-fact storming forth and the nod. Positively brotherly, these two. A right amiable gesture in the name of good will and fidelity. More than that, a sign that Lentham would be more than glad to drink to the man's goodwill, the very moment his flask was refilled of course. Then, finally, as if to alleviate worries. "I'll Find her. Detective Constable." Thus, intimately qualified, one of the small range of Constables that came into the job with basic reading comprehension and lived past the first few months.

[Carnath-Emory]

Four years. This is the breadth of time required for the inception and construction of that stronghold; for the assembling of its small population; for the departure of its three varying architects and the return of the one least-qualified to oversee its maintenance. And the return of only her, which - in tandem with recent visitors - has perhaps led guards to make certain assumptions of unexpected guests. And which has, quite possibly, led to a... certain deterioration of manners. Witness this guard's casual manner, for one; for another, the phrase he's just shouted across the yard at the small group of people just now hurrying for the building's doors. Something about wine, or perhaps beer; something involving several very foreign phrases, the name of a notorious builder, and a very distinct 'M'Lord Detecting, all of it concluding with the sort of cheerful grin that oughtn't be worn by a man standing watch in the rain.

But perhaps there's some satisfaction to be had in the way their steps begin to really hurry, despite the easy laughter all about - and, several minutes later, telltale flutter of light behind shutters further back in the building. "With Calomel, hm?" offers the guard - by way of farewell, as he adopts some comfortable lean once the gates have sealed again, and: "You go," with a nod towards the stables.

It's to be another walk for him then, this Detective - but far shorter than what'd brought him here to begin with, and quite possibly better paved. There's a point of light to guide him as well, and he'll see its source as he nears: a small lantern, all glossy brass and tiny panes of real glass, and haphazard in the hand of a woman who's halfway up a ladder in the rain and perhaps slightly regretting it. There's a second, holding that ladder steady - and some fragment of conversation between the two, something about the roof and its vulnerabilities - but on seeing the man, and in the wake of a guard's very loud chatter, she's waving her companion back towards the building proper.

"Detecting Constable." Her eyes, too, make an inspection. "Calomel's? Kerrak's? Helstone's? Burnie's?" Because there are so many possibilities. And because we must locate the pieces upon the board before we can begin to understand the game.

[Glenn]

"Strange customs." Lentham wasn't inspecting her. He certainly wasn't detecting her. Oh, yes, he'd taken in the ladder, her destination, where she came from, the companion retreating. "But that's to be expected here, I suppose." Then a little grumble as he took in not her, but his surroundings. "Hnn." Realization followed by a gradual acceptance. "Not that strange, though. Even in Dauntless, they don't keep the drink in the stables, though, I imagine it's cold enough there that even the horses spend most of the day drunk. Enviable."

Apparently, until he received what he wanted, there was very little desire to cooperate with her, a twisted notion, perhaps, since he had come here to see her. That file was wrinkled and bent and crumbled a bit in his pack (which was not the right shape for such a thing at all). He had a vested interest but a far more immediate need. Death taught a man to be patient in all the wrong ways. So she'd get an answer to her question, even as he started to tick off fingers, one with each name. Calomel's? Burnie's? Perhaps not. "The Dragon's Claw. The Cow's Udders. Gnolly's. The Purple Boar. The Princess' Bountiful Bosom. The Ever Wrong Turn. The Hungry Shed. Wallace's Uneven Tavern. The Housemaid's Flea. The Crow and the Fox. The Secret Handshake." He'd likely run out of fingers somewhere in there and had lifted up his foot slightly, battered boot waving just a little as if he was using his toes as well. Not once was the Broken Dagger listed in there, for what it was worth. "Memory of a few dead. The lack of memory of a few others. Kind Barmaids. Decent cooks. Occasional Urchin iffin he doesn't try to kick me in the shins. Calomel wasn't bad. Bit soft. Helstone, bit crazy. Kerrak, lot crazy, not that I remember either. Burnie..nn. Could be worse. Bromn. Good pastries, though."

The pause that followed was rather glacial. There was no toothy smile, just an even laconic expression. "Parched now. Too complicated a question. Too long an answer." He held up the flask. "Refill this and I can ask you the same question." Then, with a bit of distaste. "Hell, refill this and we can play chess in a stable during a storm, in the middle of the night, iffin that's what you really want."

[Carnath-Emory]

"Not so strange," she'd echoed him - halfway down the ladder, an arm wound through one of its rungs. "What use have we for etiquettes on such a night?" The dark, the rain; the wind that lashed damp hair at her eyes. "And why should we anticipate a petitioner at our gates? No; we keep ourselves to casual and give our time to shutters and rooftops. Honest work," she'd added, with a particular glance, and made a cautious descent.

And all of this was very straightforward indeed, so that what followed it must seem the more chaotic in comparison. One of them is stubbornly uncooperative; the other nurses quiet suspicions, necessary cautions. The one has provided a very long answer indeed, to a woman whose grasp of their shared tongue is tenuous at best and wholly unreliable. The accents interfere - his and hers; the place-names and colloquialisms further cloud, so that the blink provoked by that bit about drunken horses has become outright incomprehension by the end of it all, and while Lentham counts off taverns upon his fingers, Ariane makes some tiny, urgent motion with her free hand as if to urge a backstep to where they'd begun -

"Detecting!" she's interrupting now - towards his flask, as it happens, now that the thing's made an appearance. "As you say - too much. Too much words. What is a gnolly? What is a wallace?" All of those words, many of them unfamiliar and one running into the next until she'd lost track completely of beginnings and ends and heard only a rapid-fire stream of syllables. "No. Too much. And this night is vile," but she's lifted her gaze towards the thunderous skies with something like laughter.

This is how they have come to make the walk to Darkenhold proper. "Come," she's beckoned - towards a man who clearly needs no such urging at all, tucking the damp hair behind her ears against a wind that's grown truly momentous. It has the small lantern swinging, but its light is steady all the same, and between that and intermittent lightning the swordswoman is able to learn the man's face as they walk - and even as they hurry, if indeed they must at all. Despite her words the woman is clearly at peace with the mounting storm, marked more by her limp than any real displeasure; her limp and her watch of this man. Who is no-one she knows - by the time they've gotten sight of the doors she's certain of that - but this hardly matters. Of Calomel's men she'd known some scant handful; of Kerrak's, only the Brotherhood. So that she can slightly warm, instead, to a man who sooner gives his allegiance to barmaids and kitchenhands...

"Bromn's dead." Because it has to be said to someone, sooner or later; it might as well be him. And after a moment: "Janever for your mug, I think; it suits such a night."

Oh, that's a smile.

[Glenn]

"Hn." A small response as he let himself look back to the gates. "You don't build gates like that unless you expect petitioners in the middle of the night. Gates like that are for seeing, for finding. I saw, I found. Happened to be looking, mind." A little shrug. There were more important things to do like list off a dozen pubs and a few other things.

And then she interjected, but not without some promise towards the flask. It made him more tractable, to say the least, though a promise was only that and an unspoken promise doubly so. So they walked, and he spoke on, friendly enough given his gruff exterior and dry, rasping voice. "Gnolly's likable, you'd like him. Short. Grows hair in places people shouldn't. Forehead. Temple. Tip of the nose. Red. All connects somehow. More beard than face. Grumpy. Storms around angry. Good selection, fair prices. Only people there are ones who want to be there. He scares off the rest. Good Tavern. Wallace is bald. The Tavern slants to the left. You drink a lot and it evens out. That's the joke. Gnolly's is better. Either would do in a pinch." Then, in case she didn't fully comprehend the severity of the situation here. "This is a pinch." He turned the flask over and nothing came from it but air. He pressed two fingers together under it as they walked, catching nothing. "Pinch, yes?"

"Yes," to the comment on Bromn. Matter-of-fact, as ever. Wasn't personal. Man, as such he was, made good pastries. Place for that, really. "He tends to do that. Think he has me beat. Only managed it once. You were there. Riding a dragon, they say. Don't feel bad. I don't remember it either."

She had turned on to more important matters, though. "Janever." Then with a little nod, a wipe of his brow, "It's a dark night, full of dark things. Hnn, Jenever." A second nod, this one satisfied. "Lead on, Duchess."

[Carnath-Emory]

Oh, but she's eyed him askance at that. "Petitioners?" A dubious glance for iron and exotic wood. "Those gates? Ser Detecting, it is not for petitioners that we build gates like that." Over which men had sworn and laboured, and all the moreso when an hour's haste had threatened to set all their work awry. An architect had started shouting, when he'd realised; unessential personnel had outright fled; this subtle tilt to her head will hide the memory's small smile away. Beneath their boots, damp soil gives way to rain-slick pavement and a flicker of torchlight makes some promise of warm interiors, simple comforts.

"Mm. I think that I favour this Gnolly." There is a small stretch of steps which they must climb, but look: someone's already drawing the doors open a crack, golden light flooding the courtyard. "Let nobleblood choose their traktir by the look of its keeper; I have different interests. How does it stand aright, this Wallace's?" With a hand in the air before her; slanted, suddenly wobbling. "How does it not fall upon their heads? I would sooner die drunk than sober - but better still is not to die at all." And this is a morbid little smile - but it becomes outright laughter for Lentham's demonstration. A pinch. This is a pinch. "Dire tidings," she's agreeing through it.

At last, a moment's sudden understanding.

If she falls silent until they've stepped inside - well, perhaps skin fastened closed with clumsy stitches doesn't care to be strained by laughter. And perhaps she's thought better of mentioning Bromn at all, but inside they are, met by hands which will take his coats and hers, if there are any which they care to surrender, and exchange them for coarse towels. There is a narrow corridor through which she'll lead him, clearly unconcerned by the prospect of trailing rainwater across smooth tile, although she'll caution the man as to how wet stone gets to being slippery. There is everywhere an abundance of warm light, although some of these torches are surely newly-lit. It is at a training-room's threshold which they pause.

"Once," she's echoed. Her elbow nudges the door open, a clear invitation, but her shoulder's found a lean against the doorframe and her eyes a quiet watch of his features. "Townsedge?" Because that's possible; distinctly possible. And a mistake easily made, for who'd associated Hrimfax and the General with dragons all those years ago? He might have made the obvious assumption. Some part of her hopes for it. But not so much that she won't add:

"Then you know it's not 'Duchess'."

[Glenn]

Shame. Another glance at the gates. Petitioners would probably like them. The Guard was friendly enough. Ah well, but this was Myrken. Very rarely was something used in the way it was actually built. Things became twisted just as easily as people, and sometimes it meant that they got twisted right back around. No reason to waste time mentioning it, though. She knew. Wouldn't be much use to him or anyone else if she didn't.

"Variety; the spice of life." Simple wisdom from a simple man. "Nice to be very welcome in one specific place. Nicer still to be contently tolerated in quite a few. A barkeep takes enough pride in making watering down his beer an art, he forgets to water down the whisky. Works the other way too. You learn." Then a little pause, because he knew what he knew, which wasn't a lot, but was, perhaps enough. "Broken Dagger doesn't water down anything. Me? Still don't think it's worth it. You learn. The easy answers always have too high a cost."

But she had asked about Wallace's uneven tavern and there is but a slight shrug of his dust-covered shoulders (dust-covered still, despite the rain) for the question. "Poorly." Then of course came his demonstration and hopefully some haste, please. Did she think it a joke? Deadly serious was Detective Constable Lentham.

"Hn." This at her warning. There wasn't much that the uniformed man truly excelled at, but walking, walking he could manage. Manage it, he did too, and soon they'd be inside. Still parched, but at least inside the room. "Haberdasher's Row. They say you were on a dragon." A meaningless pause. "They say things about me too, about that day." Then, finally. "As for the rest, it's fine. I'm not much of a Constable. You're not much of a Duchess. Not going to hold it against you. Unneighborly if I did."

[Carnath-Emory]

He's right, of course: that she knows, that she understands the way that a thing can be both a function and a symbol; the way that, moment by moment, a place like Myrken will endeavour to redefine those roles. Of course she knows, and had listened very closely to the architect's careful explanation of a wood's uncommon properties, of the ways in which fine metal may be tempered. What we create will become what it must. The very best that we can do is to prepare it for the very worst.

"I've heard that said before," she's remarked at some point. "Spicings. Varieties. And still, I think that I prefer simpler fare - no, I'll tell you this: that I find it valuable to be very welcome; I find it distinctly useful. It is like a gift, mn? A thing which I might earn, or a thing which I might receive. But to be tolerated? That, I can make to happen. With coin," as she gutters the lantern, unnecessary in these well-lit rooms. "With a uniform, a reputation. Tolerated is nothing. But," the sidelong glance is a concession, "I am not a Detecting Constable. Your needs are different, mn?"

He's said something here, though; something specific and quite unexpected. The Broken Dagger. The Broken Dagger doesn't water down -

Ah. A hand lifts; defers this. For after drinks, perhaps, and for no other reason than what he describes is so large. She will not have it swallowing her yet.

Besides, they've reached the room she'd sought by now, where Lentham's explanation makes no interruption to her stride - but perhaps he will mark this fleeting glance, this slight press of the lips. Perhaps he'll simply find a seat for himself instead of detecting anything at all: two walls are lined with long benches, all of them quite uncluttered. As for the swordswoman, she has a closet for her destination, and when she emerges from its interior it's with a narrow bottle for each hand.

"No mugs. They never seemed necessary."

One of these will be his, when she's made her return - and that takes time; the limp is sometimes pronounced and a swordswoman clearly does not feel pressed to hurrying. When she sits, it's with legs arranged in a haphazard array that clearly provides some relief. "They do say - things. About any things at all. To pass the time, mn? On nights like this." A hand hovers between bottle and towel, uncapping the one before selecting the other instead. "So. Ser Neighbour." A small, tight smile. "What do they say about you?"

[Glenn]

"Welcome. A gift." A long pause, a long, dry pause. This is when he would have that libation. It would help the words come out and help her words go down, a spoonful to help it become palatable. Still, he could not find the words, not as he was now. So when she raised a hand, it was after he had just raised one himself. They could revisit both things if need be. All he would say, instead was "Hnn. Different needs, different people. Try not to need much." Enough of that. The dismissive hand that opened the door for her to offer her own. "Later, maybe." There was actual business, yet, but more than that, he wasn't about to delay the coming relief.

No seat for the Detective Constable. No, instead he would meet her halfway, would cut down the time. And she would ask her question and he would be GLUGGING from the bottle for one, two, three long seconds. Then, then and only then, when the immediate need was quenched, would he carefully, lovingly, pull out his flask. A mug may not be needed but this, this ritual, this connective tissue to the world around him, this was very necessary. He filled up the object, but kept the bottle in his other hand. Eyes shut for a long moment, and with her offering, Ariane Emory had earned an answer. "They say that I fought like a man with nothing to lose. That if there was another ten of me, Helstone might still be governor today. They say that I WAS a man with nothing to lose; few that were there, that still live, that survived the Fiend and everything else." Here he would sip just a little, as if liquid from the flask had so much more WEIGHT to it. "They say this: How could a man with nothing left to lose find a way to lose so much more?"

Then, finally, he would put the bottle down, he would put the bottle down and hold out a hand, down to where she was sitting. "Detective Constable Kurt Lentham. They say that I saw you that day, upon a dragon; know I felt you once, during a dream."

[Carnath-Emory]

It was something like an instant's understanding: that they stand on the brink of dangerous things, and that it is a cliff-face from which they can agree to withdraw. For now, and in the wake of it a constable is promptly drowning himself and a swordswoman is wholly breathless. Different needs, different people. Different minds for different moments, a man had once said to her - and other things besides, so many and so sudden and so mercilessly true that her response had been ferocious; a man not naturally inclined towards retreat, still he'd almost withdrawn. This time is simpler: a deferment mutually agreed upon, and her features wholly lost behind a tangle of dark, damp hair. This is as necessary as the constable's jenever: this silent interval, this shroud behind which she can hide her features until they are wholly composed and her eyes have become casual again.

The towel is exchanged for the bottle and back again; to and fro, both being quite essential to the moment. But she listens, plainly; the voice is gone dormant but these are eyes attentive to the man's features as he provides far more of an answer than she'd thought likely. His words are difficult to hear; crucial, and when her lips fall slightly parted it's not to shape words at all - no, this is only a small nod, and some very solemn set to her features. "Governor of what," she's murmured at last - but so softly, and already her hand is moving to set that aside completely. It has no place here, not yet and perhaps not at all. How could a man with nothing left to lose find a way to lose so much more?

Oh, how these words pierce.

But mark this moment, as the constable offers a hand and she does not hesitate to accept it. As he offers a name and has a clasp of her fingers to answer it. 'Dragon,' he says and her lips slightly stiffen; 'dream', he says, and his hand is clasping fluid steel.

A catch of her breath.

Grey eyes this wide.

His features scoured from throat to eyes, all in a single blazing instant, as if this is how she discerns cultists and Baie-things. But its aftermath is the sudden exhalation of half-held breath, and her hand tears from his only to shake sharply - once, twice, as if to flick the steel angrily from its fingertips. Which is impossible, of course, but the action satisfies some furious corner of her, and perhaps serves as apology as well. If not, then her words must suffice, for as the armour recedes and her flesh loses its steely glitter:

"I'm sorry." And this time it's her hand which feels for a bottle. "You did see me. If you saw what was coming, then..." Small, stiff nod; strange, how so bitter a liquor will soothe. "Then you saw the dragon as well. Do you know - it was so quickly. Do you know - what it is to look down at a sky gone blackness, and all those men beneath it. To know that perhaps you can burn the arrows to ash without slaughtering the men as well. To know that even then, even if it goes exactly right, it will not be enough. It was so quickly, and all over - what. Governors. Madmen." The mouth clenches; some tiny chuckle escapes. "And after? After, I just...

I just wanted to burn the world."

The eyes fall closed, then. And it's only after a measure of quiet that she qualifies: "I am sorry for that - the armour. This dreams - you know?" He doesn't, of course. He can't. It's alright. She's already said entirely too much; why not that as well? "So. You tell me. Which dreams were yours?"

[Glenn]

The brink of dangerous things. Not a place oft traveled to by the Detective Constable. The brink of sobriety was bad enough and that's where he currently resided. Deferment, detente, dismissal. He'd take any of them right now. His wasn't a curiosity for curiosity's sake. Some of it was about companionship. No, company. Not the same thing. Not the same thing at all.

But then he has her moment and he has his and they come out of it recovered? Refocused? Ready for what is next, at least.

She murmurs and he lets her. No response required. No response needed. One of those deeper, hypothetical questions. Best to leave it lie. For her, his words are difficult to hear. For him, though? Easiest thing in the world. Recollections of others, not himself. What more he could lose, when he had already lost everything. His life but no longer his story to tell first-hand.

Ariane Emory has a very particular device, a thing of expert design and precise artifice. Kurt Lentham has a tinkered thing upon his left arm, something stitched into his uniform, a clumsy thing of spring and sting and who knows what else. All it took was a flick and as his right hand was drawing back, a slim, solid blackjack had fallen into his left one.

It had been shock. Even a burnt out man was not without reflexes, not when he was a Constable, not when he lived in the darkness and slept during the day, not when he lived between the cracks in Myrkentown. Still, he felt a bit foolish when she apologized, all the worse when he realized he DROPPED his flask. Blackjack was retracted. Beloved companion was recovered.

"Governors, madmen, Myrken." Then an idle pause, and the first honest question he'd ask her, the first one with any substance. "You were gone for a while. Away from here. No big secret. When you left, did that urge go away?" Sitting on top of a dragon, chaos below you? A symbol, yes? Living in this place with a blade in your hand.

Then she asked her own question and his answer would make no sense, save for one small fact. She had been there too. "Eyes. Blood. Gore." A sip from the flask. "A gem lodged under the skin. Horrible deaths. I hunted a man, and I found him. I took his hand in that dream. Had I taken his heart, none of this would have been necessary." Then, with a darker rasp. "Wasn't for lack of trying."