The Worst Possible Scenario

[Glenn]

Giuseppe crawled.

His body emerged out of the Wood, one hand after the next dragging his prone, filthy form forward over dirt and grass and rock. Old wounds had disappeared somewhere in the last few weeks, cuts and scrapes that he had held with him since childhood, brands and hidden tattoos that had defined who he was. A lifetime in scars and reset bones. Gone. He was not unsullied, however. New bruises replaced old. New nicks and abrasions liberally littered. His hair had grown longer, his face unshaven. Catch had taken him away and released him and now as he crawled back to civilization he looked as if he could be a true peer of the madman.

And his mind.

He crawled back to humanity, to who he was, to who he had been. If he had managed this trip more quickly, its physical counterpart would have been easier by far. It was only now, though that he was shaking off the primal horror that had gripped him. Names and faces flashed in his mind as he continued to pull his body forward. The recent... Catch, Jared, Renea, Renea who had likely been taken away as well and even if she hadn't, without his testimony, she was likely dead at Agnieszka's sword now if not Glenn's own. Glenn. Murdering his own subordinate, one with a good heart but a terrible lack of reason, would be good for the Governor. Would steel him in ways where he still wavered, where he wavered more now than a year ago. Catch had tainted him and Olwak both. But then the man in black tattered clothing, the crawling man, had been in perfect position to end that blight. It had been too late on so many levels. He had barely been able to fight back. And now here he was, crawling helpless back into his own body, trying to push that body back home.

The new memories came first but the older ones followed soon after. Poor doomed Dahlia. His Father, stern, corrupt, ultimately weak and his Aunt, memories that still sent chills down his spine. The Islands. The old wizened man who talked about how things might have been. Pantha! That night where a demoness tried to seize his soul and succeeded more than not. It was a lodestone. It drew him back to the present, only to see him slip away again lost in a maddened haze. It kept drawing him back, though, and kept drawing him towards civilization.

Eventually there were signs of life, of people, buildings, bustle, and it was the final piece of the puzzle. He saw how they walked on two feet and he remembered that yes, he could as well. The final missing name, Giuseppe, his own, came to him and realization entered his eyes. His throat was dry, pained, but he was not ill. The force that had healed his scars had preserved him just long enough, that and the primal instincts possessed by both man and beast.

"Damn it." He rasped, looking back. Legs were slow to respond. They were not used to this after such time of ill use, but he was a man... a man once again, of resolve if nothing else. So he pushed forward.

It was two hours, a shave, a bath, a bottle of wine, and a set of new black clothes later that he finally forced himself settled in to read what important messages had arrived. The southerner would check in with Burnie soon and endless questioning would commence. Before that, sleep, and if that small gap costs the Marshall her life, that's what she got for being so damn obstinate. Before sleep, though, there were letters, missives he had to review, plans he had set in motion. Some responsibilities couldn't wait any longer. Despite the way the two men joked, Giuseppe's intrigue was quite far flung and he was good at his job. He independently managed the sort of business that was beyond even what Burnie would consent to, but that was all the more necessary due to that very fact. Things that it was best if the Governor did not and could not know about, and that was saying quite a bit considering the things Burnie did know and consent to.

"Of course." Three letters in, the man in black grit his teeth. A southerner swear escaped his lips. Why now? How did she get so close? If he had just killed Catch a year and a half ago... Well, Renea could wait (And if she died, it would do far less damage anyway). Burnie could wait. The entire damned government could wait. The last report arrived only a day or two ago. If he moved quickly he could reach her a few days out of Darkenhold. After that, it would be too late.

[Carnath-Emory]

Travel becomes more conventional, just miles short of the border; she will not terrify Myrken Wood with the spectacle of dragon-flight.

It's had more than enough of that already.

They make good time regardless, this rider and her heavy warhorse. Few encumbrances weigh the beast's spine; a swordswoman left Myrken two years ago with very little at all, and returns now in kind, a single worn pack proving sufficient for her needs. Their passage is assisted by long, long familiarity with these roads: how often had they ridden this border? There's no hesitance in their trajectory, and they are days yet from Myrkentown proper and the need to choose less-traveled paths.

It's shortly after darkfall that they take to shelter: a stable stall for Hrimfax, and relief from the burdens of saddle and pack; a swordswoman not much given to kindness does not trust her belongings to the kindness of strangers. A night's rent is purchased from an innkeeper content to ask few questions, and why yes, she would be glad to take a meal in the tavern which adjoins and can they manage a broth absent of meats? Oh, the nameless caretaker is all too happy to comply.

In the tavern's warm interior she finds herself a seat in some comfortable seclusion. No raucous celebrations for her tonight, no drunken dirges; no contests involving dice and cards and things less conventional. This time she'll leave these things to her fellow travelers - that being the exclusive clientele of an inn so near Myrken's borders: traders, sellswords, the occasional misguided tourist miles out of his depth and hours from realising it. Some distance is maintained between herself and these, and that distance will be kept, simply because she does nothing whatsoever to encourage an approach. Who would bother? She is simply another shape reclining half in shadows, broad-brimmed and halfway featureless beneath dark russet scarves. It is the simplest sort of anonymity: she hides in plain sight, in a place where she would ordinarily never be found.

[Glenn]

A man who did things that even the Governor would not. A list full of names. Zayken. Quincy Randall. Sin'Vraal. Khalika Quiller. Atlias Bromn. Alessandra Demarest. Sylvius Duquesne. Faeryl. Alastir Savoy. And at the very top Ariane Carnath-Emory. Destabilizing factors of a particular sort. Of those names, however, only one was underlined and circled. Only one would inspire such haste. It was simple. Glenn Burnie had hired this man in black to be his bodyguard, but the only instruction he had was to protect Myrken Wood from the man who had become Governor, to protect it from himself, his vices and his weakness.

And Glenn Burnie had no greater weakness than the woman who was now hiding in plain sight.

A Demonic Weapon. Damn this rush. In ending her ... torment, the demoness Pantha, the cause of so much of his soul's trouble, had promised him some manner of demonic weapon. It had been almost a whim. He meant to do the task anyway when Burnie, strangely enough, deferred. But then, the governor had the luxury. He had a man like Giuseppe. Another of his missives explained it, that Pantha had resurfaced in all of her blood and filth and she was marching about looking for him, odd weapon in hand. He wished he had it now but there had been no time.

No time to prepare at all. He had yet to sleep. One bath had not been enough. He felt unclean on the inside and out, though aesthetically, the man, rather close to his fortieth year by all appearances, had made himself presentable enough. There had been no time.

Burnie and Emory held keys that unlocked one another's secrets. Giuseppe did not. Discretion. The Governor named his sword Discretion. And not as a joke like the horse. No time. No secrets, but plenty of stories. He had heard of Hrimfax, had even stopped in to the stable just to see with his own eyes. It had not been a disappointment.

Even from across the room, neither was she.

Giuseppe smiled, despite himself, because of himself, because of all that he was and could ever be and he started towards the bar. It was his first smile in weeks, since leaving Thessilane, and the tugging caused his mouth pain. Even after all he had been through, his new scars were surprisingly hard to bear. He had his chance and had failed. And now.. this was before him. No, despite the pain, he'd walk into this with a smile. Both of them deserved nothing less.

One step after the other took him towards her isolated form and he was glad for that. The man in black had enough crawling for one lifetime. Two bottles were placed down before her. "Bella," he began, his southerner accent thick and charming. "Of all the changes you managed to somehow force into this twisted, broken province, the very worst was popularizing this." A nod to the bottle of Derry Red. "This is a night of disagreements, I'm afraid." His voice light and playful, but yet determined and very fatalistic. He'd go to such a fate with a smile, though. "I was hoping we could start it off with the opposite." Four glasses would be obtained and carried back to her with impressive deftness. He nodded to the second bottle. "This is a fine vintage from my homeland and i think we'll be able to begin, at least, within a few glasses, by agreeing this is the finer of the two."

[Carnath-Emory]

It's just like chess, she'll tell Calomel much later - if there's a later at all, and if it finds him fit for conversation. It's just like chess, except that you've come right into the middle of someone else's game. Right from the beginning, your priorities are different: nevermind planning your maneuvers; you're just working out where all the pieces are.

So that she'd felt no particular need for stealth - not at this point, and not even in the immediate future. There'd been some thought given to using the back-roads, on entering Myrkentown proper, and the name given that innkeeper was not actually her own. But those efforts were to serve a single purpose: ensuring that her examination of the gameboard was uninterrupted, by moving her unimpeded to impregnable Darkenhold.

It was a good plan.
It completely failed to account for the possibility that she was already pursued.
One of Ariane's first Myrken friends had accused her of lacking in imagination, and he was far from the last to say so. She'd never listened.

Giuseppe's accent is nothing that she recognises, but there's no mistaking his deliberate approach. Southern? Eastern? Not Nnurian; certainly not 'r Chyr'laud, which she'd have placed in an instant, and gladly. His face escapes inspection almost completely, but this is no slight upon the man's looks; here interest lies in the manner of his gait, the possibility that it conceals edged things, violent things. Myrken teaches a woman such reflexes. A lifetime measured by the reach of her sword surely does. A fingertip tugs the russet scarves from her mouth, her chin, revealing a mouth that does not mirror the smile of his own.

But neither does it dissuade.

"Ariane," she corrects; the error of a woman largely ill-educated - and who's already dispensing with the small guiles of assumed names and shadowy seats. This man knows her, or imagines to, and there's nothing to be had in perpetuating a disguise that was paltry to begin with. Months in the company of Sylvius Duquesne have taught her many things, but the art of spycraft is not one of them, and she will not pretend otherwise. And: disagreements, he says. This smiling man. Disagreements, while he furnishes their table with glasses and wine, and speaks of ruin in such mild tones that he can mean nothing kind at all, and she should watch her words, but -

"If you think that's the worst, then you've been listening to the wrong stories."

Hells.

[Glenn]

Sharp, violent things? Yes, sharp, violent things, though not the ones he preferred. Those had not made it all the way back from Thessilane. No, very likely they had been fashioned into a large deformed stick figure and it was hanging from a tree in the woods somewhere. Catch might have even been having a conversation with it. Thankfully, this was not a thought in Giuseppe's mind right now, so the smile did not fade. He had so many sharp things after all. Yes, of course, Ariane Emory deserved the very best, but he was quite the beggar at this moment. Somehow he thought she'd forgive him or not forgive him just the same.

He hadn't tried to hide the potential for violence, just as he hadn't struck from across the room, hadn't poisoned the wine. Was it professional pride or merely fatigue? He had been so quick to poison Renea, to do far worse with far less honor to so many others half as dangerous as Ariane Emory. Or maybe.. maybe he had just heard the stories? Many of them. Some from Burnie, some from others. Years in Myrken left to his own devices.

"I've heard more than my share." He admitted freely. Eventually so giving an attitude would have to end, but not yet. "People are people. Sometimes, they have to die, Bella. I appreciate that more than most. Wine, though? There's never an excuse when it comes to wine." Four glasses were poured. While he might have been able to cleverly switch one glass with another, he did not try. The Derry Red was sipped with a slight shrug. He would sit down before sipping from his own. Such things deserved the proper respect. His eyes shut with that second sip. It was the perfect time for her to stab him if she was so inclined, really. No? If not, his eyes would open, and his smile would remain. "Never with wine." There was a nod over to the two glasses in front of her. Apparently, he had no desire for any sort of formal disagreement to begin until this experiment was completed.

To be fair, he had a hell of a month and likely needed the wine more than she did.

[Carnath-Emory]

She'd intended on tea, rather than wine. Owning a good tolerance for the stuff doesn't preclude an avoidance of it during troubled times - and it's increasingly clear that this evening qualifies. Tea, brewed from leaves obtained with some effort and considerable expense, it requiring time to track down the origins of a sample sealed into an envelope carried across countless seas - years ago. Oh, years. She'd rather cherished the opportunity to try this, and ordinarily would be of no mind to allow some brute's interference in her intentions.

It's interesting, though. That he comes to her table bearing wine instead of weapons - although there's no doubting their presence on him somewhere. That he smiles through his scars and savours his wine, that he's approached at all, when it would've been a moment's work to dispatch her from the doorway. Oh, she'd been looking that way, but she hadn't been looking, and this is - interesting. His manner. His words. Not just that he speaks at all, but that he speaks of things which - Well, but isn't this how it's always been with her?

A dearth of imagination.
An excess of curiosity.

Really, it's amazing that she's managed to stay alive even this long.

"Do you think this is a quality we share?"

Sometimes people have to die. Sometimes we're the ones doing the killing. Smiling stranger. We both know that was no question at all.

"Ariane," she's correcting again - almost as an afterthought, and her hand sets the quill aside unused, accepting a wine-glass in its stead. A familiar exchange. "Your homeland - far from here. Yes?" A traveler's question, spoken by a woman with who has surely traveled far. Scuffed boot-toes and dusty hair; he is the more presentable of the two, and certainly the more prepared. At her belt, a cultist's wicked blade; at her hip, a schiavona yet sheathed, for she's made no motion at all towards weapons at all. And words to fill the space between them as she lifts the glass towards parted lips -

pauses.

"Your homeland. How do they speak a toast?"

[Glenn]

This was not a man who liked to talk as much as his employer. Of course, there did not exist a man living today who liked to talk as much as his employer so that was hardly a useful distinction. Still, on some subjects. "South. As far as you can go, Bella. Then a bit farther." An interesting counterpart for her, no? He recognized it as well. "Vineyards as far as the eye can see." Wistful, if only for a moment.

"Two questions left." He raised a glass, the matching one to her own, and put it towards his lips. "One good, one not so good." The last words were spoken quickly, his accent affected and heavy, perhaps laying it on a bit more than he needed to or perhaps just not holding back like he so often did. "One answer."

The smile remained pleasant through it all. "Wine is our lifeblood. We take it seriously." His eyes met hers. He was holding back nothing. "So we meet each other in silence, and hold it for ten seconds." And perhaps that was the cause of more pain than even the sharp and bitter toasts that were born from the Dauntless tongue.

So, glass just an inch from his lips, Giuseppe would turn his gaze upon her. It was far too giving a thing, but she had asked, and it was a night of respect and regard, not just disagreement. She had asked, she and no one else over the last few years, certainly not his two employers. So unless she flinched, eyes would meet. The last few weeks weighed heavily upon them. A spark of chaos in a sea of order. An all too natural and human element of inperfection having seeped into otherwise still waters. A seed of intensity that revealed his desperation when his body language was so controlled and relaxed otherwise.

This was a man here to do a dark deed and while there was no joy in his countenance for the task at hand, the need was ever so great. This was a man who solved problems, and what a lovely and terrible problem he had before him now.

[Carnath-Emory]

Seldom are there moments for moments like these.

He speaks of distant vineyards, this smiling man, and there are things which she longs to say, things of which she yearns to speak. What would it be, to describe stories she's heard of such places? To fill her assassin's ears with tales of the remote Q'alor, of soil become damp and black and rich so that life fills that land in abundance; of delicate-hued apples and a wine of such stunning texture that she'd hardly dared taste it at all. The Q'alor, who will celebrate at any opportunity, be it lovely dawns or solemn deaths - for there was such a look in this man's eyes, just now; there was something -

Two questions.

One answer, richly accented.

And: "I like your custom," murmurs a swordswoman, in quiet and utter earnest.

She's been here before: here in this moment, this crucial interval. They hover upon the cusp of inevitabilities, she and this smiling man; it is perhaps this moment which decides whether she lives or dies, and that knowledge is fire within her nerves. She's been here before: Michael Renne, his dagger in her hand; its blade turned towards his heart. The mute appeal of Ethan Duquesne, angry and hurt and casting aside all pretense of arrogance. The very soul of Teron Ashfiend, shining silver in her hands and oh, the things which she could have done with that - the ease with which she could have murdered each and every one of them, the simplicity with which she could have taught them that even a moment's piercing vulnerability offers no respite for monsters -

But here are eyes which examine his - quick and hard and far from cold; eyes that know how to see and a heart which knows how to recognise such a moment as this. Here is a mouth that in the wake of quiet words has allowed itself some small, wondering smile. And she has lifted this glass in her hand for true, so that she may regard him across its glistening edge: cool grey eyes are steady in their watch of his own, in their watch of a man so loose-limbed and tightly-wound. She would like to speak to him of lush forests and the laughter which fills them, she would like to ask of this man: Who has done this to you? But this is a different sort of sharing, and words do not feature: only his eyes and hers, and the breath so still in her lungs.

Ten seconds.
She will not flinch.

[Glenn]

Ariane Emory had met such moments with a stay of her hand. The Southerner had not, yet still, he had not struck her from across the room, had not poisoned that wine. Perhaps it was for good reason. If such tactics had worked well against the swordswoman, they would not be here now, would they? Perhaps it was the affliction of his soul caused by the combination of healing and destruction, of Catch and Pantha, an affliction that speckled those eyes with the tiniest hints of doubt and desperation. Or maybe it was just exhaustion and fatigue. He had crawled back to his humanity, had bathed, and had come to end her. One rose to the occasion, but inspiration could only take you so far.

For all the hints and specks of emotion, for all the cracks in an armor forged by the experiences of one lifetime and the history of many more, Giuseppe did not flinch either. Ten long seconds that were, in truth, no longer than any others, passed by the count of his heartbeat. If he discovered any great truths in her eyes, he did not share them. Instead, his own lids dropped and he slowly, meaningfully took a sip of the wine. The heartbeats had not been quickened. His pulse did not start to race now, though impatience and anxiety had to be nipping at him.

The wine was no accident, no feat of whimsy. His mind was a dervish of activity. The wild, bestial call of nature attempted to pull him back towards it with every breath. Sophistication, Culture, Burnie lauded 'Humanity," that was what Giuseppe found in his bottles. Religion, life-giving elixir that allowed for such prosperity and pain in his homeland. It centered him, prepared him for what was to come. When the rest of his being let loose a primal inner scream, the wine allowed the man into whom he had crafted himself to remain.

"It is a good custom. Thank you." For suggesting as such. For showing the interest. For agreeing to this. He hoped to be able to thank her again before this night was over, but it seemed so very unlikely."Take your sips, Bella. Then you can tell me what you think, knowing full well, I am hoping, that I will hear what I wish to hear regardless of what you say."

[Carnath-Emory]

"This is Myrken Wood, ser Chernogolov. Every man hears what he will. Isn't this how it has become so complicated?"

With some small incline of her head in answer to his gratitude; dark scarves shift and settle with the motion, and again as slightly bends her head to drink. In some fleeting instant, her eyes close -

perhaps it will be now that he kills her
perhaps there is poison and she is already dead

- but it is quick in passing, and when she lifts her gaze to his again her mouth has rediscovered its smile. Here, a fingertip lifts from the edge of her glass as if to signal a moment's consideration, and with a small shake of her head:

"No. This is complicated. This is - " a second sip, briefly " - so many things in one moment. It ought to feel - confusing, chaotic. But perhaps that is its art." As she sets down the glass, takes up the other in its place; a questioning glance. "That it leads the mind from one thing to the next, without any disorder at all." Strange to her own ears, so many words spoken with a voice grown accustomed to the silence of dusty roads. With a slim shake of her head, she samples a taste from the Derry instead - laughing then, and so softly. "Simpler. If a little bitter on the tongue."

A subtle stretch of the muscles now, as of a long body finally discovering some ease. Beneath the tabletop, booted ankles uncross and she's setting aside the second glass as well - but no, a fingertip lingers upon its edge. Finds some tiny, meaningless motion there, a to-and-fro that is some small, tactile anchor. And: "You know me - or think to." Ah. They come to this, now. "You have perhaps been educated." Something like amusement, there in the pale of her eyes; neither mischievous nor unkind. "Do you think me capable of choosing between the simple and complex? My heart has a preference."

Cool grey eyes.

"My mind differs."

Legs slightly stretch. A soft creak of worn leather; a soft click of small mechanisms.

[Glenn]

Were those ten seconds truly over? You would not know it watching the man in black as he watched the simple, unknowable swordswoman before him. Even in his current state, even after what he had been through during these tortuous last few months, he was still a professional, a man of vision and purpose, a man of action and resolve. Despite all that, despite the very real danger Ariane Emory represented to everything he had been working towards, Giuseppe was endlessly glad that he had not simply dispatched her from the door way.

If the woman was bleeding and prone, then his business would be done and his interests secure... but he would not be able to watch this now. Was it worth risking all that he had to lose? Likely not. Did it have immense inherent value despite that? Absolutely.

At the end of it, the control slips and warm, almost lyrical laughter slips out, highlighted by that unmistakable (if unrecognizable to her) accent.

"A stalemate, Bella?" The Southerner would shake his head and lift for the glass of his wine, sipping a bit more freely now. "That, I accept, but I'm afraid it's the only one I'm allowing myself to accept tonight. The stakes are just too high." Still shaking his head, for it was quite a pity. All of it was. A night of disagreements, one that had to end with pity. "You couldn't just do one little thing for me, the tiniest favor. It'd make it all so much easier for everyone."

Did he think her capable of an easy option when there were any hundreds of other, far more harder ones to choose from? Likely not. He had, after all, an education.

[Carnath-Emory]

It should be like this. His laughter; hers. A smile shared between monsters, an easy conversation about difficult ideas. Riding their separate ways at the end of the night, to begin all over again the evening next. It should always be like this: an endless stalemate; a wordless agreement that murder pales next to this, that as a corpse on the floor, a stain on her sword, this man is wasted.

"Necessarily." But see: she's returned to his wine - no, the hand pauses upon the glass rim. "Would you amputate an arm to save a leg? I will not satisfy one part of me at expense of the other. No, I have a simpler solution. We fetch a bottle of cold jenever to our table. And then you will understand that all other wine is sublime."

Ah: her smile bleeds satisfaction, an excellent compliment to the warmth of his laughter, the chill of steel drawn taut against her wrist. Laughter suits him. Does he realise this? Perhaps it wouldn't matter to him even if he knew, this smiling stranger who's shared wine and a thing of distinct meaning with her, and yet remains anonymous in every practical way. In that matter, the swordswoman understands, their positions are quite reversed. But -

Oh. Oh. This intrigues.

"I'm not sure I have the generosity for favours." Some small, wry smile; it apologises. "But I'd like to hear this one."

[Glenn]

The man in black would meet her eyes once again. "I would." He allowed. Did that surprise her? The laughter still on his lips, even if it was no longer vocal. "A leg is worth more. I would sacrifice an arm to save it." Then a pause. Was that not exactly what problem solving was all about? Executing such actions and when necessary making such decisions. Necessity. "It's rather what I do, bella." And yes, it was exactly why he was here tonight.

"Though, perhaps.." the smile was pleasant enough. Oh yes, this was a man who knew exactly how good laughter looked upon his weathered features, who enjoyed the chance to flaunt it in his own, exotic foreigner way. Yet in that regard, he was holding back tonight. He flirted with barmaids and gypsies, with scribes and soldiers. Not with her, not now, not here, no matter how much he wanted to finish both of those bottles between them, and a few more on top, and to have an enjoyable night. It was that curiosity of hers, that spark. Damn Burnie and his discretion for holding back the key to those secrets. What made her, a woman of action, enjoy these words so much? He'd give very much to know, and yet he knew he'd never get the chance.

The smile weakened slightly. "A small thing, the easiest. Tomorrow morning, you rise, breakfast, enjoy some mild company perhaps, and then when you leave that door, you travel north, not south." Then, even the thought of being that mild company could not keep the smile on his face. "Bella," serious now. Not without emotion, but so serious nonetheless. "You will bring nothing but pain for everyone, yourself most of all. No good can come from this. Nothing good. Nothing that is for the best. Nothing that is necessary. Turn back. That you came this far could be our secret." She saw then, why the smile had faded?

[Carnath-Emory]

"And so you should," she's answered, and with as little hesitation as he. It's not the answer that surprises, but that he offers one at all, and see? That she's straightened a little in her seat; that she slightly leans, intent. "But better still to keep both, and find a different answer to your need. Retain your service to difficult choices if you must, but me - " Some edge of a smile, and the better glass raised in small toast. "Me, I prefer to keep what is mine, and address these choices' source. We are not wolves, to be baffled by steel traps. We are significantly more than that.

Although..." she allows, and 'Though, perhaps,' he offers, and this time the laughter is hers. "Although if no solution presents, if all is so completely lost - then we do what we must, I think. Yes?" Yes. "And after, we extract a cost which hurts."

These strange, strange moments. This very unlikely conversation, inexplicable from almost any angle at all. She should be gutted by now. She should be bleeding into this wine, caught in the arms of a smiling stranger who will gentle her collapse simply so that it draws no curious eyes. His laughter should be a racking gasp, his throat swollen by livid silver, his arms hanging useless by means of two delicate cuts: here - and here. Why not? His intent is clear, and she is no suicide to fall willingly before him. So that this is precious and inexplicable, and here she still smiles across a tabletop and wonders at wounded eyes. By rights, she should be silent as steel, cold and demanding, and the smile should have fallen from his lips long ago -

Ah. But now it has.

Such a small thing he asks. Just the tiniest favour.

Just a complete impossibility.

"I've made a similar request before ," she answers him after a time - easing back in her seat now, letting fingertips rest upon the glass she sets aside. "Once. Twice. You've said it more beautifully than I ever have." Small, wry smile. "Perhaps that's why they always refused.

Tell me something," after some moment's quiet thought; the pale eyes are steady upon his own. "Since we're speaking of favours. What do you imagine I intend, what could I possibly mean to do that will result in such hurt."

[Glenn]

His employer was the one who found another solution. He was exceptionally good at that, and if her attitude was as such, well, perhaps it was no large surprise that Glenn Burnie had turned out as he did, despite the world demanding otherwise. He was excellent at forging compromises, at coming up with unorthodox solutions. Giuseppe's solutions were very orthodox, very clean. This, this was an amazing exception. It should not be.

One straight answer after the other from him to her. What a luxury, that. One luxury after the other. Wine, excellent conversation, answers to questions. Even a pleasant offer to go along with his request.

It was a shame it all had to end so abruptly.

She asked a very direct question. She would receive no direct answer.

Instead, a small smile. That was something at least, no? And things she had not asked for at all. "Oh, bella. Ahhh." After another sip and a long exhale, he would speak on. It would have been so much nicer if she had taken it at face value, a personal favor. "An earthquake, fires, a poisoned lake. Myrken's faced these things in the last year. There was suffering, of course, but it was managed, contained, controlled. Not. Like. Before. A school is being built. A school. There. People have started to come to Myrken in search for a better life. And not in the usual way, not running from something."

Could he stop there? Everything was fine. Better than ever. No reason for her to go and see? No, of course not, or else maybe he would have led with that. "If you head south, you'll be the beginning of the end for all of it. You'll bring the darkness with you."

Was that enough? A simple fact, one said so surely. But this was to her, to a creature who was more curiosity than sense. Or reason. Or much else. They were too far into this now, and he would continue on. "There's a cost to giving Myrken something that it never had before. A huge cost." He'd meet her gaze again. His glass was empty and instead of bothering to refill it, he took from the Derry Red. It tasted especially bitter and flavored the words that followed. Giuseppe heard stories, yes. He had been educated and while his employer showed proper discretion after all these years, some things were simple matters of record.

The Ashfiend was one such thing.

"Everyday, without hesitation, without doubt, for the good of his people... every day Glenn Burnie defiles the most sacred of urns." Metaphor, a dangerous thing with Ariane Emory, but he would risk it. "Not for a moment does he question whether it is the right thing, for he knows it is the best thing. He knows it is necessary. And what is necessary, bella," for even to the end, he would choose to refer to her affectionately instead of saying her name, "is for you to turn around and head back."