Empty Things

[lionofthelight]

An empty box. A waste of wood, of gold, of effort. An empty box to fill a grave in which no body would ever rest. His mother and his sister could fill it with imagination and find closure in it, but not Zandros. Zandros knew exactly where his father’s bones would rest. And, Light, he hoped they were resting. That was a lie he could tell himself, at least. Resting — though not beneath sweet roses. Resting elsewhere, he could imagine, half buried in the mud. Resting, he hoped. Merely resting.

A golden medallion. Another worthless trinket. A gesture from the King to those who had braved the war and, against all odds, returned. A ceremony of a thousand men and women, and between them all half as many limbs as there ought to have been. The heavy pin on his chest would never be enough to balance the weight of a missing hand. It belonged in a drawer, he determined at once. Piled away beneath forgotten things. Buried.

He would never fight again. Even if his heart, his mind, his soul had wanted to — and, oh, how they desperately did not — his wound would always hold him back. Without his father, the burden of the family business would fall on him. All the better that he might occupy himself with something so quiet, he had thought, until he held a quill in his left hand and failed to write his own name.

And even his family name would fade. He was promised to a woman from a far-off place where he would surely be sent for the remainder of his days. Payment for their connection. And what of his old life would remain for him, then? What of the Alters? In a matter of years would they all be Durants? Consumed by a greater power, would they fade into obscurity?

A week passed by before Zandros could bring himself to return to his new family. After all, how could he face them as the wretch he had become? Would they comment on the way he wheezed? Would they stare at his stump? They would, certainly. They would focus on what had changed. They would ask after what was missing. And how could he tell them the worst of it? That the person they wanted to return — the one they would spare a thought for — had died to save him? Harrowheart had killed a dozen or a hundred good men that day only to save the one that he should have left to die.

When Zandros finally returns to the Nexus it isn’t in his typical finery. That morning when he’d bundled himself against the cold he found himself content in country beige and brown. It felt right, he noted as he made his way to Viatorus’ apartment, that no one should spare him a second thought. It was a sensation he’d never truly understood until he trudged through the snow with his shorn hair under a tweed cap and his stump arm hidden beneath the buttons of his jacket: Humility.

And he would need it in spades today.

In the late hours of the morning he knocks against the door of Viatorus’ apartment. It was the place he’d been when he’d last seen them. Where they’d last seen Harrowheart, he assumed. Remembering their last encounter with the death knight in the Nexus brought a chill into his soul. The glee that had warmed him as he’d heard him fighting the Durants now freezes his stomach. The memory of his joy turns to shame in his heart. What a demon he had been. What a loathsome man. All for a future he was no longer certain he wanted. Not certain he had ever wanted, really.

He knocks once more and hopes they might surprise him with their faces. He hadn’t warned them of his coming, he realized. Light, they might not even be home. If they didn’t show, would he have to face the Weatherhills instead? Would he have to be the one to tell them? He wasn’t sure he could bear that.

“Viatorus?” he calls. “Runa? I-... Isidor?” It's difficult to raise his voice, but he takes in a ragged breath and tries again, louder. “Is anybody home?”

Comments

[lionofthelight]

He thinks to reject her offer, but his words don't come as quickly as they ought to. Instead he pauses a moment and considers her proposition. Rest. A little rest in an environment where no one expects too much of him. A moment to himself -- even if he won't be conscious for it. Light, that might be a blessing.

"I-I suppose I could," he mutters. Yes. He nods. "I need it more than I would like to admit. Lead the way, Runa. I shall sleep awhile -- or close my eyes, at the very least. You may call the Durants. When they arrive, do not hesitate, but wake me at once. I shall be relieved to finally have the burden of my story lifted from my shoulders."

[volurofthehearth]

That answer is surprising, but a relief. She'd thought he might try to push himself, so the fact that he's allowing himself time to rest is unexpected, but good. She smiles and pats his hand. She shows him to the spare room that is designed with Isidor in mind, since she's the one who most often uses it. It's clean and ready to welcome him into a comfortable bed. Runa makes sure he has some biscuits and water on his bedside locker before she finally lets him be.

Cleaning up is a nice distraction, and she uses the excuse of not waking Zandros to slow herself down to an excruciating pace. Despite his request, she takes her sweet time in contacting the Durant siblings. She messages Viatorus first and waits for his delayed response before finally, slowly, messaging Isidor.

The patron is there within minutes.

"Where is he?" She demands, breaking the silence with something between fear and fury.

Runa, rushing out of the kitchen, shushes her as swiftly as she can. "He's sleeping!" Isidor's eyes jump towards the guest bedroom, but Runa puts a hand on her arm. "We'll wait for Viatorus."

Who arrives a moment later, having prepared himself as well as he possibly could. At least this time he has a shield to protect against the wave of emotions around him. Something he's grateful for the second he's in the same room as Isidor. Her jaw might be tightly shut, but her emotions are running wild.

"Right then." She turns to Runa. "Let's wake him up."

The völva gives her a stern look. "Be kind to him, Isidor."

That... actually chastens Isidor a little, the patron glancing downward with a light frown. They wait in silence while Runa knocks gently on the guest bedroom door. "Zandros," she calls softly, and then stronger, "Zandros? I wanted you to know that Isidor and Viatorus are here. Take your time to rest. Don't rush."

Don't rush. Isidor scowls at that, before folding her arms and trying to distract herself for what seems like an inevitable wait.

[lionofthelight]

Zandros was awake before the sound of Isidor's arrival, but more than sleep it was silence that he needed. A moment without servants or family or even friends to demand something of him or fret over him or -- Light, worst of all -- congratulate him. He can't leave the room and won't leave the bed, but despite his self-imposed confines, it's freeing. It's restful. Truly, it is.

But the sound of Isidor's commanding voice seizes him. If he didn't want to leave the room before, he's certain he doesn't now. But Runa's soft voice is calling him, and what comes next is a duty he must fulfill.

Still, he doesn't arrive immediately. He doesn't have to be an empath like Viatorus to know the emotional minefield he's about to enter.

When he finally leaves the room there's no hiding what's become of him. Without a coat to hide the shape of his arm it's plain to see where his limb abruptly ends in a knot of scars, seared by fire and forged of the malformed flesh from an intense and hasty healing spell. His hair is cut short, not unlike Harrowheart's, but uneven and wild.

His eyes fall on Runa first, and he finds it difficult to look away from the one person he knows will understand and support him. Next he looks to Viatorus, who, he expects, will at least not blame him for what he has to say. The hardest to confront is Isidor. He steals a glance at her, but hardly a second passes before his gaze falls from her face.

Unsure of what comes next, he says in a small voice, "Thank you all for coming. I suspect you all have questions..."

[volurofthehearth]

Now that she's gotten over the initial shock of his missing arm, Runa is all encouraging smiles. She guides him closer with gentle touches, hoping to encourage him into a seat. Viatorus almost immediately looks guilty at his obvious surprise. Meanwhile Isidor looks over him with an expression that's hard to read, although it's clear she's thinking something.

After the silence that follows Zandros' prompt, Viatorus nervously asks, "How are you?"

"What a stupid question," Isidor says, looking to her brother as if offended on Zandros' behalf.

Eager to put kinder words into the air, Runa swiftly turns to Zandros before Isidor has a chancer to ask any question of her own. "Our questions can wait. What do you want to share?"

[lionofthelight]

Zandros pales at Isidor’s outburst and keeps his eyes on the ground. Going to battle was difficult, but reliving it in front of the Durants feels so much harder. At least when he was on the field there was a chance he might change the end of that tale. Now that day is in the past, and there are neither words nor actions that can alter what transpired.

“We did not win the battle. We could not defeat the Forsaken, and we will never hold Lordaeron. It was...”

He presses his lips together and knots his brow. It’s anger that he feels now. Frustration and betrayal at the thought of it all.

“It was a pointless massacre, void of all honor and accomplishing nothing.”

With a ragged breath he raises his head and, determined in this moment to no longer be afraid, he looks between the three Durants.

“I have been maimed for nothing. My father died for nothing, and I can only pray that his body will rot rather than be twisted into some ravenous ghoul by Forsaken necromancy. And your friend, Harrowheart, whom despite it all I believe each of you loved, has been unmade... For nothing.”

The pain in his lungs is all that keeps his breathing steady. His cheeks red, his chest trembling, he sits in near-silence broken only by the rattle in his chest and the rawness in his throat.

[heirtothedragonsfire]

The three Durants stand in front of him like statues. As though his words have sucked all the air out of the room. What he says doesn't seem real. How could it? None of this has touched their lives in a tangible way. In a way they can reach out and feel. Apart from the maimed soldier in front of them it has only taken away, not brought anything. So they stand in varying states of disbelief, wrestling with their own inner monologues. Waiting for the air to return to the room.

Runa breaks the stillness first, stepping up to him and wrapping her arms around him tightly. "I'm so sorry," she whispers. "I'm so, so sorry."

Viatorus rocks on the spot, pale and nauseous, until finally he guides himself to a seat. His head is filled with water, with too many feelings and thoughts to process them all at once. So instead he sits quietly, hoping they wash over him.

With Runa embracing Zandros, and Viatorus staring at the floor, only the paladin can still see Isidor. Her head is still held high, stuck in its proud and determined position, but the pain in her eyes and her twisted features are unmistakable.

He's wrong. He must be wrong. This must be a trick, she thinks to herself. Is Harrowheart hiding, so that they can be together in peace? He can't be dead. He's already dead. She told him to return. He wouldn't go away and die. He wouldn't dare. Zandros must be wrong. He's lying. You're lying, she wants to scream at him, but no sound comes out. Her throat is petrified, unable to make a sound. Unable to plead, Please tell me you're lying.

[lionofthelight]

A touch from Runa isn’t unexpected. What surprises Zandros is that he finds himself returning her embrace automatically. Perhaps it isn’t proper, but for the first time in as long as he can remember he’s not sure he wants to maintain an air of propriety.

He looks up from the hug, then, and Isidor’s chilling gaze strikes him like a lash. He struggles against the sense of self-preservation that tells him to look away. In the end he maintains and finds the dignity to keep his eyes on hers. After all, to look away would be to admit guilt in a death he didn’t cause — but one which he nonetheless failed to prevent.

So perhaps he isn’t guilty, but that doesn’t mean there isn’t shame. Shame and disappointment, and, for once, empathy. A mutual pain in loss. His brows tilt and his lips press thin, but he doesn’t break his stare. She deserves to see it in his face.

It’s true.

[heirtothedragonsfire]

How badly she wants to scream, as if that would make him take his words back. The effort of staying still and silent makes her jaw tremble until she can't bear to look at him anymore. She can't bear to be faced with an unrelenting truth like this. So she looks away before he does, and steps into the kitchen. She needs a drink, and neither Viatorus nor Runa keep it anywhere convenient. Perhaps that's for the best. That way they can't see her hands shake as she pours herself a scotch, downs it, and then takes out glasses for the rest of them.

When Runa steps away from Zandros she's made a damp spot on her shoulder, and quietly wipes at her eyes with soft sniffles, Isidor returns and hands Runa a glass. Then Isidor presses another glass into Zandros' hand and meets his gaze. It's stony, but... not quite cold. If this is true, if it's really true, then she's glad he told her, rather than leaving her wondering and waiting. And when she steps away to get the drinks for herself and her brother she preoccupies herself with thoughts of how she might check. Will she need to scour the battlefield herself? Would she be able to scry for him...?

Those thoughts keep her steady. Ostensibly steadier than Viatorus who seems completely vacant until she forces the drink into his hands. At first he jolts slightly, shaken from his inner thoughts, and then murmurs a thank you and stares into the amber liquid.

After a minute of not drinking it he asks, "Do death knights get funerals?"

[lionofthelight]

Zandros trails Runa's retreat with a hand on her arm. Just as his fingers fall away he finds a glass in his grasp. He holds it tighter than he ought to and considers the contents for a lingering, quiet minute.

Maybe he will have that drink after all.

He fills the silence that follows with three increasingly long sips, and with that the glass is empty. Just as he sets it on the table, Viatorus speaks.

And what a question.

No, he wants to say. He isn't sure that's always true, but he's sure he's never heard of it. No, he stops himself from telling Viatorus. They find the spent bodies and grind them up for spare parts.

He catches himself staring, jaw clenched. His eyes dart to Isidor, but his gaze doesn't linger. He knows the answer he ought to give.

"I think the real question is... Does he?"

[heirtothedragonsfire]

Isidor's eyes shoot over to Zandros as if he'd just proposed something horrific, and then over to her brother when he speaks.

"He deserves one," Viatorus says glumly.

"We'll do something for him," Runa agrees as she tries her best to get herself together. "Not tonight, but we'll arrange something."

In the midst of all this grief, Isidor's fierce glaring could be taken as a more soft-hearted expression of pain, and Runa is certainly taking is as such. It's not, though, and Viatorus would know that if he could raise his eyes from the ground. The patron has to catch herself from squeezing her glass too tightly, lest it shatter. So instead she drains it and sets it down.

"I have work to do," she declares. It's the first thing that comes to mind to get her out of this hellishly restrained atmosphere.

Runa turns to Zandros. "You should stay with Isidor." And then to her sister-in-law. "He shouldn't be alone, and neither should you."

[lionofthelight]

Zandros nods almost imperceptibly for Runa.

"Work would be a relief," he mutters.

He looks to his fiance and nods once more, confident now with a new direction. "Whatever you need now, I shall endeavor to provide."

[heirtothedragonsfire]

That response startles Isidor and she frowns. Her eyes dart accusingly to Runa and then flit back to Zandros. She does her best to wrangle her expression into one of concern, but there's a terseness behind it. "Shouldn't you go home? Your mother, your sister... They'll want you close."

[lionofthelight]

Zandros sighs through his nose. "I'd rather be anywhere but. I may be a cripple, but I can't handle another moment of being treated like an infant -- and a heroic one, at that. No, none of that. Isidor, I..."

He bites the inside of his cheek and pauses for a grounding breath.

"There is no person, no attitude, I would prefer to be around in this moment than you and yours. Allow me to be of service in whatever way I might."

He glances to Runa, then to Viatorus, who he suspects won't notice anything Zandros were to do. He clears the gap between himself and Isidor and, quietly, just for her, whispers, "And we may speak of difficult things otherwise not fit for delicate dispositions."

[heirtothedragonsfire]

Well she can't begrudge him that. Wouldn't she feel the same way in his position?

"Fine." She sets down her glass and gets her PINpoint out.

"Take care of each other," she tells Runa and Viatorus, giving them both a serious look before turning to Zandros and holding up a palm. "When you're ready."

[lionofthelight]

Zandros places his hand in hers and nods. He's ready.

When they arrive he sharply inhales a ragged breath. It's always a jolt, using those things. He orients himself quickly and steps away to give her space. Unsure of what to do with his arm, he wraps it around his middle.

"I understand that you may not believe, or--" and this is the hardest part to admit -- "That you may suspect I had a hand in his demise. I would think the same, were I you. But I swear that is not true, and I meant it when I said I am here now to assist you in any way I can."

[heirtothedragonsfire]

Somehow her apartment feels colder than when she left it. Dull and more... empty. She's glad of him stepping away, and she continues to make that distance, stopping in front of the cupboard where the alcohol hides. Her fingertips touch the surface, steadying her, but she doesn't pour anything right now. She can't. Not around him. She can't scream or drown herself into a stupor while he's here.

Perhaps it's best. So that he can't see the clenching of her jaw when he echoes her thoughts. So that he can't see her bitterness and rage before she shuffles it back under her cool expression.

She looks over at him and folds her arms. "Then you can tell me how to confirm what you're saying. Tell me how to meet his commander, or find his body."

[lionofthelight]

Zandros balks at her requests. It's not as if he hadn't expected her to ask, but actually being confronted with those demands stalls his thoughts. He pats his palm to his chest and stammers pointlessly before he gets a grip and answers with the humility he's trying to practice.

"I don't know that I can confirm it," he admits. "His commander, if they yet exist, would be in Acherus -- and the living cannot enter. Were we to try, we would be lucky to merely be turned back. And his body -- is--"

He runs his hand through his chopped hair. It's still so jarring not feeling it curl through his fingers.

"Isidor, I... I do not wish to tell you how he died... But I will say that I saw his... Light, the right words don't exist. I saw his destruction, if you will. There could not be much left of him -- physically -- after what was done."

And then he hesitates. How can he console her after words like that?

"I do not know if it was painful, but if it is any consolation, I am certain it was quick."

[heirtothedragonsfire]

Not knowing is such a curse. One which every Durant rails against in some manner or another. Even to be left wondering how it is that he 'died' leaves her feeling nauseous and she has to swallow hard not to get stuck on that thought. Her eyes prickle as her mind instinctively tries to guess at whether Zandros means he was torn apart, exploded, crushed... No, no, she has to focus!

"Do you really know so little of me?" she asks, and tilts her chin up. "I will find out. You can help me or you can stand back, but I will find out."

"How are commanders in Acherus summoned? Or communicated with?" If she should avoid going there then maybe she can bring them to her. "I could scry for him, of course... Is the battlefield still dangerous?"

[lionofthelight]

Her defiance cows him. He looks to his feet.

"It is not that I know so little of you. Only... Perhaps I have unduly projected my own weaknesses onto you. There is pain in losing one you love to a sudden and senseless death, that much I know. And there is pain in being unable to say goodbye to their body. But there is comfort in it, too. I sought that comfort out. You, I see, would prefer to say goodbye."

His remaining hand fidgets with the bottom of his shirt. The stump of his right arm moves as if to do the same.

Eventually he recollects himself and looks up to meet Isidor's eyes.

"The battlefield is dangerous, and it will remain so for a generation, unless the dragonflights take pity on the land and deign to cleanse it of the blight. They did as much at the Wrathgate, but they were stronger then, and greater in number."

That second question is trickier. "I do not know how the knights are summoned. I am a man of a holy order, Isidor. And moreover, I would suspect they do not obey the beck and call of the living. But... I do know a death knight. The brother-in-law of a close friend of mine. And on the battlefield I was saved by a woman of their persuasion who seemed to know Harrowheart. Either of them may be able to tell us more. Though, if you can scry..."

[heirtothedragonsfire]

Comfort in inaction? It's definitely not Isidor's way. Doing nothing makes her feel helpless, which she can handle less than not knowing. Even more importantly: If she stops she might fall to her knees and scream until her throat is raw and... she can't. Not now. Not in front of anyone. Especially not in front of Zandros.

"They will listen to me or I will go to them for my answers." She tilts her head, eyes fixing on him so as to erase any notion of protesting. "Which I will have. One way or another."

"Now." She turns to face him properly. "Tell me everything I need to know. About your death knight contact, and the one who you saw on the battlefield. Tell me what happened. Everything."

[lionofthelight]

Zandros grimaces at her continued determination. But he did say he would support her, and by now he knows her stubbornness. There won't be any stopping her. The best he can hope to do is keep her from destroying herself -- or, maybe more realistically, others.

"Bartelby's brother-in-law... What more is there to know of him than that he is one of them? He is a reticent corpse named Ademar. We're obliged to invite him to gatherings because he is wed to Bartelby's sister. I have seen him many times but never held a conversation with him. I'm... Not entirely certain he does hold conversations."

His right arm starts to move, then abruptly stops. Zandros closes his eyes and grits his teeth. A few seconds later he scratches at his nose with his left hand. That's a habit he's going to have to build.

"During the battle..." He screws his eyes shut once more. He doesn't want to think about this...

"It was a woman," he says with a sigh. "With a bardiche runeblade. She looked very dead, and her throat had been torn out. We found ourselves together in a trench at the edge of the city walls. She saved me from Forsaken soldiers, then called out for Harrowheart -- by his title -- before running off. It wasn't long after that..."

He averts his eyes. She wants to know it all. She didn't just request it - she demanded it. But can he tell it all? So soon? Zandros catches himself staring and presses his lips together tightly before turning his attention back to Isidor.

"She must have been near when the worst of it all came. I doubt she made it out the other side, but if she did -- somehow -- she may be able to tell you more."

[heirtothedragonsfire]

He'll hold a conversation with me, Isidor thinks, and although her jaw twitches she manages to keep her confident raging silent. Zandros is right, though, all that matters is that he's a death knight, and one who might help. It's difficult to tell what tactics might work best against a strange death knight. He comes to family affairs, though, for his wife. There's something there. Something to work with.

At least she has one death knight that might be a pleasant enough experience. The same can not be said of the one Zandros describes next, his words getting a grimace as Isidor puts two and two together. True, perhaps there are many women death knights with grotesque throat wounds, but the Blightcaster would be worth tracking down either way. Or, even better, her night elf friend.

"I know her," she says once she's pushed the memory of the stench of rot out of her mind.

As much as she doesn't want to deal with that woman again, two leads are better than none. It's enough to relax her, at least. She has a goal again. A distraction.

When she turns to Zandros, she's significantly calmer, her hands folded in front of her. "When is the soonest we can speak with Ademar?"

[lionofthelight]

Zandros blinks in surprise when Isidor claims to know the dead woman. Somehow he hadn't considered that Harrowheart would have introduced her to his little friends. It leaves him a step behind when she asks to see Ademar, and he needs a moment for his mind to catch up.

"The soonest? Well, I should think it would be at least two--"

He stops short of ending that sentence and spends a silent second considering Isidor's face. There's the answer he wants to give, and then there's the answer he suspects she wants to hear. One of those realities is going to have to cede to the other, and, after some thought, he decides to cut out the inevitable dispute by telling her what she wants to hear.

"--morrow. Tomorrow. I can arrange for us to pay them a visit in their Redridge manor."

* * *

It's not long after the sun has risen in the Eastern Kingdoms that Zandros and Isidor arrive at the Alter manor. Lady Alter, still sleeping, misses their arrival. Only his sister and the help are awake at such an early hour, and only because duty calls. Zandros' sister swiftly conjures a portal for the pair, after which she's quick to return to her research -- conversation neither offered nor asked.

One moment it's dewy dawn in Elwynn, the next it's a sunny mid-morning in a flourishing garden property perched high on the ledge of a desert valley. Zandros and Isidor emerge from the portal in a white gazebo that's nearly pristine, apart from the red sand that clings to the corners and dusts the crevices all around. Zandros offers his hand to Isidor and leads her across a cobblestone walkway snaking through the lush grass of a planned and manicured garden. The grass is immaculate, lush and plush and oh-so-perfectly preened to an exact height. Short hedges guide them on their journey through the garden without being so tall as to block the splashes of color from the blooming springtime buds. Bees and butterflies drift from flower to flower while hummingbirds dart too quickly to see, visible only when they pause to sip at new nectar. Ahead, a teenaged girl crosses their path, skipping from stone to stone as she guides a tiny raincloud behind her, watering the grass and flowers in her wake.

If Isidor were to take her eyes off the garden, it would quickly become obvious how this place got its name. The manor they're approaching -- Tudor-style, not unlike the Alters' -- sits just out of the shade of the red stone walls of the Redridge valley. Bold rust-and-orange rocks are streaked here and there by white sediment, marbled not unlike a proper steak ought to be. Away from the manicured, human touch of the property, the desert walls are peppered with short, sharp palms and clusters of blooming succulents. High above, an absolutely massive condor circles effortlessly, propped up by a gust of warm wind.

But Zandros pays it no mind. He makes for the manor doors with haste. The fewer people see him, the better. His cabbie hat doesn't provide much anonymity, and his coat is already beginning to feel warm. The sooner he can enter, the better.

Arriving at the manor door, he moves his half-arm to knock and realizes only too late that he'll have to use his left. He looks to his shoes and reluctantly does so.

Almost immediately he and Isidor are invited into the home by a servant who, thankfully, makes no comment as he leads them to the lady of the manor.

They find her in the library eating a scone as she reads. She's dressed in Azerothian finery that wouldn't have been out of place in 19th century Europe. Despite her home's locale her skin is pale and her black hair falls in curls well past her shoulders. Off in the corner of the room, staring out an open window, sits a dark-haired man. He rests in perfect stillness as if he were a mannequin, one boot crossed over his crisply-pressed pants, his gloved fingertips motionless against the windowsill. Only his dark cape moves, now and again rustled by the breeze.

Beside him, a night-black zweihander reclines, not unlike its wielder, against the wall.

The woman looks up at the arrival of guests, disinterested until she sees exactly who's standing before her. In an instant she's on her feet and her heels are click-clacking over to her guests.

"Zandros! Darling! Oh, how I've wanted to see you!" There's something about her accent reminiscent of Harrowheart's, but decidedly more posh.

"Marsha," Zandros mutters. He pinches a smile just in time for her to put her hands on his arm.

"Bartleby told me everything. Such a dreadful affair, all of it. And Lord Alter... Our condolences, Zandros, truly."

Zandros opens and closes his mouth without making a sound. Marsha stares as if she expects him to respond, but after some lingering hesitation and a few more false starts she turns to Isidor.

"And this must be Isidor! How I've wanted to meet you! Lady Alter said you were just so ideal, and Mym spoke so highly of you! I've had all sorts of thoughts in my head about what you'd be like. And now here you are!" She folds her hands together and smiles as she takes in the sight of the mage. "Would you like a biscuit? Some tea? I'd just love it if I could keep you company while the gentlemen talk."

Off against the wall a lone blue light blinks.

[heirtothedragonsfire]

Isidor holds her gaze on Zandros while he hesitates, but it softens when he relents. She shows him to the spare room in her apartment before announcing that she needs to rest. Nobody will really believe that, but it gives her an excuse to go into her bedroom alone for some peace and quiet. The apartment, bar her locked study, is free and open to Zandros to explore. Perhaps that might even distract him from the sound of Isidor pacing back and forth in her room.

Eventually she lies down, and although she can't sleep, at least she has a plan to keep her thoughts off of less pleasant topics.

The next day she's dressed in black, a modest dress that stops below the knees and just shy of long sleeves. She only has time to appreciate the efficiency and speed of Zandros' servants and sister before she finds herself in an altogether different environment. For a moment she's distracted by her surroundings, but then Zandros' offered hand takes up her attention. It takes her a moment to accept it, but once she does it's with certainty. This way he might remain distracted from his lost arm which, in turn, might help him focus. These are hopes which are quickly dashed with Marsha's intense greeting.

Immediately there's a grimaced-smile and eyes that are a touch wide as she turns from Marsha to Zandros to beam 'You could have warmed me' directly into his head, and then smiles back at their host. How she manages not to twitch at the idea of leaving the 'gentlemen to talk' she doesn't know.

It takes a split second to reply as she composes herself into what she considers her best bet (without burning all the bridges she meets).

"What a kind offer, but..." She pauses and rests a hand on Zandros' arm, looking at him sadly before turning back to Marsha. "My dear Zandros has been through so much, I think he would benefit greatly from some gentle, familiar company. He needs all the kind care he can get. Biscuits and tea wouldn't hurt either."

It's at this point she puts a hand on Zandros' lower back and pushes him closer to Marsha while she steps bit by bit towards the man in the corner. "You'll do me this favour, won't you? I promise I'll do my best not to bore your husband..."

[lionofthelight]

My dear Zandros. Those are words that simply aren't meant to be said in Isidor's voice. But can he help it if the sound of it warms his cheeks just a touch?

"A-ah, yes. Splendid idea, my dear," he says. The smile that follows is a touch more genuine than the last. "A touch of tea would be a relief."

Marsha, at first visibly disappointed, quickly takes it all in stride. In a hushed and delicate voice she says, "People don't often want to speak to him. I'm sure he'll enjoy your company, even if he doesn't let on."

She smiles for Zandros and takes him by his hand to the round table near which she'd been sitting. As she pours him a cold tea and plucks perfect ice cubes from a lidded dish, Zandros watches Isidor approach the dead man. It's a good reminder that this is all an act. She's here for someone else, after all.

Ademar, however, doesn't pay her half as much mind. As Isidor approaches his runeblade flashes in a familiar pattern, a vertical dance of cyan light that stops abruptly when she comes within reach. Still, the man doesn't move. He stares out the window, his routine undisturbed by the presence of a guest.

Up close, Isidor can get a look at the man. He's an Egyptian-looking sort of fellow with large eyes and long lashes, a bold, curved nose, and a broad jaw. His wavy black hair is coiffed and slicked back, and his face is almost unblemished, apart from a rashy scrape across his cheek that is destined never to heal. His once-tanned skin has turned slightly bruisy-green, but unlike the Blightcaster he doesn't reek of putrid death. There is, however, a vague scent of blood in the air. Fortunately the breeze is enough to quell it.