Empty Things
Dec. 29th, 2019 03:53 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
lionofthelightAn 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?”
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?”
no subject
Date: 2020-03-16 06:53 pm (UTC)"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."
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Date: 2020-04-23 09:14 pm (UTC)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?"
no subject
Date: 2020-04-24 04:35 am (UTC)"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.
no subject
Date: 2020-04-24 09:54 am (UTC)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..."
no subject
Date: 2020-04-24 01:40 pm (UTC)"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.
no subject
Date: 2020-04-25 12:17 pm (UTC)Once she's turned to her true objective, the fake smile drops away and she allows herself the cool confidence she prefers. Her gaze lingers on the sword as she passes it, her eyebrows twitching upwards in a brief acknowledgement. When she reaches the death knight she folds her hands behind her back and waits a split second before speaking. From what little she's seen, death knights seem prone to either on constant action or extreme patience. So with this one she feels free to take her time as much as her eagerness will allow.
"Mister Ademar. A pleasure to make your acquaintance. I am Isidor Durant." She almost stops there but, remembering her official connection to this world, she adds, "I'm Zandros Alter's fiancée."
no subject
Date: 2020-04-25 01:18 pm (UTC)Isidor's introduction to the dead man is bold, confident. Still, it stirs no response. Reticent corpse, indeed. He doesn't blink, doesn't twitch, doesn't even shift his gaze in her direction. She may as well not exist. He remains rigidly staring out the open window, undisturbed by attempts at conversation by the fiancee of Zandros Alter.
At the table across the room, Zandros is attempting to cut a scone in half using only his left hand. With every near-slip Marsha's hands rush forward, then just as quickly she presses them to her knees. Zandros' cheeks are turning red as he fails to stand the scone on its side time after time. In the absence of any words from Ademar the room is filled only by the flopping of the scone, the tinking of a knife, and the almost-imperceptible huffs of Marsha, who may or may not be in physical pain watching it all.
no subject
Date: 2020-04-26 09:51 pm (UTC)She presses forward, trying to be less annoyed than she is. The dead may have all the time in the world, but she does not, so she proceeds with her usual forwardness. "I want to ask you a few questions about being a death knight, if you'd be so kind to answer... Do you know Harrowheart? Harrowheart the Converter?"
no subject
Date: 2020-04-27 04:14 am (UTC)"You ask about being a death knight." His words are tinny with the haunt of his second voice, so much more prominent than Harrowheart's. "And in the same breath, Harrowheart. The Converter."
His eyes drift down her frame, lingering a while on her upper arms before sliding up to her face once more.
"I suppose there is potential in your frame. He would gladly, I think, make you one of us. He might even be convinced to do it bloodlessly, for a..." Another long consideration, this one never leaving her face. "Mmh. A vain and well-bred woman fearing the blemish of age and death alike. If you do not mind, of course, being strangled."
Another bout of silence passes, but a tenseness lingers in Ademar's features. There's more he'd like to say, and many thoughts he forces to remain unsaid. In the end his urges get the best of him, and he says what he'd like -- or a shade of it, at least.
"If you would like an introduction made, begin by asking your fiance. He knows him well. I am sure he would be happy to connect you with his favorite novelty. His little party favor."
no subject
Date: 2020-04-27 02:32 pm (UTC)Somehow she manages to resist touching her neck, but she does lift her chin and clear her throat from an imagined obstruction while she lets him finish. Now is not the time to imagine getting strangled. Getting strangled by Harrowheart.
Hearing how Zandros treated Harrowheart drops her spirits like a lead weight and her expression hardens. Part of her wants to ask him to elaborate, but she can make a fair guess. Zandros is as close to her world as her parents could get. That's why they chose him, after all. Did Harrowheart even know what was happening? She can see his face on some poor fool in some hazy memory of hers being poked and prodded like an animal being tricked into dancing.
Arms fold in front of her in an attempt to hide the way her hands have balled into fists. "My fiancé is under the impression that Harrowheart died at the fight for Lordaeron. Battles are chaotic, so I'd like to confirm things for myself. Would you be able to help me with that?"
no subject
Date: 2020-04-27 03:39 pm (UTC)"I have known Harrowheart from the day he earned his magic. He and I, we are practitioners of the same art. I fuse battered bodies into constructs. He creates more of our kind, allowing our order to continue. His innate talent is too important to lose. It ensures our people a future. If he was killed, and if any scrap of his body remains, I am certain the other knights would have gathered him up and taken him to Acherus. The necromancers there would reinvigorate his corpse. If they were to do so, I would suggest you put out of your mind the thought of retrieving any debts from him. He would likely lose any recollection of his former existence."
Unable to resist the inextricable pull of the window, Ademar once again turns his attention to the world outside the manor.
"None of his parts have come to me for recycling. Though... Mmh." His eyes narrow and he turns with an uncharacteristic swiftness to face his blinking zweihander. He stares at it with a tilted head, as if to listen closely.
"I see," he finally whispers, then looks to Isidor once more.
"Half of his blade was sent to the forgemasters for repurposing. The other half appears to be missing. A troublesome fate, to be isolated from itself. Starving by now, I am sure."
no subject
Date: 2020-04-29 01:05 pm (UTC)It's easier thought than done.
"Does..." She swallows her concern down and raises her chin again. "Does that mean he's dead or they haven't found his body yet?"
no subject
Date: 2020-04-29 04:22 pm (UTC)"Twenty? Twenty eggs this season?" she balks.
A humble laugh from Zandros. "Yes, well. Never count your gryphons before they hatch."
Ademar speaks, and they fade once more into the background.
"A remarkable level of interest not lost on me, Miss Durant. Know, then, that I take no pleasure in telling you that it is not a matter of 'yet.' If his body has not already been recovered, it will not be. Not in a mortal lifetime. For you to ask, I must assume that your bloviating fiance no doubt neglected to inform you of the conclusion of the battle?" He shakes his head.
"The entirety of the city and the battlefield at large have been blighted beyond even the deads' capacity to survive. If his body has not been returned to Acherus, then his bones will rest in Tirisfal until long after your final days."
no subject
Date: 2020-04-30 05:50 pm (UTC)The serious expression is really only because all her attention is on her knees and her diaphragm. One wants to buckle, the other wants to heave when she's told, yet again, that Harrowheart is dead. It's the cold, dead certainty that does it. The uncompromising reiteration of what everyone is telling her.
And then the storm twists and her blood runs hot even as her stomach is sick with sorrow. She has to swallow and take a deep breath to speak, but she does, and she takes her time with it.
"You don't know me, Ademar," she says, trying very hard to remain casual, non-confrontational. Factual in the way of the Archon. "But when I find an answer to what I'm seeking, I expect it to be certain beyond a shadow of a doubt. I cannot accept your word as truth until I hold his bones in my own two hands."
"So. In your opinion, what would be the best way to go about that?"
no subject
Date: 2020-04-30 11:43 pm (UTC)"Such a resilient spirit. Potential indeed."
He turns his attention one last time to the window, and finally he nods.
"In this moment, I see two options. The Battle for Lordaeron was not the first time the Forsaken deployed their chemical plague. The same was done at the Wrathgate. That land would still be toxic had the red dragonflight not intervened. Lord Alter holds sway over the red drake Mymrahstrazsa. If you could convince the beast to take you to Tirisfal, its fire may be able to clear the field -- for a short time. You could search the ruins for a sign of him. The missing half of his runeblade, perhaps, if nothing more. Or..."
His lips press tightly together and his brow furrows. What he's about to say next requires some thought.
"If you are as careful as you are steadfast, you could enter Acherus in search of his body. You may even be able to recover his weapon before it is reforged. But know that this decision should not be made lightly. The living are forbidden in the necropolis for their own good as well as ours. To enter and remain unnoticed would require an exceptional illusion, an iron will, and a strong stomach. Should your true nature be discovered you would be executed.
"Consider your course, Miss Durant. Should you wish to enter Acherus, return to me this evening. I can secure your passage and escape through my own deathgate. However, if you are captured, or if you are pursued beyond the necropolis, I must warn you... I will disavow you, and I cannot advocate on your behalf."
no subject
Date: 2020-05-02 01:50 pm (UTC)Isidor is quiet as she considers her options, though she knows her decision before Ademar finishes his warning.
"I would expect nothing less," she assures him. This isn't the first time she's asked someone to put themselves on the line for her, and it's only good business not to throw them under the bus out of spite. That's how you ruin a reputation.
She levels her gaze at him, looking him in the eye as directly as she can when staring into glowing lights. "I'll take you up on your offer, and do my best not to put you in a precarious position. If it helps ease your concerns, this wouldn't be the first time I've waded through living corpses to get what I needed."
Straightening again, she folds her hands in front of her. "Is there anything I should bring with me? Or wear? Or do to prepare?"
no subject
Date: 2020-05-02 02:51 pm (UTC)"A woman of business," he muses, and though his tone has hardly changed there is approval in it.
"Bring a weapon," he's quick to suggest. "Bladed and runeless. Say you intend to make it your new blade. This may help you secure entrance to the forge. Wear a suit of armor. And hide your living scent. When you return to me this evening, if your guise is sufficient, I will furnish you with a tabard of the Ebon Blade."
Then, slowly, he shifts in his seat until Zandros, facing away from the two of them, is squarely in his gaze. Across the room, Zandros is overcome with a shiver. He laughs uncomfortably and takes a hurried bite of buttered scone. Marsha, who sees this, looks to her husband. Her eyes sparkle with fondness and she fights away a smile. Isidor gets a polite wave, and then she's back to conversing with Zandros.
"Take that thing with you," Ademar drones. "If nothing else, he will make an effective sacrifice in a hasty escape."
no subject
Date: 2020-05-02 03:22 pm (UTC)"Why Ademar, how could you suggest such a thing? He is my fiancé," she drawls back. It's reflexive. Drily making the most meagre of protests is both for amusement and social protection. An age old method of truthfully being able to say she voiced offence at the suggestion.
"A blade I can do, and armour." Turning back to the corpse, she wonders what constitutes a 'living scent'. Perhaps delving into ancient oils used for embalming would help. Frankincense instead of 'bright bouquet' or 'shower fresh'. "He uses the Light. They won't be able to sense that in Acherus, will they? It doesn't cling to the skin or anything, does it?"
no subject
Date: 2020-05-02 04:36 pm (UTC)Joking aside, he needs a moment to stew on the questions that follow.
"We do sense the Light's irksome itch. As for a solution... My suggestion would be to smear him in his own blood. The Light-infused blood of the living is a powerful thing. Its scent will attract attention, but a paladin's blood on a dead man is its own explanation and excuse. Now, good luck getting that brave lion of the Light to bleed..."
no subject
Date: 2020-05-06 12:04 pm (UTC)Turning, she goes to rescue Zandros, the odd almost-sweet smile returning for Marsha's sake. "Zandros, we have a few errands to run." For their host she does her best to appear earnest. "I'm sorry we couldn't stay longer. Thank you so much for having us."
It takes a few more pleasantries but eventually they extract themselves from the house. Once they're back in Isidor's apartment the mage breathes a sigh of relief. She pauses, considering Zandros gently for a moment, then says, "Thank you. For keeping her preoccupied. Speaking with Ademar helped immensely."
Then with a deep inhale, she sets her hands on her hips. "We're going to Acherus." Before he can protest, she presses forward. "Tonight. Ademar is going to help us. I have an idea for your disguise, but I have to prepare to make myself more convincing. Do you have any preparations you want to make? Bearing in mind you won't be going in slinging Light around there."
no subject
Date: 2020-05-06 03:05 pm (UTC)In Isidor's apartment, Zandros, dramatist that he is, audibly gasps.
"Isidor, you must be..." He scrunches his eyes closed, clenches his fist, and presses his lips into a thin, white line. He's trying very hard not to doubt her, and even harder not to talk back, but this...
Finally he takes a slow, measured breath. Grounded once more, he very delicately tries, "You must be aware of the danger?"
It's fruitless, isn't it? He sighs, runs his hand through his short-cropped hair.
"My will is already penned. I cannot imagine a more fitting preparation. All I ask is that you not leave me with them. Alive or dead."