Trespassing
Aug. 31st, 2018 02:46 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
lionofthelightThe black eye will remain, at least for a few days. Even the Light can't unspill blood. And though it can fix Zandros' likely broken nose and the split skin of his knuckles, it can't do a thing for his bruised pride. To have so thoroughly embarrassed himself in public and now be left sitting on a fence with only in the company of the dead...
But company nonetheless, and a sympathetic ear at that. It had been at first unsettling to have a corpse's arm behind his neck and a handless wrist dangling down near his chest, but the strangeness of unliving company was soon wearing off. The crawling sensation of the dark magic that animated him perhaps less so, but Zandros found it an acceptable if slightly sickening distraction. He'd rather gooseflesh from necromancy than the dishonor of his earlier deeds.
Harrowheart is the first to speak. "I know it's a hard lesson to learn for guys like us who come from Azeroth, but here in this place you can't just go tryin' to fight folks you don't like."
"Strange words from a death knight, but who am I to argue?" Zandros says, testing the mood with a hint of an uncertain smile. "You know this plane better than me."
Harrowheart laughs. The sensation of a cold, muscular arm slipping off his shoulder is like feeling a snake crawl down his body and Zandros tries to hide his shivery grimace by growing his smile.
"Nah," Harrowheart corrects. "I just know these people. They ain't the violent type. Most of 'em come from pretty peaceful places. Their worlds ain't like ours."
"That is what brings us together, then, you and I. A shared culture -- and misison, perhaps," Zandros considers aloud. "We are a two-man Ashen Verdict."
Another single laugh from the death knight who shakes his head now. "Wouldn't know what that's like."
"Truly?" Zandros asks in surprise.
"Really," Harrowheart says, smiling guiltily.
"I've learned something new about you, I suppose," Zandros mutters, now looking off into the middle distance.
He's quiet with his thoughts a while as he folds and readjusts his hands on his lap a half dozen times in a minute. Eventually his eyes drop down to them and to the rail on which the two sit and he quietly admits, "I have quite a lot to learn about you. All of you. And Isidor more than any other."
He looks to the dead man, who's looking back at him with silent expectation.
"That is why I did it. Hurt her -- your? -- friend, the captain. It's more stress than I had thought it might be."
Harrowheart's head tilts and his eyes narrow. He doesn't follow, but he won't admit as much.
Zandros' smile returns, though pinched with discomfort now. "To be an intruder in everyone's lives," he explains. "To have arrived in the middle of a story half-told, having none of the facts and no companion at my side who might guide me. Even Isidor, who I had thought might be that influence... There is a distance between us."
He sighs and begins to shake his hanging head. "I feel as if I am a burglar stalking through the halls of her life, stealing the rare gem that I can pry from locked and treasured boxes. I fear I may never be welcomed into a heart whose ways are otherwise closed."
Something in Zandros' words twist up the pale face of his dead company. Confusion, Zandros thinks at first, until he sees the flitting eyes running over him and the tilted brows and he knows at once it's pity. Pitied by the dead. He's had better evenings to be sure.
He expects to hear the death knight speak, but no words come. Only that cold and heavy arm behind his neck once more pulling him closer to be held. An icy sigh comes as a foggy flow of steam and blows away to nothingness in the warm air of summer.
But company nonetheless, and a sympathetic ear at that. It had been at first unsettling to have a corpse's arm behind his neck and a handless wrist dangling down near his chest, but the strangeness of unliving company was soon wearing off. The crawling sensation of the dark magic that animated him perhaps less so, but Zandros found it an acceptable if slightly sickening distraction. He'd rather gooseflesh from necromancy than the dishonor of his earlier deeds.
Harrowheart is the first to speak. "I know it's a hard lesson to learn for guys like us who come from Azeroth, but here in this place you can't just go tryin' to fight folks you don't like."
"Strange words from a death knight, but who am I to argue?" Zandros says, testing the mood with a hint of an uncertain smile. "You know this plane better than me."
Harrowheart laughs. The sensation of a cold, muscular arm slipping off his shoulder is like feeling a snake crawl down his body and Zandros tries to hide his shivery grimace by growing his smile.
"Nah," Harrowheart corrects. "I just know these people. They ain't the violent type. Most of 'em come from pretty peaceful places. Their worlds ain't like ours."
"That is what brings us together, then, you and I. A shared culture -- and misison, perhaps," Zandros considers aloud. "We are a two-man Ashen Verdict."
Another single laugh from the death knight who shakes his head now. "Wouldn't know what that's like."
"Truly?" Zandros asks in surprise.
"Really," Harrowheart says, smiling guiltily.
"I've learned something new about you, I suppose," Zandros mutters, now looking off into the middle distance.
He's quiet with his thoughts a while as he folds and readjusts his hands on his lap a half dozen times in a minute. Eventually his eyes drop down to them and to the rail on which the two sit and he quietly admits, "I have quite a lot to learn about you. All of you. And Isidor more than any other."
He looks to the dead man, who's looking back at him with silent expectation.
"That is why I did it. Hurt her -- your? -- friend, the captain. It's more stress than I had thought it might be."
Harrowheart's head tilts and his eyes narrow. He doesn't follow, but he won't admit as much.
Zandros' smile returns, though pinched with discomfort now. "To be an intruder in everyone's lives," he explains. "To have arrived in the middle of a story half-told, having none of the facts and no companion at my side who might guide me. Even Isidor, who I had thought might be that influence... There is a distance between us."
He sighs and begins to shake his hanging head. "I feel as if I am a burglar stalking through the halls of her life, stealing the rare gem that I can pry from locked and treasured boxes. I fear I may never be welcomed into a heart whose ways are otherwise closed."
Something in Zandros' words twist up the pale face of his dead company. Confusion, Zandros thinks at first, until he sees the flitting eyes running over him and the tilted brows and he knows at once it's pity. Pitied by the dead. He's had better evenings to be sure.
He expects to hear the death knight speak, but no words come. Only that cold and heavy arm behind his neck once more pulling him closer to be held. An icy sigh comes as a foggy flow of steam and blows away to nothingness in the warm air of summer.