DEATHCHEATER

𝐈𝐒𝐄𝐔𝐋𝐓 𝐑𝐀𝐘𝐍𝐄 | 𝐇𝐄/𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐘 | 𝟑𝟓 | 𝐅𝐑𝐄𝐄𝐋𝐀𝐍𝐂𝐄 𝐀𝐒𝐒𝐀𝐒𝐒𝐈𝐍 ❛ all I have is my arrogance. i will teach it to lean back and smoke a cigarette in your faces, and you should be so lucky. ❜ —mohja kahf

[iseultrayne]

❛ SON OF THE UNDERWORLD. TATTOOED WITH DEATH’S TALLYMARKS. FORTUNE’S FOOL FOR THE COIN FLIP ❜ 

↳ 35 yrs / he/they / portrayed by mahesh jadu

written by ishmael. 21, they/them pronouns, est.

ABOUT  ✴  APPLICATION  ✴  SKELETON  ✴  MUSE TAG

[iseultrayne]

patricecheron​:

Iseult is cautious, and Patrice cannot blame him. It is a good thing to have in this city - he would be a hypocrite for taking offense to Iseult’s lack of trust, for Patrice also finds difficulty in trusting most of those in Val Faim. He certainly does not yet trust Iseult, but he at least acknowledges the potential for respect that has begun to bloom like whatever sort of yeast they consumed in their drinks. 

Iseult buys the story easily enough, and it is something Patrice does not give a second thought to, for it is, at least in part, the truth. He does not speak of blackmail to a man he does not know, nor does he yet trust. He does not utter the allegiances he is forced to have towards a man he cannot stand. There is always the hope that if he tells someone as dangerous as Iseult, that Alain would easily be taken care of. There is always the fear that someone as dangerous as Iseult could have the same allies Patrice is forced to call his own, and punish him for his wayward tongue.

“I left Val Faim when I was barely a man; you’ll have to excuse my lack of knowledge surrounding its freelance dealings,” Patrice admitted. It was a bit of give and take, to tell Iseult something about himself in the hopes that he would receive something in return. It was harmless information he was offering, though - anyone in Val Faim could tell you the story of the noble who ran away from all the good he had when he was just reaching adulthood, and one could infer what he has or has not known about this city in his absence. But despite his lack of knowledge of Val Faim’s underworld, people are often similar around the world (or, at least, those who are not caged songbirds like most of Val Faim’s denizens were), and he could read Iseult’s expression clearly: he would give up nothing of value so easily. Perhaps they need more drink.

Patrice lifted his in response before finishing the contents. “Pageantry is all people care about here. Paint anything to look like gold, and it will sell,” he comments bitterly.

"Please," a gloved hand lifts placatingly. "And I arrived when I was barely one," Iseult muses in a tone that suggests I'll forgive it. A meeting of this give and take.

The captain drains his drink and finds a bitter remark at the bottom. Of all things, it pulls a delighted snort from the freelancer. Iseult raises his own tankard in response. "Oh, I like you," he remarks wryly before he downs it in turn. Give and take, as it were. Whatever the complaint, Patrice would find a willing ear here. Spite was becoming of the ex noble.

Perhaps they needed more drink. The Freelancer corroborates as much when his coin foots the following round. Then another after. And so on.

Somewhere in the dregs of the latest, the pointed chatter has devolved (or bloomed, rather) into carousing. The give and take of information becomes the give and take of tales. When Iseult's turn in the order comes 'round, he details a run-in from a hazy youth; of all the things an unlikely pair might share, theirs is an early propensity for trouble in Val Faim's higher quarters. In this particular jaunt, the young bruiser loitered 'round the wrong house in Hightown, and was set running from the guard he'd made an enemy of.

The next turn of phrase earns Iseult a hearty clap between the shoulders mid-sip— he nearly spews his drink. "—easy, there," Rayne rasps with a snicker as he digs an elbow into Patrice's side, "what, trying to finish the job? I'm sure that guardsman will thank you."

[iseultrayne]

giseleduval​:

Where: The Summer Palace’s Library. When: The Third Of Maccius. Who: @iseultrayne

There’s no place in the city where solitude is finer and company is more disagreeable than the library, and yet still Gisele finds herself here on a social call of all things. If that does not speak to her desire for this endeavour to work out, she cannot imagine what would. 

It’s been years since her last encounter with Iseult, long enough ago to feel like an acquaintance from another lifetime. Back then, the world seemed somehow more plaint, easier to categorize into the rigid black and whites of morality she relied on. Although she’s yet to embrace the middling mercy of grey, still quick to sort people and events into strictly good and strictly bad, day by day and drip by drip she eases into the idea. At the very least, she’s moved death from black to grey and violence from an inadmissible terror to a fact of life. This realignment brings with it retroactive complications; She no longer fancies herself above brutality, she certainly doesn’t startle from fresh blood like she once did, and her prior overreactions now seem callow at best. 

Gisele isn’t proud of how she terminated her brief friendship with them, isn’t proud that she’s never found the time to repair things, and particularly isn’t proud of the fact that this current attempt at revival is not sourced from exclusively honourable reasons. It almost feels like some cruel irony to find they’ve been held up in the palace for work, comically close by. They’re not even particularly hard to track down when she does arrive to seek them out amoung the books.

Though Gisele is almost sure they’re aware of her arrival before she’s even spotted them, she still breaks the silence with a theatrical clearing of her throat, like a play actor yet to learn less is more. “I believe after all these years you still owe me five dor,” Gisele begins, pleased she’s managing a game sort of wryness, “Now, seeing as I didn’t much afford you the chance to pay it back, I won’t be charging interest.” It’s clear she isn’t totally sure how she should be playing this yet– wanting to draw up closer yet careful to leave a buffer of space between them, and giving a look that, while not free of her usual calculating estimations, is a great deal warmer than one would expect from her. “But I’m afraid this can’t be put off any longer. I must insist we set things right.”

Iseult resides where they tend to on slow afternoons such as this: draped against a windowsill, back to the frame and elbow propped on one knee— the other hand leafing mindlessly through a tome they're only somewhat reading. Eyes occupied by the odd few sentences as they keep tabs on their charge, where he Savatier studies at a long, polished wood table.

Gisele's clearing of her throat is met with theatrics of Iseult's own. He cranes his neck to pry his gaze belatedly from his mixed task, as if only now taking note of the figure whose arrival he'd marked since she'd first set foot through the threshold.

"And here I thought it was a gift," comes a drawl as haughty as anything. Only a light mocking, for all the feigned disgust of a well-bred noble drops away in the next moment. The warm look is returned— as much as the half mask the freelancer wears will allow (a half-eaten green apple poised by their book — a sin, surely, though the Librarian lets it slide in this domain). Lips pull into a crooked grin. "Five dor, you said? I could swear it was three." A substitute for a hello, Gisele, how have you been? —since you dropped the underworld’s ilk like a wormed apple, I mean. A declaration of the gesture that follows: one dor slipped from their pocket and rolled between the knuckles before they flick it off the thumb toward her. "Half now, half later?" (and the math shrinks again). "I'm good for it," they lament wryly "I swear." Now. The book is set aside before their posture snaps upright and they slip off the windowsill, straightening to more properly address Duval. “You want something,” they guess, though it’s hardly a shot in the dark from what they recall of their brief association. Then, in good humor, add “other than my dor, of course?”

[iseultrayne]

sidoniedupont​:

“Is that all?” Sidonie parrots as she fires off another, the wide grin that splits her lips belying her jeering tone. The projectile is weak, the soil pressed together just enough to slice through the air in its determined shape; when it shatters against the flat of Iseult’s blade, it is her turn to loose a genuine chuckle as he’s dusted in damp soil and dirt.

“I hope you didn’t have anywhere to go after this, bodyguard,” she says, giving him and his cuirass a quick once over. She tuts and shakes her head—the embodiment of faux disapproval, if there ever was one—before setting her feet to loose another manipulation of the earth underfoot. “What would Savatier have to say after you tracked dirt into their immaculate library, hm? Or better yet, what would Her Imperial Majesty say?” It is not often that Sidonie gets to tease and it is even less often that she finds someone with the dexterity necessary to stay on par with her magical tricks and abilities; Iseult Rayne has quickly become both an enjoyment and a person whom she looks forward to seeing. 

With a soft grunt, Sidonie produces a batch of larger projectiles from the ground and sends them Iseult’s way; larger in both size and weight, they don’t whiz through the air as quickly as the first round did, and she is curious to see how he reacts.

"Oh, only to the hall of rare books. Answer me this," Iseult parries her teasing with theatrics of his own, "do blackened fingerprints pair with priceless tomes? Or should I clean them on the her majesty’s hall curtains first?"

As Sidonie sets her stance, Iseult strafes, readjustments to challenge her aim.

"The Imperial Librarian? Her Imperial Majesty? They would say why thank you, Iseult," they reply as the next volley wrenches from the earth and sails toward them. A grunt of their own as they carve through the lead with a reverse gripped blade, and then twist between the following two. At the peak of their momentum, they carve their blade through the softened mound underfoot then twist the flat of it, sending a makeshift shovel-full raining toward her. 

"—They would say," Iseult snickers, "—the place was in need of a freshening up." Much like her garb, which he aims to enact revenge upon as he sheaths the blade to scrape the damp earth from his cuirass, ball it, and playfully whip it after.

[iseultrayne]

ircnclad​:

“𝐒𝐈𝐌𝐏𝐋𝐄 𝐀𝐍𝐃 𝐓𝐎 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐏𝐎𝐈𝐍𝐓. I need discretion and I need intelligence. Under oath, pain of death and whatever gods you wish to invoke, no amount of gold, information or threat will ply my request from your lips.” The moonlight glints off the both of them, shadows in conversation. Dealing with assassins and scoundrels has always been a necessity in her line of work, the double-dealings and backstabbers the background symphony of Val Faim’s daily goings-on. Sensitive information passed between them, and one wrong move, or one paid handsomely, the Guild would flock to it like flies on a cadaver.

The spirits of death moved about them under the glare of the moon, the way that they haunted Helene’s dreams, silence under the veil of sleep. Perhaps that is what made them so feared within the circles of the Dark Court, what made them be one of the better people that thrived upon the shadows of the Game, but she does not need to speculate. Only forge a contract.

Her back stands tall as she continues, her cards clear on the table as assassin to employer. It is simple, too simple to do anything and expect that she is not watched, but she has buried too many people for that to be the case, for none of her secrets to come to light. She may be old, but Helene was no fool. “I will pay, no doubt about that, and payment is… substantial. Whether it will be in dor or influence, you will not be disappointed. Are these terms amenable to you, my dear, or will we have problems?”

Iseult can picture it now. The twist of the blade, the flash of the dor— and Iseult is seldom one to balk at simple and to the point offers, however scarlet stained the seal on them. Seldom one to look too closely at their teeth. No, he simply nods. Turns his chin up a fraction in interest. Despite his first pass at pickiness, there's no masking all that's peckish in him. All that hungers on a tongue to which the word 'enough' is foreign. 

Under oath, pain of death, gods. Iseult fancies himself bound by the first alone. And only because he wills it; this, an explanation more agreeable to him than the ever-honest ‘because it's Farrow’. Only the fool cheats Farrow. Though there's hardly desire to, on his part, no— he wants to see where this goes.

You've come to the right place," Iseult rasps, dipping their head in a committal nod. "Your terms. They'll do." And so, under cover of night, under the silvery moon in the Quartier D'argent, they forge a contract. Amidst the monotony of protection detail, the odd side gig is a return to trusted form. "What is your request?"

[iseultrayne]

patricecheron​:

savaticr​:

[continued.]

a sidelong glance, perhaps a bit nervous, before they’re weaving through patrice’s crew to knock on the door of the captain’s quarters. the door opens, and he sags with relief he does not realize he’d been waiting for, smile faint. “patrice.” imagines the solemnity of the situation is written clear across his face, and he makes an attempt at brevity, voice light as if he speaks of the weather. “you might have heard there’s been an attempt on my life.”

—

Patrice could sense the shift in the air the moment Savatier and Iseult arrived. It seemed his crew could feel something was off, as well, all on edge at the sight of Iseult’s body language, with the exception of Paget, who seemed to visibly keep her cool. She gave a silent nod of greeting as the pair picked their way through the crowd, while the rest attempted to go back about their business and not acknowledge the change aboard the deck, unsure what was different and almost afraid to find out, all while their captain sat, awaiting what he believed would be a night of little worry, just carnal pleasure and perhaps some sharing of many of the maps they’d yet to get around to glancing at together.

The door was left slightly ajar, and as Savatier and Iseult entered, the air turned Patrice’s easy, anticipating posture into a more serious one, despite the small smile he presumes Savatier is trying to reassure him with. He’s about to ask what is going on before the subject is broached easily from the librarian’s lips. “No,” he replies incredulously, looking from Savatier to Iseult, as if in their expressions he could find the detail he sought. “I hadn’t heard of this at all.” Surely, there was no implications that he or his crew were involved, right? He simply hoped the subject would not tur to that, but he prepared himself, standing so his eyes could better meet theirs.

“When was this? Who was this? Because I’m assuming you’re approaching me with this because the matter is taken care of, yes?” He asks. The concern is genuine, a surprising thing from a man who has acted nothing but cold within this place - nothing but cold to most, with the exception of Savatier standing before him. Perhaps he would blame it on sounding too close to curiosity, and it is that nature that they share. Perhaps he would not speak of it at all.

—

The librarian's sidelong glance is met with a nod of affirmation. It's all right, Iseult communicates in movement alone. He escorts them through the fray of prying eyes, to the quarters of the only stare that matters for the moment. They're to brief the Captain of the dangers come and gone. The Librarian is to Relive the ordeal. It falls to the Guard, then, to fill in where needed. To mend the tapestry should it fray. Stranger and stranger, he thinks, that his work of late is preservation. It's a far cry from execution. It weighs quite differently in the hands.

"The matter is taken care of," Iseult's voice parts the air, not unlike some evenings on this deck prior— when his paring knife had parted an apple's rind. It’s habit, then, the way he carves the fruit of this matter in three, a part for each of them in kind: "an assassin sought him at his studies. I dispatched them, and raised the proper attentions. It's to you, now, to do with this as you will." I will not keep you.

[de-morte]

I never expected to touch so much of death and live.

Channing M (via de-morte)

[iseultrayne]

deslisle​:

She hate to give up her hand, speaking so freely about how there is a certain layer of protection that comes when standing next to Iseult Reyne. But she is not one to be made a fool of, anger and annoyance bubbling up at each little snide comment.

“Odeline above,” she groans, cutting him off as he begins to give her some advice. She loathes being spoken to as if she doesn’t know what she’s doing, as if she just prattles around until she happens to find something to pocket. “Quit being so full of yourself.” she snaps, glaring at them as they chuckle at her. “Wish someone would knock you down a peg or two, you’re not someone to look up to.” Even if he is better than me, she ruefully muses.

“Most everyone is off drinking their asses off, if anyone of importance were here and overheard, we’d both know you’d take care of it.” she finally admits with a shrug, trying to push force the notion of nonchalance. She is usually much better, far more poised when it comes to dealing with those around her but Iseult strikes dear and true to her each and every time they have the honor of seeing another. “Whatever, don’t tell me your palace secrets. Cyril’s pretty busy these days with the festivities, it may be best to scuttle back to your home and pick a new mask out than wait around for her when she has far better things to do. Can’t let anyone see that little face, can we?”

Odeline above, she says, and he looks up as if to see the divine there himself. Quit being so full of yourself. The head snaps back to her. He's never needed a visible smile to betray his own amusement, certainly not when he says "If I do that, I'm afraid I'll starve." As for the knocking down a peg, "give it enough time, and you may well be the one to do the honors."

Cyril is busy indeed, and though scuttling back is in order, Iseult is loathe to let Beau think it by her decree. "We can't," the freelancer agrees. "Not anyone who would use it against me," is the follow up as ( in a fleeting moment of playfulness, ) they pivot their mask enough by the chin to flash her one dark eye, and the briefest of conspiratorial winks. The last word stolen this round ( getting even for the previous ) they reseat the mask and take their leave, melting in with the ambling, drunken crowd.

—𝐄𝐍𝐃—

[aangs]

“You smell of death. Everything about you is an endless goodbye.”

— Nikita Gill, from Demeter To Hades (A Mother’s Fury) in “Great Goddesses: Life Lessons From Myths And Monsters” (via adrasteiax)

[ofmichel]

happy belated birthday ishmael!!!!!!!!!!!!!! @iseultrayne

[iseultrayne]

medrautgalant​:

date: the twelfth of maccius  location: the azure quarter closed to: @iseultrayne

The moment his heel meets the soil of Val Faim, the string knotted between him and Iseult Rayne pulls taut, and Medraut’s feet carry him to the Azure Quarter by virtue of muscle memory alone. For as long as Medraut can remember, since the day the Underworld spat him out and swallowed Iseult whole, and perhaps even before then, the two of them have always woven in and out of each other’s lives, two planets destined always to be in each other’s orbit, if not at times eclipsed by new moons and new beginnings. 

He returns to Iseult now, hours after Matthieu’s less-than-hospitably-received welcome wagon, pulled by that string that binds them, a cord of iron severed not by time or circumstance, or anything in between. Medraut will always grieve their divergence of paths, and he will always begrudge Iseult his allegiance to the Underworld, his inborn belonging to it. He will, he thinks, always carry a small torch for his resentment, kept alight by the festering wound of his pride. But so, too, he thinks, will Iseult always be beloved to him, by him, for he is as much a brother to Medraut as Roth. Iseult has known Medraut in all his colors, in all his shades of self, and he has loved them each and all.

The smell of sea salt and dried fish carries on a sweeping gale, and Medraut’s eyes rove over the faces of those who bustle around him, some masked, some not. He knows that Iseult will be masked—by virtue of their career, if nothing else—but that’s no matter; Medraut could pick Iseult out of a line of masks and hoods and robes, with naught but the color and shape of their eyes to recognize them by.

But he doesn’t see those eyes, not anywhere, and his shoulders sag with the weight of his disappointment. His heel is half-turned when something gold-plated and familiar snags his attention: a coin—a lucky coin, Medraut knows—expertly twirled to and fro between knuckles and long, deft fingers. He fondly recalls watching Iseult maneuver that very same coin in a way that always sort of hypnotized Medraut, pacified him, like a teething-ring for the sharp bite of his temper. Moved by the fever of his excitement, he surges forward—and stops dead in his tracks. The eyes beneath the mask are foreign to him, as lifeless and harrowing as the Obsidienne. 

Confusion and frustration strike him cold and hot, respectively, and though he ought to exercise some measure of sound judgment, though he ought to think before acting, he has always been ruled by the tide of his emotions, and so he falls prey to them. In this moment, he knows only two things: those eyes do not belong to Iseult Rayne, and that coin does. The reins of his temper slip far out of his reach, and with bared teeth, his hand lashes out whip-quick and snatches up the coin mid-pirouette. “Where did you get this?” he all but snarls, sounding more animal than man, and looking just so.

Medraut approaches and for the duration, Iseult can't bring himself to move. Only watch the string pull taught and the chevalier approach. Chevalier. A title that still sits strangely on the tongue, even after the years they've had to rehearse the sound. He's not sure what compels him to wait and watch as Medraut searches the crowd. As Medraut's eyes pass over him once, and then return with an odd resolve. An odd frustration.

When it hits Iseult, he makes to catch the coin, so as not to fumble it entirely. Medraut beats him to it. ( There was a time they were quicker, but the Summer Palace has dulled them indeed. And in their recent years apart, death's incessant calling cards has, too. ) When it hits Iseult, he only stares on. 

Medraut does not recognize him. 

He plays along with it, though he doesn’t know why.  Perhaps compelled by the usual notions, the usual cravings for what if—?

"From a fold in the keeper's cuirass. Where they went, they won't be needing it," they rasp, acting not as Rayne but as the hand that did them in, in this fantasty whipped up for entertainment. Medraut knows better. Medraut knows that rare secret that reveals the make-believe in it.

"Always take a trophy," the freelancer recites, as they drop the wry ruse with that long-favored nickname for Gallant. As they reach out for him, hand meaning to find the shoulder for a familiar clap. "Wasn't that what we were taught, little brother?"

[iseultrayne]

degares​:

“Have I?” he says drily, leaning his elbow into the wood.

When they approach, he is managing his personnel, handling orders, stacking glassware and pouring drinks, and when they lean in, he’s listening to Iseult too. Degaré scoffs, rolling his eyes, though it lacks his usual disdainfulness. Plays more like amusement. “Your dor, maybe,” he answers, still pouring, “Must be said, my coffers are never quite as full as I’d like them to be when you’re not in the spirit of almsgiving, Rayne.”

A favour, they say.

There’s no need to perform a party piece on how favours are costly, how such things don’t come free, especially from him. Lambert’s bastard charges compensation for every stolen whisper, every boon offered, every moment spared. Though he won’t presume to guess at what Iseult does with his information when they leave the tavern, slip into the night, he’s certain that, in their profession, they know what whispers cost. Degaré bargains an empress’ ransom for just about everything, even words. Especially words.

“Just like that?” he says, almost coloured surprised. Almost. They’re not usually so frank with each other, so blatant in their backchat, speaking freely and openly of treaties and transactions they might make between them. He is so used to insinuation and things left unsaid that, stripped of their usual badinage, Degaré is almost taken aback. Again, almost. He watches his benefactor toy with the dor before making an offering of it, then leans his chin against his fist.

“A favour, then. What’ll it be?”

"Well, I think I feel the spirit returning to me, now," Rayne drawls in reply, the roll of their eyes beneath their mask all but audible.

Iseult meets Dégare's eyes deliberately, before his gaze rolls along his own shoulder to seek the Librarian, who sits a few stools down, peering into his own drink while Iseult sees to this shred of 'personal' business. Something in that gaze, a thousand yard thing for as long as Lambert has known him, softens briefly. It crystallizes in the next beat, hard edged. Obsidian. The masked face snaps back to Lambert.

"I need you to keep your ears open. Someone has it out for our Imperial Librarian," he speaks the title in the tone one might purr dear friend, "and as my contract would have it, It's in my best interest to find out who."

In lieu of rolling another coin artfully down their fingers, they produce a small pouch of dor and toss it unceremoniously into Dégare's open palm, in no mood for their usual theatrics. "As my dor would, it's in your best interest to help me. Though, I'm sure you'd just as soon do so from the kindness of your heart." Iseult remarks wryly.

[iseultrayne]

dragonxslayer​:

𝐖𝐇𝐄𝐍: 20th of Maccias 𝐖𝐇𝐄𝐑𝐄: The Lion’s Mane 𝐖𝐈𝐓𝐇: Open

Dismissed for the evening, Hector finds himself on the steps outside the palace and in the company of small group of unarmored chevaliers he shares a brief, however fond, history with. He’d trained with these men for a brief stint, slept in their barracks, crawled through mud, hunted and rode with them. He’d also rang their heads like bells in spars with them, and they’d tried to ring his too. Now, they’re dragging him to the Lion’s Mane in the familiar way old friends do and forcing a thick bottomless cup into his hands. It’s been years since he’s seen the few of them, years since they’d heard his stories of the stories of dragons that burrowed and flew and breathed fire, and how Hector slew them all. He’s goaded into entertaining his stories and humoring his brothers, and before long, the man who drinks least and talks less so at banquets and galas, has now put a dent in the barkeep’s barrels and attracted a crowd.

Hector sings his stories to the songs of praise and he’s heralded after each one. Dragon’s bane, beast-man, dragon knight, stone-man, he collects his fair share of titles from jeers and cheers that end with raised mugs punctuated by the hollow slams of them on tabletops. It’s after the fifth story Hector’s finds that he’s allowed himself to become drunk, or has at the very least guzzled enough of the Mane’s finest to step into the fighting ring for a demonstration of a dragon slayer’s strength…

When it’s done, his count’s up to seven men flattened. He’s lost his jacket and the strings of his sweat wrinkled shirt hang untied and open, the sleeves rolled up to his elbows. The ridge leading down his chiseled chest is flushed and heaving, the chorded musculature of forearms littered with scars of curious shapes and glorified origins. He’s led back to the tables smothered by a pack of men he’s inspired who praise him with shouts in his ears, pats to his back and elbows to his ribs. Hector’s more drunk on their attention than he is on ale at this point, he’s got to admit, and he can’t for the life of him remember why that’s a bad thing.

With his head in a swirl and his body in the highs of adrenaline he throws himself onto his chair, his knuckles reddened when he wraps his hand back around his cup only to find it empty. 

“Another!” Hector shouts to command, shoving his cup against someone, anyone, within his arm’s reach as he plucks the mug from his nearest comrade’s lips to finish off himself. It’s only after he wipes the corners of his mouth with the back of his hand that he turns to look to who he’s bestowed the honor of being his cupbearer. 

—

It serves, perhaps, that Iseult would eventually encounter Geraud at the Mane. It suits, perhaps, that this tavern be the flux of all things embodied. The crux of all things. At the eve's beginning, attending the Librarian's latest lengthy social call at the bar side, Iseult means to avoid the recognizable Hector— ( the job foiled, the one that got away; no longer any of their concern once Hector took his grievances straight to Iseult’s employer and nullified the contract with a kill of his own. ) Unsure how much the knight may remember from their brief rendezvous, but unwilling to test the theory, Iseult acts the unaware bystander. It becomes harder as the dragon slayers presence all but swallows the room. Seven men flattened, the seventh of which went reeling clean out from the fighting ring and into the empty stools nearby.

By this point in the night, there's no avoiding the mountain of a man. He shoves his cup right up against Iseult's cuirass, tankard thunking against dark leather. There's no dodging it, now. Though, the simple sleight of hand it would take to pawn the refill off on another is far less compelling than the question of: what happens next?

Hector turns to look, and Iseult tilts their head. Tilts the knight's spent cup, and eyes the droplet that slips from the lip. "Quick work," they commend. "Though you could stand to ask with more decorum." The half mask ( the choice of cover when partaking of food and drink) flashes the quirk of their lips into a gallant grin. They turn at the waist to slide the cup across the bar behind them, flagging down the tender for a refill, "on me." The tug of their sleeve as they gesture for the barkeep flashes a sliver of skin. A sliver of inky tally marks, tattooing the inner forearm.

[violentwavesofemotion-deactivat]

I have already died all the deaths there are.

Hermann Hesse, tr. by Paul Weinfield, from “All Deaths,” (via violentwavesofemotion)

[iseultrayne]

rothbabin​:

𝐖𝐇𝐄𝐍: 25th of Maccius 𝐖𝐇𝐄𝐑𝐄: The Summer Palace 𝐒𝐓𝐀𝐓𝐔𝐒: Closed, @iseultrayne

With zero leads and a mind devoid of any rhyme or reason regarding the explosion that had played out in the streets of Val Faim, the Chevalier finds himself returning to his chambers at the Palace at the end of one of his patrols. He wishes — hopes — that either Adraste or Medraut have had better luck, though he doubts it, not because they’re not capable but because the city seems to be closing itself further and further right in front of Roth’s eyes. Roth wanders the halls of the Palace as if waiting for the universe — in all its grandeur and chaos — to give him something.

And something, the universe gives him, though it’s not what he wished for. 

That something is the glimpse of a pair of eyes across the Palace’s entrance, through the figures of the many Courtiers that had come for one reason or the other. Empty, devoid of any emotion, there is a familiarity that runs down Roth’s spine and, at the same time, his chest tightens and the back of his mind lights up at the attempt to place those dark eyes. Before he can think about it, though, his feet start following the unknown person’s steps and it’s only when they turn again and the Chevalier catches another glimpse of their eyes through the holes of the mask that his memory comes back to life. 

Anger roars inside of him, burning him from the inside out. A memory, long buried, resurfaces and Roth can’t help but close his hand into a tight fist, wanting what he’s longed for right there and then. Now he knows where he recognises those eyes from. Now he knows what he’s promised Estelle as she bled out in his arms.

Roth follows, predator and prey, and he can’t see nor hear anything else as he follows the assassin through the crowded room and onto more deserted halls. Questions run through his mind as, step after step, he finds himself walking further away from the crowd and closer to the person that had taken Estelle away from him. What was an assassin doing in the Palace? How did they get through the guards and made themselves seem so comfortable wandering the halls that are not meant for those like them?

As soon as he finds himself and his target virtually alone in a hallway, Roth makes a move. A low growl escapes him as he reaches for the assassin and with one hand he reaches for the dagger on his right side and the other he uses to turn the assassin around, pressing his forearm against his chest. Then, as quick as lightning, his blade, along his own shielded forearm, is pressed against the other’s neck, about to break the skin and draw blood. Roth wants it to draw blood, blinded by a rage he swears he never felt before not even when stabbed by Cassian. 

“Here to kill someone, assassin?” He speaks through gritted teeth; there’s no doubt in his mind his recent run-in with Cassian has somewhat contributed to everything inside his chest that’s threatening to swallow him whole at that moment. Anger at himself or anyone else, he doesn’t know. But, right there and then, it’s fury he feels towards the faceless assassin. “Take everything away from another person?” Just like he had taken Estelle away from him, a would-be new family with a woman his young heart had deeply loved.

It bears remembering that the last time Iseult had encountered Roth, they were two very different people. A young chevalier and inexperienced assassin did not a fair match make, but they'd managed, the two of them. In fact, they'd barely faced off at all. It was more a thing of passing ships— Roth not privy to the terrible deed Rayne had done until it was already in stone. It wasn't all as it seemed, of course. Rayne had been sent for the noble Estelle, as one in a line of many young underworlders champing at the bit for a chance. Rayne had been the youngling awarded the contract (awarded, was the term. As if rot could be reward)— and they'd, to put it carefully, made a butchery of it. It was a time when Rayne could still count their kills on one hand and their clean ones on half as much. It was a time before they'd had the luxury of keeping their own code to their kills. A time before their skill paved the way to their acclaim, and their will the way to their effect.

Shaky handed, a mere rookie, they'd been compromised before they'd had the chance to aim true. To make it quick, make it as painless as they'd come to master. So they'd left this mark bleeding out. Had made off just as Roth came careening around the corner. Had heard how he screamed his anguish well enough to store the notes to memory. To hear it again, then, in the voice that splintered at them, now. To taste, as fresh as if it were yesterday, the regret that'd always glazed that job.

When Roth cornered them, they were ready. All down that hallway they'd been ready. Live and breathe the underworld long enough and being followed is something you feel in the bones, in the blood. Halfway down the hall's length they'd chanced a glance into one of the gleaming shields mounting the wall. Had gauged the shape of their pursuer in its reflection and prepared themself.

The chevalier's forearm connects with the assassin's chest. Iseult's shoulders find the wall. But as Roth's blade skims their neck, threatening, Iseult's turns up one of their own in the same fleeting moment. Where they find his dagger’s edge at their throat, Roth will find theirs at his ribs. Aimed careful, true, to a mark that'd spell an end just as quick. A stalemate made fast.

"Couldn't be farther, actually," Iseult drawls in careful reply. Tilting the mask enough to affix him with that stare. "You'll find I'm in the market of preservation, for the moment." Their eyes roll from his hand, down to their own. "And that we may be in the market for a truce. Cut, and I cut. Cut, and the empress finds her hound has ruined her hallway, and in no honorable act at that. Cut, and you fall just the same." Yet you'll stay down, is the detail Iseult omits. "—And for what measure of justice? I may be your thorn, chevalier, but I was never the root. Do you understand?"

[iseultrayne]

savaticr​:

he’s still unused it to, his guard going further than merely observing, asking these questions that plunge past the surface and deep into the unseen dark. feels like treading through unclaimed territory and wild earth, and he’s never been one to evade the unfamiliar, but wonders from where exactly this curiosity is borne. when, rather. when he’d asked iseult why he didn’t speak to hippolyte’s fate, perhaps? come to think of it, had they ever discussed anything beyond the perfunctory grunts of greeting at the start of every day in the library and farewells, beyond the idle chat and observations that had come to pervade their dynamic up until then?

it is with no small measure of guilt that savatier realizes he’s not asked iseult anything of worth. never offered anything worth keeping, either.

(he has his defenses, his excuses. too preoccupied with wondering why he’s worth being given a keeper at all, unless he’s under suspicion, unless he’s been discovered, and his mercenary is less a guard and more a nanny–more of a spy.)

regardless of his paranoia, it is hardly iseult’s burden to bear, whether savatier is right about his concerns or not. 

“to know this country, i suppose. but deeper still, for questions i have, for questions i’ve yet to have. finding corollaries between the birth of a land, the birth of man, what history can tell of us of our own futures.” it’s no lie, not this summation of it. he’d been ravenous to learn what had happened in the centuries between his displacement, to odeline and jaster, and after that instance of closure, he was hungrier yet to see if he can understand what’s happened to agrippine. as long as it feels like a pursuit, it’s easy to numb himself to the loss that never seems to subside, only undulates. its retreat, the wait, is the worst of it. “much can change through a land’s history, its churn of kingdoms and rulers, but it is its people who give it meaning. the markers of their lives, birth and laughter and grief, swept over in favor or war and ills.”

starts to say, it’s not whether he is innocent or not, hippolyte wasn’t given a fair trial. his death was made a spectacle. but iseult isn’t asking about that. he sees it in his expression, the inquisition mired by what feels like genuine curiosity. the mercenary asks not of facts, but of faith. 

“i believe in his dignity,” he says, leveling his gaze. “and the value of his life. and to deny him both was shortsighted. and you?”

With a cautiousness befitting this fledgling friendship (if friendship was a term even afforded to people like them), Savatier offers up something worth keeping. As they've spoken, Iseult has listed his weight back against the sill. Now, he leans forward. Interest piqued. Tries, with no small return, to recall a time where similar questions tracked circles in the mind. He needn't think far, the very same plague him now. Iseult wonders whether the Librarian's made much ground in all this digging. Wonders, should he lend another shovel, whether they'll unearth the answers they both seek. Wonders whether their answers will align as much as their questions: Why me? Why here? What then?

"For both our sakes, I hope you find your answers." A remark, vague enough to sound like a teasing ( once you do, you'll stop all this rifling about. Once you do, I can go ) — An utterance, weighted enough to sound like a prayer ( chance willing I'm there when you do. That at the bottom of this well, you find a mirror big enough for two. )

Iseult looks up. It's rare another's eyes are on him first, but then again, he's been given much to think about. And you?

"Where I crawled up from," Iseult drawls, "dignity ends where the dor begins." A moment's hesitation that, against his better judgement, indicates that the matter is one he's always met with his eyes closed. That he's known no other way. That this country has never allowed him to. That, "belief has nothing to do with it. It just is."

—𝐄𝐍𝐃—

[iseultrayne]

chevalicr​:

𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐃𝐒 𝐁𝐎𝐔𝐍𝐂𝐄 𝐎𝐃𝐃𝐋𝐘 𝐅𝐑𝐎𝐌 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐁𝐎𝐖𝐄𝐑 , as if Iseult was a forest God long past his glory. He looks the part, too; shaded in the leaves, humming some self-satisfied nonsense, half ready to go pouncing on travellers with a riddle and a cry. For a second, Matthieu’s half minded to tell him this, to conjure this fanciful image as he might for Cecile. But then, theirs was not an acquaintaceship of whims. It could hardly be called an acquaintanceship at all, except—well, what do you call the man who saved your life? What do you call the man you’ve been drinking with every week since? Even Matthieu Samuel, who kept apart from friendships as sick dogs do from a crowd, had to admit it warranted more than a tip of the hat.

It sits uneasy with him, even so. The thought of owing so much; the thought of owing anything at all. Bloody absurd, that pride, that perfunctory arrogance, given that he owes his life to every noble in this bunch, their mother, and their fucking horse. Tall talk, perhaps, for a man who never earned anything for himself, who had it lapped and lashed upon him from on high. And yet here they are. Matthieu almost scowls at him, like the handed cloth is a slap, an intricate insult. He feels his face changing in the dark.

And then, as if it were a dance, it breaks. He chuckles, low and rough. “What would you know of clean form? Apprenticed with a master forger, did you? I’ll have my adoration where it matters, cheers. Fortin can keep the licking of the herd.” His laughter climbs, but Matthieu knows better than to follow it for long. The thing is, he has no idea whether Rayne had, in fact, apprenticed anywhere. He has no idea of Rayne as anything but a vague and pleasant presence, a corner folding up, folding open. Something stained of whiskey and understanding that’s quite below the threshold of language, sleeping snugly in the back of your head.

The knight sidles off the bench, joints creaking in the way of caked leather. He scouts out the gift. “That’s a shit fucking cloth, mate. C'mon. Let’s go up to my room and we’ll outfit your daggers, or whatever those little toys are, with something better. And then I’ll pay you back for those drinks, hm?” He fixes Iseult with a long look, haughty and just meaningful enough. There’ll be drinking, again; there’ll be a lot of things, away from the night’s questions, away from the winds of this strange and fetid month. Without another word, he turns to head back inside.

—

There are things you know with your blood or not at all, and their strange association is among them. There will be drinking, again; there will be a lot of things, and as Iseult follows the chevalier to his quarters, it begins as such. The lapping of whiskey along the neck of the decanter. Amber falling into the chalice, burning the throat. A shit fucking cloth traded for one a far sight better. The shining of the dagger, the weighing of the sword.

There were whims to this, nonetheless. Tonight Iseult bends to most of them. Tonight, peering over the rim of the chalice, he entertains a dangerous one:

"Your sword, to my dagger," he spins the weapon and the question 'round the wrist. Through the fingers. "Think you'd be just as deadly with a third the reach? Should we trade," he eyes the bound hilt of the chevalier's weapon where it lies at rest. Entertaining a taboo notion; how the extension of a chevalier's arm would complement his own ( a notion he'd entertained once years ago and far younger. a friend stood fast at his side: a young underworlder turned recruit, going where Iseult could not follow, putting grounding to the name Galant. )

"—how d'you s'ppose the scales would settle?" All in good fun, of course.