l: outer edges of Verona, northern grove
status: closed, for @pvxs
Hassan knew he should have been at the trial. It was his duty as a captain, as a Montague. There was justice to be served, in its bloodiest and most typical form. And wasn’t that what he did? Wasn’t that how he filled his days? Others had taken on his job for once and he should have been happy to sit back and watch the proceedings, perhaps even stepping forward with his own thoughts occasionally.
He did not. Instead he had barricaded himself in his room with a bottle for company and had pretended for a few hours that his world wasn’t falling apart at the seams.
But Verona, for all her faults, is incapable of keeping secrets. It’s a fact that Hassan has both lamented and praised on multiple occasions. So when the city murmured about the fire that had consumed the building in the northern grove. And voices whispered there were Capulet there, as well as Montagues.
The whispers wondered which group had burned the building, and whether or not that family would try to pin it on the other. But Hassan knew exactly what was happening today and that brain that so frequently feasted on itself quickly threw the pieces together.
He had flown to that northern grove with such speed the wind was panting trying to catch up. His shirt was half-buttoned, his shoes untied, and his usually gelled hair was a bird’s nest. Hassan was not his usual self, but he did not care.
His family was out there, potentially bleeding, potentially dead. He was willing to discard his carefully-maintained appearance for speed. Though this was a one-time deal.
He had barely arrived at the location when his eyes drifted to a figure he didn’t recognize and couldn’t place. That in itself was a rare thing. However, there was something about the bearing of the man that drew him in. There was something dangerous coiled inside that man and before he could draw himself away, he was approaching him.
“Excuse me,” he started, “I don’t seem to know you. And that in itself is a very unusual thing.” Hassan scanned the man for any tell-tale signs of danger and though he couldn’t see any, the sense of unease did not diminish. “However, given recent events…” He gestured to the smoldering remains of the building behind the two of them. “I cannot help a small degree of suspicion. Who are you?”
make a home out of this, this leftover fire-debris, smoke clinging onto clothes. it looks good on him, next to shadow, next to bone. boy wears it well, this backdrop of screaming, of bloodied palms and knives dropped, bodies fallen. could almost make it picturesque, standing in the middle of it.
(ask, did you do this? boy grins like a wolf, ever-so-charming. tells you yes, tells you no. does it make a difference? the whole place is in ashes anyways)
oh fair, dear verona. how pretty you burn. there’s remnants of a spark in his eyes when he turns to the stranger calling towards him, quick eyes scanning the worse-for-wear citizen, more windblown, more windswept than those behind him burnt and maybe-bloodied.
(because of him? he doesn’t try to hide his hands, lets the world see the red coated under nails with a grin)
“is it?” eyebrows are raised along with lips, that trademark smirk, pointed like a blade. still charming, still devious. “if you don’t know of me then perhaps that makes you a good person still. shall we be quick to ruin that then?”
there’s a quick bark of laughter at the word - suspicion - oh, how he loves this, this tug-of-war of families, as if it’ll ever mean anything. debates whether he should wear a colour of a side tonight, just to see - capulet? montague? shame he didn’t bring a coin. he smiles a little wider.
“pavel lam, at your service.” he bows deeply, lets eyes peer up from under long eyelashes when he looks at the man again. stays like that for a touch too long, makes movements slow, careful, tilting heads closer to him. “ease up - there’s nothing to suspect of someone who’s neither this nor that. how you keep up with your petty feuds between each other, i’ll never know. admirable, truly.”
sets his shoulders back, soft rustle of blade hidden under coats and tucked to waists like windchimes when he does. keeps his smile pleasant still. “and you? i could pretend to care about what side you care to see yourself on, but a name would do just fine. that is, if you aren’t expected elsewhere - if you know my name, i’m sure we’ll cross paths again.”
