in shadows they rise

wraith - court spy - inferni they/them the devil of Tyrholm

[ladyhierophant]

TIME: the seventh of the tenth month; late evening LOCATION: castle tyrholm; kitchen STATUS: closed to @shadowrcith​

Another day had come and gone, and Kithri had retained her freedom in the King’s court. Or at the very least, the version of freedom she held onto as one of the King’s favored trained dogs – permitted to move about the castle as she pleased, and yet wary to leave the grounds for favor of the city below.

Though she had not been arrested and charged with the assassination attempt, she was nonetheless wise to the accusatory glances and suspicion-filled whispers which clung to her like a second skin. Valeria’s suggestion that the mage avoid unnecessary movement and call upon her allies was not baseless, even if Kithri had chosen to ignore the caution. In the mind of the inferni mage, if she remained hidden in her chambers it would signal to the court that she was fearful – and in her opinion, fear indicated guilt. 

Despite this, Kithri also knew that in the absence of a caught assassin, the blame would undoubtedly be shifted to her. The nature of the attempt made it all too easy to point to her without the burden of evidence – and she doubted the ability of any would-be ally to save her from death. Her survival rested upon another falling victim to the executioner’s sword.

The mage had never much been in the business of gossip, but she knew the kitchen and it’s hearth to be the source of it in the castle. If there was some whisper of another wanting to see the King dead, it was likely to be heard there of all places. With little other recourse, Kithri made the journey and perched herself close to the roaring fire: any onlooker who drew too close would note the way the flames seemed to gravitate towards her with an undoubted magnetism.

She had not lingered for long when she caught sight of the King’s spymaster drift through the space: the sight of them caused a lurch in her gut, and the fire beside her briefly engorged before settling. Of any, Kithri expected Wraith to have some knowledge of the investigation and any additional suspects thought to be involved in the attempted assassination. Their willingness to provide any of the information they had was another issue entirely – but Kithri could not allow the opportunity to fade without any attempt.

“Wraith,” she greeted – more familiar than she cared to be with most, and more familiar than the dynamic between them would suggest. And yet, there was an inherent familiarity to them as beings who had outlived their stories. “I am surprised the King would allow his confidantes to drift so far from his side.”

[shadowrcith]

Kithri was the first person they sought out, after their masked informant’s message, after they opted to steal away from Septimus’ confidence for another day in favor of finding more targeted information to provide him with instead of sending him on a witch hunt that would only hurt more people than it helped. She was difficult to find, moreso than usual—hiding, perhaps, or maybe just following an irregular pattern, finding herself in the kitchens which they so often frequented themself in search of the same thing they always went there seeking: information. 

     “As am I, but fortunately for the both of us, he cannot seem to stop me. It’s as if I slip out of his grasp every time he tries to keep me there.”

There was a humor in their voice they did not feel. Kithri has been who they had sought out, but they did not like the reason. It wasn’t a secret of any kind that there were those in this court who believed her involved, and while was not one of those who thought it the case, it didn’t mean that they understood what she was likely feeling any less. They knew the cold sting of prejudice, knew what it looked like when every passing face thought you a monster. For them, so visible and so strange, there was little reprieve, but Kithri at least, they assumed, could sometimes pretend that other people saw her as something other than a threat.

The likelihood that she knew anything, about the Lowtown cult the masked stranger had mentioned, wasn’t high; she spent less time outside of court than they did, and it wasn’t as if the local inferni had some sort of social group that met up at regular intervals, as so many who believed they were all always conspiring seemed to think. But not only was it a better place to start than any other avenue they currently had; they also owed it to her, to know just how far onto the proverbial—and, perhaps, the literal—chopping block her head truly was at the moment. 

     “If I could have a moment of your confidence, though, it would be much appreciated.” I’m trying to clear your name, as well as my own, they wanted to say, but they would never be so bold as to admit it aloud. Even some sort of allegiance, between the King’s two pet inferni, could be seen on its own as treacherous now that Septimus had a mind to see inferni blamed for his narrowly avoided death.

[shadowrcith]

     It feels, at first, like a goose chase, a string of clues leading them to some inevitable conclusion, a desperate pursuit in the hopes of finding just one small thing, anything, to give to Septimus to return themself to his good graces. 

They have been thinking, about what Levana said, about a scapegoat. It would not be the first time they had lied to earn their keep, though it was not something they enjoyed doing, was not something they prided themself on. Once or twice, in the course of a lifetime, and only those who deserved the punishment, those who were reaping what they had sowed, a misdirection of Septimus’ attention, a fabrication of certain crimes he would punish more readily than those they had truly committed. 

They do not want to do it, again. 

So, they go. To the Market District, at nightfall, robes pulled tight, mask strapped close. It is dark enough, as winter approaches, that they do not need shadows to hide in. They find another masked figure, a brief exchange of gold for information, simple and practical, an easy way of doing business, quick and clean, if not their favored method. 

They listen to the masked figure’s story, the claims about the burning man, the hooded figures, the payment exchanged.

An inferni cult. 

It’s the answer they don’t want; the most dangerous possible one. If Septimus had his doubts about their usefulness, that one one thing, but if Septimus began to see them as a danger because the burning man had been involved with a cult of mages and they were a mage—it was precisely what they were hoping not to learn, from this, precisely that which scared them the most. If anyone else heard this, fear of inferni would spread, and fast, faster than any rumor. Inferni children who had nothing to do with a mysterious hooded cult in Lowtown would be subject to abuse born from the fear that their powers were connected in some small way to an attempt on the King’s life. Helpless inferni would meet fear and danger at every step, should they not be able to hide their powers. 

The inferni at court would be executed on the spot. Whether that included them… well, it was impossible to say. 

No, they could not take this so Septimus. Not as it stood. They needed more, first, more details: names, perhaps, to tie the attempt to specific people rather than to inferni as a whole, or at least the name of an organization. 

They needed to find this cult themself, to root out its core and discover its beating heart, the ideology behind the cult’s aims, perhaps the mind or minds responsible for this plot. They needed something more than this, before they could let Septimus hear any word of the burning man taking payment in secret in Lowtown.

All they had to go on was a strange symbol, the markings of the cult, sketched out for them by their informant—and who knew how reliable that really was. 

But someone would know the cult. Surely, someone would have an idea that could lead them right there.

And they have a good idea of where to begin.

[shadowrcith]

At first light, Wraith is passively handed a letter by one of the castle’s servants: unsigned, it informs them that they’re a friend of the King, and this friend is in possession of some information regarding the recent attempt on Septimus’ life. The letter instructs Wraith to meet them in The Market District at nightfall – it tells them to watch for a masked figure by the port. Keen to get their hands on whatever the letter’s author has to offer, Wraith meets with the masked stranger and supplicates them with gold. They keep things brief. They couldn’t quite place the Burning Man before, though they were sure they recognized him, and it wasn’t until they returned home after the day’s events for bread and mead that they realized that, indeed, they had seen him before. In Lowtown, head bowed furtively with a group of hooded figures with the markings of a recently reemerging cult of Inferni mages, covertly taking a sizeable payment. The stranger didn’t catch their faces.

Write a self-para about the exchange, or the conclusions Wraith draws from it. Does Wraith share the intel with anyone else, or do they keep it to themself? Does the new information offer clarity, or does it complicate previous hypotheses? If you have any questions or ideas you’d like to share with the admin team, don’t hesitate to reach out to the main.

[shadowrcith]

aureliavalmont​:

You would think that spies were fonts of gossip, and you would be correct, though it usually went directly to her father’s ears. Harmless things, though, those might be shared for the fun of it, and it was harmless things she focused on within their presence. They would and could share anything with her, but being so close to her father… it was undoubted that much had been taken, perhaps without their realizing, or perhaps at their behest. Aurelia was not her brother or her father; she refused to be a taker when she could be a giver.

Wraith didn’t ask for much, anyway. They never had. More often it was she trailing after them, asking too much, asking them to define things better left to vaguery. She opens her mouth to respond, but they continue their thought, and it turns her words to laughter. ❝ My coin is Reynaud’s as well, so I suppose I make his own bets for him here. ❞ In truth, she would waste the entire royal coffer if it would earn her brother’s affections, but she’s well aware it never could, so the point is moot. ❝ No one has faith in him? Even after… after Koldam? ❞ Her breath catches as she speaks of it, the slaughter still fresh on her mind, and as she says the name her eyes fill with sorrow.

Blink, and it’s gone, as so many other thoughts of hers follow. She’s pleased to see them smiling, not on their face but in the way their shoulders round a fraction, their eyes smaller from where they’re visible, crinkled around the edges. She raises a brow in their direction. ❝ Is it not the point of betting on these things, to cheat as much as you can? I’ve seen all sorts of chicanery so far, though I confess my only sin is placing my bets on the dark horse. ❞ She sighs, following their logic. ❝ Ah, but everyone becomes a saint when they decide they’ve marked a sinner, no? ❞ In spite of her rueful grin, her eyes show her true feelings: there is genuine sadness in her, to think of how differently they’d be treated due to their magic and their position at court. A person is either a cheater or not, regardless of what abilities they possess, and yet… 

Aurelia reaches out a little, catching a few perfect rain drops on her palm. They cling to her everywhere, but she studies them as though they were snowflakes. ❝ Cleric Francis is a fan of the weather as well, ❞ she admits, thinking of their earlier conversation, ❝ which I am convinced is simply because neither of you will need to dry your petticoats later. ❞ It’s said with mirth, not bitterness, as she wrinkles her nose to remember the musty smell the last time she looked in on the process, but they must be dried, then washed, then dried again. Something about taking care of the fabric.

They are too kind, to answer her question about her brother: the princess has so much faith, in Reynaud, so much love for him that it rises off of her like steam even as she passes unseen under his eyes. No, there were some who had faith in Reynaud, but not as many as she would care to hear, and they couldn’t stand to see her face turn down over a brother who did not deserve a sister so kind, and certainly not so early into a day that was meant to be a celebration. 

     “Well, I gave up my petticoats when I was much younger than you, though they weren’t nearly so fine as yours are. I spent much time in the rain, when I was younger, whether I enjoyed the weather or not.”

They do this, sometimes, slip little details into conversation with her, just to see what she will say, just to see the reactions of someone who thinks them as much a person as she thinks herself, as much a human as any other in the court. Nothing serious, nothing of consequence. No mention of what the had done, before they arrived in court, or what had been done to them, no detail that would help her to find where and what they had come from if she so chose to pursue it. But enough to give her an idea, to sate some small part of her strange curiosity. 

    “Cleric Francis is a fan of a great deal of things I have no personal taste for. The only thing we seem to see eye to eye on, sometimes, is our devotion for the Undying, though I’m sure they would tell you otherwise if you asked.” 

[shadowrcith]

tasmindeclair​:

Tasmin had grown familiar with fear over the past couple of months. She used to be a fearless child, racing around her family’s estate like she had no cares in the world, but her powers had diminished that bravery. For once, she had something to lose that was bigger than just a momentary disappointment from her parents. She had her life to worry about, and Tasmin felt that slipping away as she stared at the stranger. She could only imagine herself being dragged in front of the king and listening to him give the command to execute her. Her chest grew tight as she thought about this being one of her final moments.

But then, she heard something that brought some light back to her gaze. She heard them say that they weren’t sent by the king to punish her for her secret.

She felt like she could cry at the realization that she had a chance at a future. She knew her powers meant her time was already limited, but Tasmin needed as much time as she could get. Her family’s future rested on her shoulders, and Tasmin would be devastated if she couldn’t help them secure a better life. 

Her eyes followed them as they stepped towards her. Normally, she would back away. She had learned to be wary of the various people at court. She didn’t know who was a true friend, and who would turn her into the king at the first sign of abnormalities. She was still unsure about the stranger as a whole, but they had already shot down her fear of betrayal. Perhaps they were a friendly face she could trust with such a heavy burden.

“Indeed, they do. The flowers help distract people from their problems, especially in such a busy time.” 

She was trying to talk in code, but she didn’t think she was doing a good job at it. Truthfully, she was curious about the stranger. The way they spoke made it seem like they were also an Inferno, but she was afraid to ask them outright. She didn’t know what their ability would be, or if they would feel comfortable sharing. It’s that hesitance that kept her from inquiring about it.

“I’m slowly figuring out the thorns.” She replied quietly, watching the Inferni.  “Though you seem more familiar with them than I.” 

She even sounded like a child, younger than she looked dressed up in her finery, like she was making her best attempt to meet them on their level without fully understanding what level that is. Perhaps, then, she was new enough not to have heard stories of the wraith of Septimus’ court, the King’s snake, the King’s dog, the King’s ghost, omnipresent eyes and ears, hidden just out of view. 

Lucky girl. Foolish girl. 

     “Yes, well, I grew up amidst rose bushes,” they answered, running one of their own fingers along the petals of one of the flowers near her. They paused, a moment, hand lingering over one of the flowers, and the plucked a single petal from its bud. Around it, a whorl of dark smoke in their right hand, black as the void, an inky and impossible darkness so much deeper than the nighttime. A perfect counter to the blinding light that had come from her own hands. And then the petal disappeared, into the small portal, and reappeared, a mirror image, in a whorl in their other hand, between the two remaining fingers they had left there, the smoke rising off of it like flamed for a moment before settling. A simple party trick, not one they had much use for.

They took her hand in theirs, pressed the petal into her palm. 

     “Should you need any guidance, with them, they say my ears are everywhere in the castle. You only need call out.”

[shadowrcith]

emperorvalmont​:

Perhaps if Reynaud had been the son of any other king, Wraith’s words would not tempt him so easily. If he had not been the foolish son of a foolish man both too foolish to recognize their own foolishness, he may have caught on. But all the schooling he was given (and even then, he did not receive so much as Valeria) could not teach him to see his father’s errors and avoid being like him. Nothing had yet gotten it across to him that his father is not the man he should want to emulate. And so he learned arrogance and pride and selfishness and greed and cruelty, and these things made him susceptible to the stories he wanted to hear, and Wraith was an expert at spinning these tales.

“I’m glad someone sees the logic in things, for once,” Reynaud comments. His achievement should be met with pride, Wraith is right (or they are at least crafting the tale to convince Reynaud of this), not the shame Valeria had brought unto him. Only, was it truly them who shamed him, or was it his father? Reyaud certainly refused to blame the latter, he never had and possibly never could. “And what exactly are those reasons?” He asked. Rumors, yes, Wraith had already told him, but there were certainly more details to such a plan, otherwise they would not have come prepared to suggest one to him. Reynaud might have been idiotic, but that glimmer of suspicion ensured he would make sure every detail was relayed to him before anything could ever take place. After all, what was the point of enacting a plan if he was not sure it was going to work, especially when the consequences included more of this shame he was trying to avoid?

“This victory is not only mine,” he stated, resting his hand atop his chair before standing, “it also brings victory to him and is a testament of the sort of kingdom he runs and the son he’s raised.” Regardless of what Septimus thought of Reynaud, he raised him. He reared a boy who adopted his image when he could not be given the attention one might think it takes to raise a son. Reynaud’s success is Septimus’s success. Reynaud’s failure is this kingdom’s failure. It is Septimus’s failure. “This will serve us both, I think. I thank you for this offer. Please, tell me more.”

This will serve us both, he said, and Wraith could not help but smile just slightly behind the mask, hidden behind layers of leather and fabric, unknowable to anyone beside themself. Yes, it would serve them both quite well. Better the foolish king you knew than the wise one you did not. 

     “The finer details are, of course, flexible, to ensure they suit your highness’ wishes, but there are several directions the attempt could begin with. Your unfortunate match at the tourney, for instance—say a squire happen to mention, to a passing friend, that Valeria had ordered your equipment tampered with, before the match, a quick assurance of their own victory in front of a crowd. Your stirrups loosened, your visor dented, something no one else could have noticed. They would not be the first, to sabotage their opponent in an immoral plot to look like the better fighter in what ought to have been an even match. Or, if not that, something else. Either way, you will be surprised how quickly a word or two placed in a strategic mouth can spread.”

Like wildfire, they almost added, but it seemed in rather poor taste, given the circumstances, and so they bit their tongue for a moment, staying perfectly still, a picture of collected calm and respect towards the prince.

     “Or, if you would prefer not to deal in half-truths, there are those who have not heard the full truth of your own victory at Koldam. A bard might be a better choice, for boasting of your admirable deeds, but drunk men love nothing more than to hear a good story and to tell it again, repeatedly, for the remainder of the evening.” 

[shadowrcith]

revoluticn​:

A blink - and cruelty cracks across their face. She’s always had an eye for the truth and so Marceline catches it. Or perhaps she desperately wants to know that she can twist the knife in a way not so unlike the knights that ran her father through and imagines the strike of anger. If all she has right now is words, words she’ll use. Her fingers drum across her crossed arms.

They ask her if she is so like her father. Marceline is no stupid creature of the woods, she knows bait when she sees it and she won’t be hunted today. Though Wraith isn’t wrong to try - if there’s anyone who would justify a well placed word in favor of the revolution at the risk of their own life it’s Marceline.

“Not so much” She says with as much snap as she’s said everything else, “I have my mother’s eyes.” It’s meant to be cheeky. It is. She paces the length of the hallway. “I’m more like her in my loyalties as well.”

She taps the lieutenant’s pin on her lapel. Even the vague truth, that exists in that grey area,  feels rotten on her tongue, but Marceline pushes through, if only for the sake of appearances. What she wants to say is, ‘if I were behind all of this, I wouldn’t have failed.’

“I suppose you could say I am as much my father as you are your mother.” She wonders what Wraith’s upbringing must have been like. Marceline is entirely who she is because of nurture, but she watches the way they step through space and maybe there some things nature brings into this world twisted.

“If you’re spending your evening trying to figure out who’s behind this, I can say, if wasn’t me.” She holds up both hands. “There you go. You’ve crossed another person off your suspect list and are thus, one step closer. You’re welcome.”

What had Levana said, the other day? That it would not be so hard to find a sacrificial lamb to lead to the proverbial slaughter, if it meant saving their own neck? No, it would not be hard to convince Septimus of a world in which the daughter of a failed revolutionary had hatched a plot to rebel against the same King her father had so hated. It would not be difficult for Wraith to deliver Septimus another Pelagius head on a silver platter. 

They want to, very suddenly, a sharp and acrid though shot through their head at her mention of their mother—and what could she possibly know? Nothing, no one did. They were certain of that, at least. She was a child, biting off more than she could chew. They won’t, not until they are desperate, but they want to. 

     “What a kindness,” they reply, blithely, a deep sarcasm behind the words, masking the anger behind a placid smile and an even more placid mask. “I’ll have to put in a good word with the King, about your invaluable assistance in the investigation. You’ve shown a great loyalty to your King and your Country tonight, Marceline.” 

[valeriavalmont]

when: thirteenth of the tenth month, early in the morning where: the kitchen status: closed for @shadowrcith​

They dream of fingers emerging from a darkness thick enough to slice through with a weapon. Whispers overstimulate their senses; the rumors and gossip throughout Castle Tyrholm flood their ears, cover their eyes, run a spiked nail down their arm. It begs to be noticed, but they cannot look it in the eye. Not yet, Valeria tells them in dreams and in nightmares, it is not yet time.

Always, their refusal calls forth the ghost of their mother. Almost-ruler Sexta stands before them in heavy armor and eyes that shine eerily in the dark. What are you waiting for? their mother asks, in a voice as hollow and empty as Valeria feels at the sight of her.

Calliope takes Sexta’s place in an instant. She is regal, draped in heavy fabrics and a crown atop her head. Beware of power, Calliope warns, No amount of it will bring back the dead. Without warning, Calliope’s figure is drowned in furious red flames; she does not scream.

Valeria wakes alert and on guard, weary of the night for the visions it brings. The halls are quiet, save for the quiet footsteps of a few guards on duty. The sky is empty of stars and, if Valeria strains their ears, they can hear the crash of the sea. This is their compass that guides them back to reality, where their footing is sure and their grasp on what’s true is solid — the sounds of the earth.

A sudden chill whips at their bones, and Valeria ventures from their quarters and slips into the kitchen. The roar of the fire lulls them, and they watch the flames flicker and dance; for fire can be a peaceful thing, when it is not rushing towards their king. It can even be beautiful — though Valeria feels a pang of pity for its beauty that can only be seen when contained.

They sense a presence behind them and say nothing. They hope it’s Wraith. After a nightmare of pure uncertainty, Valeria longs to strike into action and push forward. There is a new edge to their desperation tonight, bold in a way that Valeria rarely embodies during her quest to kill the king. When they turn and finds Wraith watching them, they smile. “Wraith. Won’t you sit with me?”

[shadowrcith]

Much gets done, in the kitchens. It is one of the few places Wraith’s ability to discern secrets depends less on their ability is an inferni and more on their ability to be generous—to treat the kitchen staff with kindness, generosity, occasionally coin, to share what they want and get what they need in return. Staff, after all, are as invisible as they can be, ignored completely by those with blood too noble to acknowledge them. Wraith has gained as many secrets from ladies in waiting, cooks, and squires than they have from any conversation overheard by chance. 

When they appear, in the kitchens, searching out conversation to start off their day, and a small meal to see them through, they aren’t expecting to see royalty there, but that it’s them, that it’s Valeria, surprises them less than the alternatives. She still glows with a golden confidence from her effortless victory in the tournament, somehow, or perhaps that’s just what she looks like these days, the flames of the kitchen fire reflecting amber and orange against her skin.

     “My liege,” they answer, and then giventhem a little half bow, wry but not entirely disrespectful. “Of course. How could I say no?”

[shadowrcith]

undyingpriestess​:

    As long as that neck isn’t my own. Ah, the familiarity of self-preserving inclinations. Levana remembered well what such instinct had been like – how she had lived it day after day before her gifts were discovered. But that instinct had quickly been smothered out when she realized that she had never been meant to exist for herself – she was meant to be the sword that the Undying God wielded, the vessel in which They could pour their divine will into. The drive to preserve the pieces of herself that she could – that weren’t of her parents making, weren’t tainted by the ghost of a sister she had never known – was dashed in the span of a few seconds. One would have thought that it had been reignited over the years, when they sought to burn her, crucify her, remove her from the earth because she was a direct abhorrence of nature. But how could she preserve something that was never hers to begin with? 

    She hummed, as though in thought – eyes narrowing as she gently held their chin between her fingers, turning their head to look at their neck. After a moment, she nodded. “It is a rather lovely neck. It would be a pity for Septimus think to ruin it.” Her gaze flickered between theirs, eyes alight for a breadth. A half-second. But she turns her face away, to look back out over the balcony. “If we need to find a lamb to lead to the slaughter, then so be it.”

    We, she said. So quick to tie the two of them together. Already, she listed the names of others that she could lead Septimus and his little gaggle to. They weren’t entirely deserving of having their lives taken from them, but if they were to quickly assuage Septimus’ fears of an assassination then she would do what needed to be done. 

They weren’t surprised, as she jumped from the prospect of their own execution to that of another, a sacrificial lamb to keep them where they were. Of the people who valued Wraith’s life for any reason, she was perhaps the only one for whom she valued it not as a tool, or a curiosity, but as a life. 

     “There are several, I can think of, but I fear the King will be so dedicated to the idea that an inferni is behind this that he’ll accept no other substitute.” They were willing, completely willing, to find a scapegoat if it came to it, if it was the difference between that and their own life. But they had more compunctions about the idea of having a mage executed for a crime they weren’t responsible for, of compounding the fear of inferni that permeated Tyrholm to begin with.

There had to be a better answer, to all of this. There had to be truth, somewhere they could hear it. Attempts emboldened people. Lockdowns frustrated them. It was only a matter of time before someone’s lips slipped open and they were there to catch what fell out, and they had any number of avenues to pursue, in the meantime.

     “No, I don’t think there will be a need for that. But...” But if Saif Andros beat them to the answer, if Andros presented the King with a head on a platter before they could... “You’re helping, with the investigation, aren’t you?” they ask. “Overseeing Andros’ progress? Perhaps... if he starts getting too close to something, you might be able to point me in the right direction.” And keep Andros off the scent, they didn’t add. She would understand, they thought, without words.

[shadowrcith]

francisdaumantas​:

That Wraith would place the needs of the King above the will of the Undying God is not a surprise, but Francis resents it nonetheless. In their eyes, Wraith’s mehod of worship has always danced around sacrilege. It is, chiefly, why they do not get along ( Wraith’s own reasons aside ). They tout the word of the Undying God, but blaspheme Her in the same breath. Their mere existence is a slight to Undeath, their missing limbs a punishment, their abilities a mark of their transgressions. 

While Wraith sees them as a blessing, Francis sees them for what they truly are: a curse. 

“I will always do what the Undying God asks of me,” Francis replies calmly. It is both vague and clear as crystal all at once: they do not serve Septimus. They serve none but Undeath, and it is with Her their loyalties shall always lie. Wraith, Francis suspects, knows this, but they all have a role to play. Naenia will say much of the same in the evening that follows.

“May your path be lit by the grace of Undeath,” Francis nods as Wraith turns to go. They will spend the rest of their evening scrubbing the soot off the marble with holy water, removing Wraith’s presence in the Sanctum twice over. For now, however, Francis holds their ground, spine straight and shoulders back, the two of them exchanging hard stares across the chancel.

“May the King receive Her blessing, as well.”

[bardglory]

date: eleven of ten. location: stables. status: closed to @shadowrcith

There are only so many pieces of poetry one man can write about horses before it all begins to blend into one large, amalgamous mass of incomprehensibility. Something something hair, something something marking, something something thunderous beasts, hooves, manes, and so on and so forth until the end of time. The stables, as a result, are not the best place to brainstorm pieces for composition, but Armel gives it his best go anyways. Why not settle down among hay and horseshit and feed and hope for the best? It doesn’t work, but… he’s trying.

The stables also happen to be one of the few places in Castle Tyrholm that the guardsmen tend to avoid. There are some nippy beasts of burden in here, to say the very least, and something about the shiny metal must be enticing. His eyes turn up, trying to conjure up a metapohor, away from the dapple-grey stallion munching on oats from inside a bag of feed – and oh, joy of joys, look who it is. None other than Wraith, one of his current pursuant focuses. He’s been after them for no small amount of time, some years, in fact, and each and every time has been pushed to the side like fodder.

Not today, Armel decides. Definitely not today. Here, among the horses, they’ll have a discussion. Just one story is all he wants, and then he’ll be out of Wraith’s hair. Long, black hair, like silk, newly woven, yes, that’s something to write down–

He tends, unfortunately, to show up like a bad copper. Or that’s what he’s been told, at least. Like he’s been summoned up from nowhere at the worst possible time to stick his head directly where it shouldn’t be. It’s his favorite part of existing, really: getting in the way. Nothing feels better than to know he’s underfoot in as many ways as one can be. Truly. It gets him feeling all warm-and-fuzzy on the inside. He tucks away his pen and notepad into the small satchel strapped around his waist, slings it to the side, and stands. They don’t look much in the mood for conversation, but frankly, in Armel’s most humble opinion, they never do, and so he doesn’t find himself particularly daunted. He clears his throat as they come closer: “Wraith! So good to see you. Enjoying the day?”

There’s not much day to enjoy, of course, given that Tyrholm is victim to often torrential rain and cloudy skies, but that’s neither here nor there.

[shadowrcith]

It isn’t often that Wraith travels anywhere by any means other than void; no interest in horses, no patience for walking, there hardly seems a reason to travel any distance by any means less convenient than simply appearing where they want to be. As such, they spend little time in the stables, ordinarily. But today, they aren’t in the stables for a horse, nor for any other mode of transportation. They’re here for a message, a note left for them and buried by a servant too scared to be overheard sharing the information they have. A kind of elaborate song and dance Wraith already has very little patience for, when the only threat in the castle of overhearing anything is themself. 

But the vague frustration and annoyance they feel at having to make the trek to the stables—the last time they did anything other than walk into the stables, they’d spooked the horses so bad they almost lost an eye—is only amplified at the sound of an all too familiar voice calling their name.

     “Armel,” they reply, with a curt nod, when he appears in front of them. If they were only here to fetch a horse and leave, it would be enough acknowledgement to allow them to ignore him and move on. But instead they’ll have to dig through hay and horse shit for a secret note they’re not even entirely sure will be worth it, and now they’ll have no choice but to dodge Armel’s constant badgering for a tale to turn into a song for the hundredth time while they do it. 

They keep walking, though, farther into the stables, hoping he’ll take the hint that they’d rather not be badgered just now. And yet, it doesn’t seem to work.

     “Yes, I’m enjoying my day. So quiet, so peaceful. Hardly a soul has asked me a question since breakfast, and I’m sincerely hoping the Undying will grant my wish that the rest of the day will be just as well.” 

[shadowrcith]

tasmindeclair​:

There was this swell of panic that rose up inside of her chest as Tasmin realized someone was in the greenhouse. She thought she had scanned the area for hidden faces, but apparently, she had missed one. Her mind raced with possible excuses that could explain the light that poured from her palms, but she knew it was useless. Even if she could lie away the light, her hands were still exposed to them, and the burns were evident of the magic she just performed. All she could do was hope they would keep her secret, or at least afford her enough time to send a letter to her parents. 

It took her a moment to fully see them. Her eyes were blurry from staring at her light, and she had to wait a beat before the shapes faded away. When she finally saw them, the first thing she noticed was the mask. It made her tense up, and she could still feel the remnants of her magic throbbing in her veins as fear took hold. She knew she should speak, but her voice felt trapped in her throat as she watched the mysterious figure.

Finally, she managed to whisper a question. 

“Did the king send you?” 

It was the one thing on her mind as she looked at them. Tasmin could feel the disappointment in her parent’s gaze as they’re sent a letter informing them of their daughter’s abilities and the execution that followed swiftly. She could sense the sadness that would fill her sister’s hearts as their trio is forever transformed into a duo. Her family’s expectations overwhelmed her at times, but the fear of failure had forced her to move through the castle as if nothing was wrong. She thought she had been good at hiding her powers, but that was another thing that didn’t live up to the desired outcome.

Tasmin chewed on her lower lip a bit before she glanced over at her discarded gloves. Her eyes trailed over the burns on her palms, forever red and blistered from the light, before she reached over to grab hold of the gloves. A wince was evident on her features as she slipped the fabric over tender skin, but she felt her body relaxing at the cover. She focused on the flowers that had perked up from her light as she spoke to the stranger once more. “I—” a pause, before she could gather her thoughts. “I was just giving the flowers more light. They were drooping.” 

She was a gentle little thing. Small and fearful and trembling. She looks resigned, already, to a fate in the gallows, as well she should: there are few like them who do not know the fear of death from the moment their powers manifest, few for whom it causes anything but pain. But her gaze, cast on the petals before her, bolstered by the light of her fingertips, the bright red blisters and scars that covered her palms for the moment before her gloves re-covered them... 

     “The King did not send me,” they said, stepping close enough that she need not do more than whisper to be heard. They would not be overheard, here, but Wraith was accustomed to taking such precautions anyway. 

There was little point, to telling the King of a hidden inferni among his court. It would hardly even hold his interest, to know; a wave of his hand and she would be executed for hiding it and the King would barely notice that Wraith had even been involved in the transaction. Such high cost, for so little gain. 

And the panicked fear in her tremulous voice, as she made excuses for what she had done, for returning life and vitality to a withering plant as if such a thing ought to be the death sentence that it was... no, they had no interest in telling the King, no interest in seeing a child die any earlier than she already would when the bright white light of her powers burned the life out of her too young anyway. 

     “Inferni, too, enjoy a little exposure to nature, sometimes. Fresh air to clear the mind. The scent of roses.”

It is a message, coded in the elegant double-speak of court, that they hope she is wise enough to understand: I won’t tell anyone, what you are. You are owed much, much better than that.

     “You ought to be more careful, though. I’ve heard these flowers have unexpected thorns. You’d hate to rip those gloves on one of them.” 

[shadowrcith]

viktordaegal​:

Wraith painted an image that starkly differed from the one that had bore the brunt of the King’s scornful gaze; shrouded in nonchalance, draped in disregard, and soaked in the blackness of night that left no fodder for the eyes. It had once been difficult for Viktor to gauge what they so artfully concealed, but he had gazed upon their mask until he knew he had to look elsewhere for the truth; had traced their pretenses until he learned to peel back their curled corners and glimpse what lay underneath. And now, Viktor had become adept at grasping the nuances and telltale signs that marked Wraith’s distinct brand of body language – not enough to fully interpret it, but enough to have an inkling of the meaning it carried.

Yet as he watched them now, Viktor couldn’t help but feel at a loss. Their clenched fists, taut shoulders, and stone-hard stance – it had all eluded him, but even with those details banished and the throne room long since left behind, Viktor found himself still seeking clarity. In his eyes, it was only natural for Wraith be affronted by the King’s stance on the assassination attempt, especially since it unjustly held them accountable for what had happened. And if they knew Viktor at all, they would expect that understanding from him; so why did they brush it off? Why did they hide, time and time again? Was it a matter of pride, or mere wariness of how their words could be used against them?

“You have no guilt to shoulder here, Wraith,” Viktor murmured with a shake of his head. “It was unreasonable of him to blame you, and you had every right to argue against it. No one could have anticipated what happened.”

There were few, in this court, who had sought to understand them, in any way other than accepting their presence: to most, Wraith was like a vaguely unsettling portrait on the wall of one of the hallways, or a particularly skittish cat occasionally slinking by. Everyone knew why they were there, what they could do, what their presence met, and wanted little more to do with them than that. Those who sought to understand anything beyond that came in two schools: those who, like them, had magic; or those who wanted something from them, whether that was a secret kept or a secret told. 

Viktor, as far as they knew, was neither. And yet, he was always asking questions of them. Catching up to them, outside the throne room, to ask after their thoughts on one matter or another, sometimes to do with their respective roles, threats to the king. Sometimes questions with little real meaning, questions that were less questions and more gestures, hands reaching towards them, offering them something to hold on to if they were willing to reach out. It was strange, still, something a little unfathomable; they understood motive better than most, so preoccupied with sussing it out from snippets of overheard conversation, guessing at it, finding confirmation. Once, they might have thought the bodyguard saw them a danger; an understandable concern, for someone who would appear anywhere in the world at will. But no, Viktor’s motives were beyond them, even now, as was the gentle murmur of his comforting words, the way the angles of his face and the bulk of his frame could somehow look diminutive and tender, here in the dark, even when only hours ago Wraith had seem him cut a man clean in two with one blow.

     “If only reason were the metric by which we measured our lives, here in the court of King Septimus.” 

It wasn’t just the magi whose lives hung in the balance of Septimus’ whims, they knew that. Levana hadn’t needed to remind them how many nobles, servants, and soldiers had been put to death because they’d carried those secrets to the King’s ears. One wrong word, and it could have easily been Viktor in their place. Except that Viktor was like a northern star anchored in the firmaments, steadfast and reliable, dedicated to his task, an unmoving protector by Septimus’ side. 

     “Thankfully, I have you to thank for keeping my head. If the attempt had been a success, surely I would have been the first to be disposed of in whatever new reign followed close behind.” 

[shadowrcith]

emperorvalmont​:

Wraith offers him more information about their dealings with his father in this moment than his own father had offered him in his entire life. Inner workings of this kingdom were always taught to him through tutors, even as he argued that first-hand experience from the man he was to inherit the throne from would serve him much better. Perhaps that’s why Septimus never taught him, hoping his son would never inherit that crown perched gloriously atop his head. And yet Reynaud doesn’t ever think of that possibility for a moment, living in the ignorance his role affords to him, taking comfort in the power his blood has graced him with. So of course he’s inclined to listen, the hand ever ready to send his guards to escort Wraith out (not that they would be of much use against a person who could change their location in the blink of an eye) settling back atop the hard wood of his desk.

Reynaud at least knows better than to completely trust Wraith, as his father seemed lack of complete trust for anyone. And yet, his pride vulnerable, he listens, not knowing what value there is of lying about what they do with his father for he could easily get that information himself. Only, he couldn’t get the information so easily, if at all, and that is exactly the reason he listens. Reynaud only barely knows of Wraith’s duties with the King, knowing they passed information back and forth, but that was just about it. He never knew the nature of their conversations, was not privy to the information they passed along. And he certainly wasn’t aware that Wraith was as much the weaver of information as they were the relayer of it.

Possibilities begin to swirl in that wretched mind of his. Learning nothing of the horrors a dead man has tried to wordlessly communicate to him, Reynaud is foolish enough to fall for this, likely because of how well these rumors may serve him. It’s his ticket to the respect he’s been looking for and the demotion of those who stand in his way or dare to humiliate him. It’s power he hadn’t imagined prior to this moment. “Can they?” he asks, obviously interested. And yet, there’s the voice at the back of his mind that reminds him Wraith must have something to gain from all of this. “Tell me, then, why do you bring this information to me? And further why do you bring it to me right now?”

Reynaud’s face is telling, like a child putting together a puzzle and finding that the pieces create an image they rather like. There is interest, in his voice and in his face, in his posture. The barest hint of suspicion, there, too, just a small thing holding him back, the kind of thing that could be easily assuaged. It is a good trait, for a king, they think, to be foolish, and gullible. To be swayed by the words of their advisors such that they were the sole ruler in name only. 

     “You killed a king,” they begin. “You stopped an uprising. It is clear as day, to me, that that deserves celebration, and yet there are some in this court who don’t seem to appreciate what a feat you have accomplished.” Perhaps, they think for a moment, they are laying it on a little thick, but they’ve been in proximity to the Prince long enough to know that a stoking of his ego can only be a boon. “All I mean to say is that if the court will not see reason, there are other ways to ensure they think of you the way you want them to.” 

It is not entirely a lie, but it is mostly one: of course, Wraith could easily place rumors, sway decisions. Everyone wanted secrets, everyone was hungry for the kind of information they thought they could use to their advantage. They had traded in secrets with people other than the King more times than they could count. They had, after all, been the architect of their own reputation, as a ghost, as a snake, as a beast hidden behind a muzzle, a monster with a mask over its face. 

    “I serve the King, of course, but does it not also serve the King to serve his rightful heir? And as one day you will sit on his throne, it seems only appropriate that you be well practiced in the arts that keep his reputation clean.”

[shadowrcith]

undyingpriestess​:

    She understood why they preferred to shield their face in shadows, leather, and bindings. It was for the same reason she took the time to paint her face as she did, why she bothered to pull at the forgetful muscles that found it difficult to feign a smile and furrow her brow. Hers was a mask of her own making, but, as she felt the muscles of her face relax into something less fetching – however, it was far more serene – she felt as though it were slipping off of her face as well. If they were to make themself so vulnerable before her, then she would pay them the respect of doing the same. 

      She was divesting herself, just as Wraith was. 

    Though she was not able to empathize with them, to feel the pain they felt – in this, they could share. It was not all she wished that they could share in, though. What if it were possible to turn the roiling of emotions elsewhere? To act as the wind and turn these flames to the direction that she so pleased. But that is not what they needed of her. What they needed was the soft lull of a quieting breeze that would turn such tumultuous wildfire into something more tamed, like the warming flames of a hearth. 

    … I fear sometimes the King believes it is a crime for me to do anything besides roll over like a well-trained dog…

    It was well known how Septimus treated his dogs. 

    Carefully, her fingertips brushed against theirs before slipping into the empty spaces. Though she didn’t know whether or not the comfort of touch was necessary, it would be there all the same. “When did you grow so comfortable knowing that you commit a crime simply by being as you are?” Her gaze flickered between theirs, wide-eyed and curious. Levana knew very well of living as an abhorrence of nature; her parents being so kind as to waken her to that reality the moment she was born. But to willingly submit to such subservience when such power was at the tips of their fingers…

    “I cannot blame you for searching for answers, Wraith. You know as well as I that every answer that you give to the King will tighten the noose around someone’s neck.”

Their existence had always been a crime. Necromancers may have been considered holy, gifted their abilities by the Undying, but no one saw Inferni like them that way. They didn’t need to be reminded of it, the terror in the eyes of those around them the first time they fell out of existence and into the void, reappearing several feet away. They remember the sound of screams as clear as anything. But there is a constant reminder, anyway, in the way people look at them as they walk by. The sneering of the cleric who thinks their existence a curse, the fearful aversion of young noble girls to whom they represent some kind of storybook monster lurking in the shadows. The fiery rage behind Kithri’s eyes when she thinks no one else is watching her, subjected to all of it and more than they are because her powers are seen as an entertainment instead of a boon, instead of a scalpel.

Inferni had been hanged for less than failing to predict an assassination attempt on the king. Inferni had been hanged for the crime of existing, long before Wraith ever set foot in court. The line that separates them from the bodies in the ground is a narrow one, a tightrope they walk every day, and one they came dangerously close to falling off of, today. Comfort had nothing to do with it; it was fact. 

    “As long as that neck isn’t my own,” they reply quietly. It isn’t noble. It isn’t right. It’s survival, pure and simple, the single force that has driven them this far, that has kept them alive and safe and favored enough not to spend every waking moment looking over their own shoulder for danger. 

[shadowrcith]

naenias​:

Softness does not become her, she thinks. While she can play the part of someone with more than a quarter of a fully functioning heart, the feeling of caring sits between her ribs at an odd angle, gets caught in the back of her throat as farce fights its way out. And yet, despite the mild discomfort, there is an odd satisfaction to be found in playing pretend, when there is worthy cause. 

Wraith, she believes, is worthy of the effort. 

The beading of their mask catches her eyes, which, in turn, catch the light as she admires such artistry. Such a beautiful disguise for a formidable beast; it makes her smile. 

“You wield it better than most,” she says, and the undeniable truth in that shocks even her. Enough so, that she takes a step back. She is no stranger to Inferni. She has danced in the flames of chaos, been acquainted with many who came before Wraith and burned out faster than a candle in the Sanctum, and twice as bright. 

They were dangerous for what they were, but more so in the way they could themselves. 

“That does not mean you, nor I, are to watch over him like a child.” 

     “And yet, he’s the man on whom my continued existence depends,” they counter, gently. The fire is gone from their voice, gone from their chest, replaced with the cool crystalline clarity of their situation. Not unlike the numbness that Levana has been teaching them to cultivate. It is not new, for them, to look at the facts in place with objective reasoning, but to be unaffected by things instead of just seeming that way is a practiced trait. 

And this is a fact: the only thing that stopped them from dying, tonight, from being strung up in the gallows at Septimus’ command, was that ultimately the King’s whims did not carry him so far past reason that he lost sight of their usefulness. They had seen his fury end lives more valuable than their own with little thought, the barest consideration. And though it was hard to execute a ghost, hard to string a person up by their neck when they could disappear the instant you tried, any life Wraith could lead outside the walls of this castle and the power it provided them was hardly a life worth living, and not one they would survive very long before they turned entirely to smoke. 

     “Your power exists without him,” they elaborate. “Means something, without him. Mine, I’m afraid, does not. Unless some other, more powerful patron decided at the right moment that they needed a spy.”

[shadowrcith]

W R A I T H : a playlist for a shadow

. . . sorry, I don't want your touch / it's not that I don't want you / sorry, I can't take your touch / it's just that I fell in love with a war / and nobody told me it ended / but it left a pearl in my head / and I roll it around / every night just to watch it grow . . .