seen from Iraq
seen from Canada
seen from Russia
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seen from China
seen from Türkiye
seen from China
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lucius-of-cornwell:
“…all right, I’ll concede that it’s more like wrangling ten-year-olds. Perhaps twelve. Niles has a….rather extensive vocabulary as well.”
“Creative, too. Seems like you’ve got your hands full. .... I don’t actually hear you objecting too much, though.”
@lucius-of-cornwell
“Lord Cornwell used to say, of many things, ‘sure it’s easy–once you know how,’“ he said. “I’m sure that Matthew greatly overestimates my ability to understand how a lock really functions, never mind how to open one without a key.”
“Lord Cornwell seems like a knowledgable fellow. It is mechanics, not magic, but the principle’s the same whether it’s a key or a pick. The key just makes the work simpler by aligning all the pins at once, rather than one at a time.”
"Um. . . how old ARE you, Yuan?" He fidgets just a bit, knowing it's a rude question. But he has to have SOME idea how many candles to put on a cake, whenever he decides on a date to do some kind of birthday celebration. He knew it was unlikely at best that he'd get a date, or even a season if he were to ask.
@lucius-of-cornwell
Yuan paused. He had been attempting an upgrade of the spider cannon from Halloween, various components spread about the table in front of him. His head turned in the direction that the interruption had come from, unseeing eyes fixed in that direction.
"Older than dirt... Most of it," he said, fingers resuming their progress.
A moment passed. He reached for a pair of pliers.
"Do you really want to know?"
"It's like wrangling five-year-olds." --lucius-of-cornwell
“Oh, c’mon. Odin’s gotta be at least ten with a vocabulary that large.”
( @outlawandoutlandish for reasons)
lucius-of-cornwell
“Quite certain, thank you,” Lucius said, opting to not answer the remark about the lack of respectable men. Legault was quite right, and Lucius was quite uncomfortable. He was thirsty, yes–but he didn’t trust any beverage he might acquire here to not have some kind of…unsavory additive.
“I still have a little bit of water, I’m quite content with that.” And it was a little bit–he’d just have to make it last until Raymond returned. No one in their right mind would slip something into the drink of the notoriously hard-eyed mercenary, right? …right?
Legault eyed the level of water in Lucius’ mug speculatively. “It was a dry march,” he pointed out. Not that alcohol was particularly hydrating, even he knew that, but it was a much-needed refreshment after all of that walking.
Whatever he was about to say next was cut short by the arrival of three muscled men, reeking of ale, but not so far in their cups that they were listing. The frontrunner dropped his hands on their table with a solid thunk, and cast a leering eye over Lucius, followed by a disparaging one at Legault.
“Well hey there, beautiful,” he smirked. “Why not ditch this loser for a real fun time, eh?”
Tehuano
(drabble inspired by and for @lucius-of-cornwell and @askdemons)
Tehuano (n:): a violent, mountain-gap wind, most common from October through February, accelerated by cold-air damming. It can reach gale, storm, and hurricane force.
A drunken shout of war on a drizzly late afternoon was the first time that rumor had trickled out in Legault’s direction. He leaned on the table, lashes lowered, fingertips cradling the rim of his mug. Rumors like that were best taken carefully, their tellers often prone to exaggeration or misunderstanding.
Even so, if half of them were true, Bulgar’s streets were running red instead of gold, and the forces that had swept through there were poised to turn their blades on Lycia. A restless feeling, like the beating wings of a swarm of locusts, settled itself into Legault’s gut.
There was little he could do about it. It would take two days to settle his charges in their new location, and another three to make Araphen if he pushed himself to his limit. Fang they might be, and able to take care of themselves, but Legault was their security slip on their new place. That would have to come first. Legault downed the last of his now-warm drink, tossed a handful of coins on the table, and got moving.
Stay for dinner, they’d invited Legault. It would be the first one in their new place, and a few others he’d helped relocate nearby would drop in. It was the least they could do, the lady of the house insisted, and the others looked glad to see him, too.
The restlessness in his gut had doubled over the span of their journey. He agreed anyway. The sun was waning, and the warmth of the small group was an echo of the camaraderie he remembered too well, soothing one ache at the expense of another. Still, as true night fell, he caught himself looking out the window, time and again. If he pushed himself on the main road under the moonlight, how long … ? The thought went unfinished.
“Waiting for a lady-friend, Hurricane?” the master of the house teased. Legault chuckled wryly. “Alas, you’ve caught me out. I’m a terrible houseguest.”
“Go,” the master’s lady said gently. “You’ve done more for us than we could have imagined.” She clasped his hands, as did her husband over her, and the others followed, a clap on each of his shoulders. Heart full, he tore himself away, his pack stuffed with the leftovers of their dinner, and the road a blur under his feet.
Legault was half a day out from Araphen when he tilted his head up, and realized that the clouds above were gray, not white, and caught the scent of the breeze.
Smoke.
Something wrapped around his heart and squeezed as a trumpeting roar split the air. He ripped his feet from where they seemed to have taken root and pushed himself off the main road in the nick of time as a flight of wyvern riders sailed past overhead. A lone traveler might or might not be questioned leaving, but one heading towards a battlefield, afoot and alone, would ring some alarm bells.
Every scrap of elusiveness he’d learned in the Fang was tested that day. He flitted from shadow to shadow, bypassing foot soldiers looting their battlefields and cavalrymen hauling prisoners and supplies back to the center of the city. He shielded himself under trees and balconies against the ever-present wyverns, and privately thanked Heath for teaching him that the giant scaly beasts were best at spotting moving targets, not ones that stayed still. Bern lost a quartet of their scattered sentries as the Hurricane picked off the ones in his route, cleanly, silently, and with few regrets.
When Legault reached the short stone walls of the orphanage hours later, the reek of carnage was so thick that his eyes watered. He dampened his headband with what little water he had left, and pulled it over his nose and mouth before ducking around the smashed gate and into the garden. The flies rose in a thick carpet before settling again on a squadron of bodies spilled brokenly across the flagstones.
Legault’s heart stalled, and he forced himself to look again, more carefully. This display was two or three days old, by his reckoning. Assassins didn’t typically stick around after their work was done, but he’d spent enough time on a battlefield to know.
The bodies were mostly uniformed Bernese, although it seemed that a few of the local neighbors had put up a stand here that ended their days. The only sign of Lucius was a signature gray-edged scorch that Legault had long-ago learned was the afterimage of a Shine tome’s divine light. No sign of the younger boys. The front door of the orphanage swayed crookedly in the wind, and he drew closer, cautiously. No sound carried from inside, nor anywhere else here, save from the flies.
The bodies near the door were struck down by a sword with pure, artistic precision -- one cut, one kill. The ground here was still pooled with blood, drying and sticky. Legault edged carefully around it, scraping his boots on what was left of the mat to leave as little trace as possible, and took a swift glance inside.
The war zone continued, the once-peaceful orphanage a shambles of destruction. The Shine tome had had its say here as well, spraying scorchmarks on the walls, floor, and humble furnishings. More Bernese soldiers lay scattered in disjointed positions ranging from the front door to the back, but had stalled near the monk’s study. Legault stepped over the last one, and glanced over his shoulder into that small room. It had been tossed, the books piled carelessly on the floor and desk, and a trail of blood dripped its way into and out of it, but it was blessedly free of bodies.
He eased into the kitchen. It was nearly pristine, the only damage here a similar trail of blood, although distorted by walking over itself time and again. It trailed its way around the small room from cabinet to cabinet. He stepped over it, heart in his throat as he spied the slip of paper on the counter, and seized it in a flash.
Lemons and salt. The rest of the list didn’t matter. The boys were safe. Lucius was safe -- or as safe as could be, all things considered.
Legault released a sigh of relief that broke the uncanny stillness of the orphanage, and collapsed against the counter, breathing deeply through his makeshift mask. He collected the list, and eyed the handwriting. No one’s he knew, unless Lucius had been hurt so deeply it had destroyed his elegant script. He folded it and slipped it into the pouch at his waist. Given the state of the bodies in the vicinity, he had a guess.
It was time to start tracking.
(≈) Few would accuse Lucius of possessing anything akin to physical strength, but a combination of balance and surprise could make up for it. At the most inopportune of times. He didn't meant to stumble into the mercenary, and he certainly didn't mean to do so next to a fountain, as the mercenary in question was mid-step. A squeak and a splash and that was that. At least it was an honest mistake, not a drop-kick? --lucius-of-cornwell
Send me a "≈" and my muse will react to yours shoving them into a body of water. (Accepting!)
“Whoa —!” SPLORSH. A truly spectactular tumble, sideways so at least his boots stayed dry. Mostly. Nothing else had.
Drip. Drip.
“Heh, you’ve got more strength in you than you look.” Alvin pushed himself upright and groaned as water drained out of his hair. “Aw man …”
((Old Injury)) Lucius has long since learned that sometimes it's easier to ask forgiveness than permission. Yuan can't see the telltale white glow around Lucius's hands, but he may feel the soothing magic building before it makes contact. Gently makes contact. Startling the daylights out of him would be counterproductive. --Lucius-of-Cornwell
Ordinarily, it wouldn’t matter that Yuan has the heel of his palms pressed into his eyes. They have long since stopped feeding him any meaningful information. The mana he uses to orientate himself is all around and felt, not seen. It might take concentrated effort to navigate but he generally knows when there are people around especially when they move.
He has bad days. Off days. Days when the old pain throbs behind his eyes and he sees bursts of light that aren’t really there. Days when he doesn’t eat, not because he doesn’t want to, but because he can’t. Days when he’s cold or hot or maybe both but none of that matters.
Because he isn’t moving until it passes. So he doesn’t need to ‘see’. So it doesn’t matter if the world is dark.
So he is in fact startled when suddenly a soothing warmth spreads over his shoulders from a warm pair of hands.
“Haven’t you heard of knocking?” he snaps.
