#serpentandapostate

[inquisitorlamaenor-blog]

It is a quiet night in Solitude, the city stills in the darkness but doesn't really stop, the guards walk briskly through the street, as alert as always. A young Thalmor stops to bow as Lamaenor passes, his two Justiciars walking by his side, the old mer smiles kindly at the bowing mer and tells her to stand straight.

"Good Evening, Initiate,"

The young mer bows even deeper, the embroidery on her collar shows that she is an Illusion mage. Not very talented, but eager. Lamaenor makes a mental note, he has to remember this girl, she could be useful.

"Inquisitor," she says and looks up at him, "What brings you to Solitude?"

"A personal matter," a smile that looks like a reptiles, but it soon softens into something kinder, faker, "A... friend," he folds his hands into his sleeves, "Perhaps you can accompany me to the Shrines?" he almost chuckles at her eager expression, at her hunger to show herself good enough, "I am afraid I do not know the way,"

"Certainly! I would be honoured, Inquisitor!" she straightens, smoothes her robes into perfection, "If I may ask, who is this friend?"

"Oh, no one special," another smile, a twinkling of eyes behind half moon spectacles, "Just a priest that wandered off,"

[bitter-wormwood-blog]

The Night Will Always Win

Ioannes had to start giving the needle a wide berth the second day after the visit.

He hadn’t touched it for several days beforehand. He couldn’t last the week, and he knew that much for a fact, but to try was to pay a last respect. To break was yet another stain on his record, another insult, another stupid, futile gesture of childish rebellion against someone who was now no longer even alive to feel the sting of it.

But he had to. He had lasted withdrawal as long as he could physically manage, weathered punishing fever and cramping nausea and hallucinations and he was afraid if he didn’t do it now he’d never manage it for the shaking. The dependency had only lessened its chokehold slightly in the past weeks.

It all washed away in a second, though. That was always how it was, seconds after the needle slid home. It was bliss, again, as it hadn’t been in a long, long time, suddenly a drowned absence from the crushing knowledge that had dogged him in the past days and prevented his touching the boxes on the table or going near their contents, stopped him reading half the books he owned, stopped him touching his own writings, staid his hand from the door and paralyzed his will to work, reduced him to a pacing temper with dead, hollow eyes.

He knew what would follow when the last warm lapping tide of the high faded away but it made it so easy not to care. When the immobility had worn off it was wonderfully simple to just ignore everything that had happened and focus only on the work he’d been doing before.

It wasn’t gone. He wasn’t ignorant and he was far from content, farther still from happy, but he was distracted and that was enough.

He still avoided the kitchen and its ugly boxes except to dodge in and keep the fire hot. Jitters made a home on the hearth. Winter in Skyrim was cruel to a cat without fur, and his master held all the body heat of a stone.

He was only a cat, but he was not unobservant. Something was wrong. 

He stretched and strolled over to the door when he heard it open.

[bitter-wormwood-blog]

Ioannes spent the dark hours in pacing research. He had things to occupy his mind, now, no all-consuming boredom, and the hours wound away quickly in contemplation of various data. He had not given thought to rest tonight anyway, and with Jeelus occupying the other room, the possibility of it had faded pleasantly into the background. He had better things to do. There wasn't a sound from the other all night, and dawn broke cold and cloudy. 

[bitter-wormwood-blog]

retiredthalmor replied to your post: Lamaenor knocks 

“Ioannes,” Lamaenor smiles softly, eyes twinkling, “It is good to see you,” he eyes the mer quickly, “You look.. well”

There's a stab of hot emotion, not quite panic, not identifiable, but not fear, not really. Not now. His posture does not change and he even gives the Inquisitor a smile.

It goes nowhere near his eyes.

"Inquisitor Lamaenor. How fine to see you again." His voice is even and he refuses to allow even a shred of customary disconcerted fright to find a home in his brain. "Another friendly visit, is it?" His eyes skip across the two young Thalmor, younger than he is, probably, in the way that most people regard rodents. 

[bitter-wormwood-blog]

Lamaenor knocks on the cottage door, decidedly merry. The two Initiates behind him are nervous, eager, it is their first mission and they keep their specilizations close to the surface, lets it dance over their finger tips. Lamaenor would be more irritated at them being so /obvious/, if he wasn't decidedly /merry/. It was always good to do some catch up with old... acquintances.

Th knock is unexpected, but they always are, and he turns from his work to answer. He is quicker than usual. The pall of sickness still lies on him like a shroud but he's been eating, sleeping, even less gaunt. The house has been pulled from its state of chaos into one that almost manages to teeter on the edge of tidiness.

His back is straight when he opens the door.

[archerandmage-blog]

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