into the woods

[spelleton]

There are stories told about who lives there, in the darkness of the woods that surround Subcon's various kingdoms, where even a brave knight would fear to tread. The desperate, the ghost-touched, the people who live on the edges.

And those who embrace that border between night and day, those who live and breathe magic; the witches. Those who offer strange magic and stranger things, but always for a price.

That's what everyone says, anyway. There must be some truth to it, surely?

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[spelleton]

He's serious, if nothing else, even if he's made no plans. That's enough for him, and he swallows down the last scraps of his own hesitation.

"Very well." He closes his eyes for a moment, and then opens them again, and they burn hypnotically red. He sounds like rushing water, the sound of the rivers that have run through Subcon's woods since before there were humans born.

"Gold and silver is too frivolous to be spent on such an important matter. So what will you give me in return?"

[subconmodo]

The sound fills his head, a familiar unfamiliar noise. He's heard it before, he thinks, like he hears the forest within him, though never this loud. And so it takes him a moment to full process what's being said, thoughts slowly beginning to trickle in through the rushing waters, becoming wholly aware of the fact that all he brought with him to pay with was silver and gold.

"Myself," he finally decides. "I'll work under you, doing anything you need me to do until you feel the debt has been repaid."

[spelleton]

Himself. It's an unexpected answer, but he supposes it must be an easy one for a man so bent on abandoning his old life.

"Then you'll work for me, for a year and a day. And at the end of that time, you'll be granted your freedom, and you can make your own way in the world as you so wish.

Hold out your hand."

[subconmodo]

"A year and a day then," he agrees, and holds out his hand.

He holds his breath and fights to keep from closing his eyes in a moment of weakness. False death or no, he can't help but wonder if this will hurt.

[spelleton]

He takes Avery's hand. For a moment, there's a sense of power seething just below the surface of Ekkehardt's skin, like a kettle boiling.

A bright mark - some odd sigil, a twisting loop - winds itself around his wrist like a tattoo. It feels cold to the touch, but quickly warms to Avery's skin. It doesn't hurt; there's slight discomfort at most.

"Then we are agreed. In three days, when the moon is new, I'll come for you."

[subconmodo]

He takes his hand back and rubs at his wrist. Maybe he'll fake being sick over the next few days, make it look believable, maybe take to wearing gloves at that time as well. The less people asking about where he got the marking the better.

"All right. Should I have something ready before then?"

[spelleton]

That light fades from his eyes, and he blinks. Once, twice. When he speaks again, he sounds tired, as if he's just laboured greatly.

"Anything you want to save of your old life -- you should be sure you're carrying it on your person in three days time. Everything else must be left behind."

It's death, after all, even a false one. The things that he can take with him are few.

[subconmodo]

He takes a breath, and by the time he lets it out, he assumes he's put himself together well enough. And then he laughs. "Right, right. I'll do my best to make sure all of my limbs are still attached to my body by the time you come along!"