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?

Comments

[spelleton]

"You're well enough to be sharp with me, so that's a good sign." He puts the flame back into its jar, shaking it a little to settle it. He gives him another looking over before he wanders back into the room where he'd gotten the jar from originally.

He pauses on the threshold, as if he's remembered something he wanted to say.

"If you'd like to rest, you can use my bed for now. I've arranged the space where your room will be, but I thought I'd wait until you actually settled in to let you decide on the finer details."

[subconmodo]

He'd rather stay awake. Unfortunately, between the fire that burned through him and the toll the poison took on him, Avery's body has other ideas. "I think I might take you up on that," he finally concedes with some measure of annoyance.

"And uh..." he looks away, messing with the end of his nightshirt. "Thanks."

[spelleton]

"You might want to hold off on your thanks until you understand what it's like to be my apprentice," he says, dryly. There's a pause, and then he glances at him. There's something almost sad about his expression, just for a moment. "And I can't deny the request of someone who wants to be free."

[subconmodo]

Avery shrugs as he gets to his feet. "You did it anyway. And you saved me from being poisoned to death, too. If that isn't work thanks, I don't know what is."

[spelleton]

"That's fair, I suppose," he says, a slight, amused smile coming to his face. He has the air of someone who's not used to being thanked. "Go to sleep, then. You look like you need it."

[subconmodo]

Darkness stretches out in all directions, filling his lungs when he breathes, pressing in on him from all sides. One by one, little glass bottles roll in to settle beside him, piling up and forming walls to bury him.

He tries to move, to pull himself free, to get some air, but hands with bleached, greying skin stretched tight over their bones hold him in place, dragging, dragging, drowning...

Someone laughs. Another joins them. One by one they grow louder and louder until it becomes a veritable chorus of mockery.

"Stop..."

Avery tosses and turns fitfully in his sleep, hair stuck to his sweat slick face.

The funeral shroud is tossed. His body dumped. Forgotten.

"No!"

[spelleton]

Ekkehardt tinkers with bottles and powders, watching the flame as it swirls in the jar, slowly burning orange again as it feeds off the poison it's collected. It's not a common poison, and it's a nasty one, but it's nothing he can't create a treatment for.

The shout is what brings him into the room. He's certain Avery is in no danger - not immediately, at least - but there's no knowing what kind of effects the poison might leave his patient with.

Rather than watch him toss and turn, he shakes him awake in an attempt to free him from whatever he's dreaming of - clearly not something pleasant.

[subconmodo]

Avery gasps for breath as he jolts awake, instinctively reaching out to shove Ekkehardt away from him. His wild eyes dart around the room, searching for any sign of the vials from the dream, waiting to cough up the darkness that filled his lungs.

But nothing comes up. And little by little he starts to come back to reality.

"Sorry," he says after a moment, heel of his palm pressed to his eye.

[spelleton]

He steps back, not wanting to disturb him unduly.

"No need to apologise," he says, a little wry. "After the amount of poison you were dosed with, I'm not surprised there might be some residual effects. People have died from far less than what you ingested, you know."

[subconmodo]

He laughs bitterly. "I'm aware." He draws the word out, the syllables like venom and bile on his tongue. "It's not like I'm their first victim anyway. Truly they are the pinnacle of leadership."

[spelleton]

He sits on, apparently, nothing, though if Avery is paying attention even in a dimly-lit room, his cloak swirls around him to create a kind of makeshift seat. He crosses his legs, propping his chin up on a hand.

"Then it's very personal for you." Even more so than just being poisoned himself, which anyone would hold a grudge against; this injury runs deeper than even that.

[subconmodo]

He debates saying anything, then ultimately decides there'd be no harm in it. "I don't suppose you heard about the queen's death?" he asks, propping up the pillow behind him and folding his arms to lay against it.

"It was a tragedy, but hardly an accident. The second I was old enough I took measures to ensure it wouldn't happen again."

Some job he did.

[spelleton]

"I do remember a funeral," he says, after a moment. "My mother took me, when I was fairly young."

He frowns, slightly, but it can't hurt to tell him. "The land mourned for her as well." His voice is quiet. "She must have been an exceptional person."

(The land had become still; it had rained for days on end until the rivers swelled and threatened to burst their banks. He had cried, then, during those days of endless rain, though he wasn't entirely sure who or what he was crying for.

Those days had been a blur. There had been an overwhelming, suffocating sadness in the forest, then, that his mother had to fortify him against; she had often said he was a little too sensitive for such work, that she worried for him. But she had taught him regardless, as was his desire.)

[subconmodo]

He remembers that, if only barely. His young mind had been focused on the vials and her killers more than it had been on the forest, but the few times he had managed to pull himself out of his thoughts he had never been sure whether or not he should be thankful or bitter about the fact that it always seemed to be raining--whether the forest was truly on his side or it was just the weather itself making a mockery of him.

He manages to smile again, still wistful, but at least a little more genuine. "Heh. She was to me. But I guess I'm always going to be a little biased."

[spelleton]

"Entirely understandable," he replies, with a faint smile in return.

He tilts his head slightly. "Shall I leave you to get more sleep, or is there anything further you'd like to ask of me? You still need rest, so I don't think you should get up just yet, but I'm happy to talk with you if you wish."

[subconmodo]

He thinks on that a moment. "Let's go halvsies," he decides. "Don't think I'll be able to go to sleep right away, but I get the feeling you have a few things that you're wanting to get done too."

And though he doesn't say it, he's not entirely sure he should go to bed with his mother on his mind. Not after that nightmare.

[spelleton]

"The treatment to bring you back to full health is in progress, and doesn't need my help, at least." He hums a little. "I was going to spend some time tailoring some of my outfits for you, however, given you didn't come with much..."

He pauses in thought. "Though if there's anything in particular you'd like to retrieve, I can do that for you. I'd offer to let you do it yourself once you'd recovered, but I imagine your belongings won't exactly be something they're willing to keep for long."

[subconmodo]

His law books are what come to mind first, but the thought is quickly dismissed. It's not like they'll be that much use to him during his apprenticeship. The stationery sets come next, but, painful as it is to part from them, he can always find new and better ones (perhaps even something enchanted or made of rarer stuff, too, and wouldn't that be a treat?)

There's only one thing he can think of that's irreplaceable. "The mask I wore as a kid. They might give it to the king, but I get the feeling they're just as likely to 'lose' it."

[spelleton]

"Very well." He stands, clearly already preparing for his next journey. The cloak seems to pool around him like water, curling around him like a living thing. Shrouding him in darkness.

"If you want me to collect any other keepsakes, then tell me now. If you don't, then simply tell me where you've kept your mask, and I'll retrieve it for you."

[subconmodo]

There's no response. Not at first. Avery stares at Ekkehardt with wide eyes, blinking owlishly, mouth hanging open just a little.

"I want a cape like that," he says with all the reverence of a man staring at an endless cache of gold.

And then he comes to his senses. "Oh. And, uh. Should be in one of the chests in my room. Not sure which one. Been awhile."

[spelleton]

That gets a surprised little laugh from him. "I'll teach you to make one, then," he replies. "They're convenient for travel." "And," he gestures with a flourish, a movement that makes the cloak swirl around his arm. "they do look nice."

He steps out of the room with a brief instruction to Avery to not exert himself, before he vanishes into the cloak's darkness. The lamps that grant light in the cottage dim when he leaves, leaving the house quiet and dark, a decent environment for rest.

Ekkehardt's room is mostly ordinary, even for a witch. It's full of little decorations and trinkets, a desk for sitting and writing at, a bookcase full of worn, old books, a wardrobe shut tight and a chest with an excessive amount of locks in which a dozen keys could fit. Plants in bottles sit at windowsills, their curtains closed against the oncoming autumn chill. A pointed hat hangs from a hook. Somewhere, a clock ticks distantly.

[subconmodo]

He really is tired, and the dimmed lights only serve to encourage him in the direction of sleep. He can't, though. Not yet. He doesn't trust himself. And so, in a place like this, there's really only one thing to do:

Avery immediately heads for the wardrobe to rummage around in it. (making a note to practice his lockpicking skills for the chest later).

[spelleton]

The wardrobe is full of clothing, as might be expected from a wardrobe. There's a surprising amount of ornate clothing, though from the way it's been neatly folded and put to the back of the wardrobe, it doesn't see much use. A simple box that folds out reveals several accessories and trinkets; a few rings and bracelets, and a choker with a gem in it that burns like fire even in the dark.

Most of the clothing, however, is hard-wearing and plain, clearly intended to protect its wearer from the elements and hazards you'd find in a forest. It has the worn look of something that's been washed and mended countless times.

Aside from that, there's nothing out of the ordinary. Except, occasionally, there's rustling sounds from within.

[subconmodo]

The clothes are quite nice, he can't help but note, but they pale in comparison to the apparent movement somewhere inside. Curiosity gets the best of him, and while he does what he can to keep from disturbing the folded clothes too much (because honestly, they're so nicely folded that only the biggest, uncaring fool in the world would ruin that), he tries to search for the source of the rustling sound.

[spelleton]

There's a sleepy peeping noise as something latches casually onto his hand. Fortunately, it has all the holding power of a lazy kitten (and claws to match) so it's only a temporary pain at worst. Drawing his hand out a little will reveal what looks like a large, juvenile bird, if birds also had an extra two limbs and cat paws.

A calico griffin that can't be more than a few months old mouths curiously at one of his fingers with its beak. Clearly finding nothing of importance, it blinks sleepily in even dim light.