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 Posted: Sat Jun 19, 2010 10:05 am
____________________________________________
__________• THE SWORD AND THE SOLDIER •__________
Who
The Soldier, Langston Beufort (The Leech Festival)
The Sword, Sloane (ex o ex Snoof)
Where
Helios; a ramshackle southern district
When
A Summer night
Weather
Muggy, with a light rain.
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Posted: Thu Sep 16, 2010 7:48 am
Droplets slid down rooftops, collecting between the cobbles and making nasty puddles in areas where the roads had holes broken in. Occasionally one could still hear the clatter of hooves against them as carriages moved hither and tither, taxiing people to their nightly engagements or returning them home for bed.
Along some of the roads was an occasional wooden bench, pressed close to buildings in areas where they would not block doors or windows (particularly windows so one sitting on said bench would not get accidentally dirtied by someone emptying their waste bucket), and whole the vast majority were empty at this time of night, it was still not unusual to see at least one or two figures dotting them. Most were urchins with no home and nowhere to sleep, soon to be shooed off by the night watchmen, but one in particular was taking a rest.
Dull, earthy colored hood pulled over their face to keep the rain out, their eyes were not visible but flecks of red hair framed their cheek bones. They had a rather shapely face with a prominent nose and angular chin, their pale skin almost aglow in the foggy lamplight of the streets. Brown scuffed boots covered their feet and legs up to the shin where light leather trousers took over beneath a sullied white tunic.
Just how long had he been sitting there? It was hard for even him to judge. It felt like hours but it couldn't have been. Not all of the stars were quite out yet, despite them being difficult to see with the rainy cloud cover, and not terribly long ago the horizon had been a dull red instead of black. An hour at most, he figured, but it was starting not to matter.
It was roughly a week ago that he had traveled down here from the far North of Shyregoed in search of something, someone in particular, and they had not been found. This mission was not going well and morale was low. He was losing hope.
So there sat a hopeless man, hunched over on a bench with nothing to keep himself occupied but watching the rain drops splatter on the damp stones beneath his feet. Perhaps the night watchmen would come and kick him off, too. At least then he would have the excuse to retreat from this terrible city and return to what was comfortable and familiar, though he would have to return a failure.
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Posted: Thu Sep 16, 2010 4:19 pm
Tonight's patrol was not particularly pleasant in terms of the weather, but consequently, the rain seemed to deter the troublemakers of the district, as no crimes nor misconduct had been reported this evening. The night was still early--the cover of storm clouds only made it appear darker--but already the patrol men had grown lethargic with expectation of an eventless night. And just as well, too. This past summer had been a laborious one, leaving even the strongest and spriest of them weary and in declining health.
Huddled temporarily underneath the ledge of a streetside building, a soldier transferred his weapon from his hands to the crook of his underarm, wiping his slippery, blistered palms on his equally soggy wool coat. Underneath his uniform's hat, his moisture-darkened hair clung in curls to the sides of his face and neck, dripping down past his forehead and collecting at the end of his nose and chin, or sometimes even making it down underneath his collar. In contrast, the rest of his body was dry, but sweltering underneath the weight of his insulated outfit and the inescapable humidity permeating the atmosphere. He was, in all senses, miserable, from the physical conditions of his surroundings to the hollow, homesick feeling that had still not left him, even months after his relocation. If anything, this sensation seemed to intensify lately.
Back in his old route, Lady Alexandra would soon be hosting a large, fashionable birthday party. He, of course, would not have been invited in any case, nor was he ever really fond of such social gatherings, but this trivial knowledge did remind him how sorely he missed conversing with the young lady and how very long it would be until he would be able to enjoy her company again. The stench of the lace handkerchief she had given him was usually enough to put the man off of carrying the object on his person, but even so, he had taken to carrying it about the last few days. It was the only thing he could think of to honor their awkward friendship. He checked his pocket every now and again to be sure he hadn't lost it and that it remained tucked out of sight. To be caught toting around a ladies handkerchief would surely be enough to kill him on the spot with embarrassment.
Sigh.
Langston slowly pulled his poleax from its resting place, inhaled sharply, and reassumed the stiff monotony that was his patrol. Up ahead, two figures idled lazily under the protection of a doorframe. Another one, cloaked and hunched, had taken up residence on a streetside bench. All vagabonds, most probably. These societal urchins, whom patrolman had a duty of driving off, were the single thing keeping Langston occupied at the moment, providing his patrol with some more activity than simply wearing the bottoms off his boots. Whether it was the brief human interaction or the fact that it diversified things a bit, the chore of shooing these unfortunate souls had probably preserved more soldiers' sanities than the man wished to count. Some amused themselves with cruelty or arrogance, while others would even go so far as to attempt holding a conversation with the homeless men and women they were about to expel. Being neither a brute nor an innate conversationalist, Langston preferred a more curt, professional manner, though it did tend to cut short what little bit of entertainment the situation could offer. And then it was back to wallowing in his self-dug pool of misery.
With eyes on his targets, Langston approached slowly, casually. The first two noticed him from quite a ways away and tensed as he closed the distance between them.
"'Ey, whotsa matta now, mate? We ain't done nothin'..." one of them began, a bearded man.
"Off with you, now. If you've need for a poorhouse, there's one just south of the town center," Langston returned.
"But we ain't done nothin'," he insisted again. "The poorhouse, she's more like a whorehouse, see? Ain't no place for a coupla decent fellows like us..."
Langston slacked his left hand's hold on his weapon, causing it to tip forward a bit. "It's none of my concern, sirs. Now be off. The only shelter I can offer you otherwise is in the prison." With the dramatic effects of the rain, it was easy for even him to appear serious and intimidating.
"Can't jes' leave us be, can ya?"
Langston knew better than to be drawn into any sort of negotiation with people who survived on their ability to generate pity. His next argument was wordless, consisting only of dropping the tip of his spearhead even further down so it now hovered an arm's length in front of the bearded man, who grew considerably more compliant and quickly scrambled to his feet to leave, followed closely by his friend; no doubt they would wait until he was out of sight and resettle themselves elsewhere, but such was the unavoidable frustration of policing.
In any case, there was the sole straggler further up the road who needed to be eradicated. The soldier lifted his poleax once again so the handle balanced neatly on his shoulder and strode toward the stranger, who looked very much like his predecessors from a distance, but not so much in close proximity. Despite the fact that he was sitting, it quickly became clear that he was the sort of man to tower above others when standing at full height. What little bit of face peaked out from the edge of his hood looked young. Well-shaved. Healthy. He shared the typical, dejected posture that was characteristic of the destitute, but something about him was... unusual. A strange tale waiting to be delved into, if one cared to make an attempt. But Langston was not being paid to discover life stories.
"Sir, these streets are to be empty at night." It was probably best not to offend this one with gruff orders. There was no telling what he hid underneath that cloak. "If you've a shelter near here, please return to it."
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Posted: Fri Sep 17, 2010 12:30 pm
Through the pitter-pattering trickles of rain, voices were heard. Muffled from inside the houses, or outside by distance, but further down the street to his right. Just moments earlier, two voices had been mumbling to one another, conversation lost to the weather, then picked up in volume and Sloane could hear every word.
A third party had joined them, telling them off for being on the streets and that they had to seek out an alternative means of shelter. Had Helios enacted a curfew to keep the citizenry safe from possible Obscuvan interaction or was this something else? No doubt the partolman would come to him, next, and just a moment or two later, the conversation ceased and footsteps began approaching.
He did not stir as the man approached him, but his tone was far less commanding when he spoke than it was when addressing the two urchin men. More of a suggestion, really, that he leave the streets as soon as he was able. He might have smiled if he didn't feel so dejected. Something, though, was lingering about this man as he stood there; something familiar and musky, simultaneously spread by the rain but also dampened and diluted by it. Unable to quite put his finger on it, Sloane allowed his thoughts to move elsewhere, like to the fact that, while he had enough money for a room at a shelter or an inn, he did not actually need sleep or shelter from the rain.
It was not as though he could catch cold, flu or pneumonia, that would be silly for a disease to become ill.
"A curfew?" he asked lightly, not lifting his face to make eye contact with the man but keeping a firm gaze, instead, on his boots. "Forgive me, I've not been to Helios before," this was a lie, he had ventured here briefly for some time on business with his Lady, but they only stayed a night and were in their rooms by sundown, not encountering the patrols. "Might I know why there is such a rule?"
Cities, they weren't for Sloane. Born and raised in the wilderness of the Shyregoedian mountain side, a near lawless land when not in areas such as Colwe, where one can only survive off the sweat of one's own brow from hard work and perseverance. Where you ate what you hunted and used the left overs and nothing went to waste because everything was too valuable to waste. Here, everyone seemed to want to get into everyone else's business and while most were hard working individuals, others were moochers that hadn't worked a day in their life or bothered to try, thieving off of others not always by necessity but by choice.
The wind picked up, giving a gentle gust, but it was enough for the scent to thicken and hit Sloane in the face, clinging to his damp skin. Rot. Decay. The wondrous harmonium of life and death wrapped u into a small and portable package of item infection or a small being. All he had encountered thus far that were brimming with life would have exposed themselves long before now, particularly at the scent of himself. That was where the grin came, just the slightest bit of teeth showing to make it look normal.
If it was not a small Plague, and there was no living creature on him like Lord Yizhaq carried around, then that meant there was an object in his possession with the taint of disease.
"Sir, where is that smell coming from?" Certainly a classy question, but had he not been in such a discontented mood prior to this, he likely would have been unable to control his enthusiasm, as typically occurs, but it was better that he be subtle at this moment, lest it hurt his chances of perhaps seeing the item in question.
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Posted: Fri Sep 17, 2010 3:45 pm
Naturally, this wasn't going to be easy. Langston feigned disconcern as he listened to the other man's response but inwardly, he really hadn't the slightest idea why this district of Helios was so intent on a curfew. It seemed like some sort of crime deterrent, though even with the patrols the area was far from free of shady night dealings. Or perhaps shop owners simply grew tired of homeless men crowding their doorsteps in the night. It really wasn't his place to question. Nor this man's, for that matter, foreigner or not.
"The curfew is a preventive measure, I'm sure," Langston explained when the other was finished. "Helios sets the example for the rest of Panymium, it really wouldn't do to allow rampant crime. It is the way with all districts in the region."
To which the soldier would usually be replied with compliance or argument, but the cloaked man remained absolutely still, as if Langston's explanation had been no more than a trivial fact. It wouldn't be surprising if the man wasn't a traveller at all and the question had been asked simply for the intention of stalling or ridiculing him. What ingrates the general citizenry were!
"Now that you are aware of this law, I ask that you do your best to follow it."
Save for the patter of rain, silence. Langston sniffed sharply (his nose was beginning to run)and stared down at the figure through exhaustion-weakened eyelids. He brought his poleax off his shoulder to a vertical stand and tightened his grip on the weapon.
"And if you still choose not to leave, I will certainly have to resort to--"
"Sir, where is that smell coming from?"
The patrolman could've asked the same at first, as he hadn't the slightest idea what smell the other man was referring to. Assuming that a smell existed at all. If this were nothing more than an attempt to distract him, it was a terribly weak one. Just out of curiosity though, Langston humored the suggestion with a few deep but subtle inhalations. Through the dampness in the air and his blocked nose, he just barely detected it; a repulsive, musty odor that permeated the air like sickening incense, now that the wind had picked up.
Well, he certainly had no intention of sharing its source with a vagrant.
"I smell nothing. Please be off, I've further patrols to make..." Langston said, sounding unsure of himself.
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Posted: Fri Sep 17, 2010 8:51 pm
The way this man was speaking was beginning to grate on Sloane's nerves and patience.
His tone was rather condescending, perhaps in a way that denoted he wasn't actually aware of it, but with the authority he currently believed he had that was doubtful. The words he chose, as well, showed that he was just a pawn blindly following orders with a meaningless pride in his region. So Helios was the pinnacle of Panymium, setting an example for the rest of the country?
Sloane begged to differ.
The partolman was intent on his move, however, but that smell... It wouldn't leave him be and the wind wasn't helping. One of his own, however unformed, was right in front of him.
The two had spoken over one another, Sloane's question winning out. Only now did he realize that the guard was adjusting his stance and had brought up the possibility of him using his weapon, or so it seemed to the Plague. He took a moment to think of it and Sloane grinned all the more when he gave the damp air a few hearty whiffs, but it seemed there was no smelling it for him. Or he was lying. To Sloane, it was as pungent and deliciously acrid as the scent of a fresh baked pie, and humans often flocked to those. There would be no ignoring it.
"I'm sure I smell it," he continued casually, turning his head as though in thought and gave the air a gentle sniff. "It smells rather lovely, actually." Lingering among the scent of decay and the tired, worn out and sweaty man before him was something else, something decidedly... feminine. There were no women around, however, and it was not quite the scent of perfume but a more natural, naked scent. "Like a woman," Sloane took another intoxicated inhale and sighed.
If it weren't for the scent, he still likely would have messed with the man to stall but would have ultimately relented and gone on. Such was not the case, and if he was going to have to endure the fact that he would be returning home a failure in his search, then he could at least be offered the comfort in checking in on new Plagues.
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Posted: Sat Sep 18, 2010 12:31 pm
There would be no putting him off of that smell, apparently. Was it really that obvious? Or fascinating, for that matter? Personally, Langston would have thought that the offensive odor would serve to repel, rather than attract. And this hooded miscreant had the nerve to call it lovely and pretend to be simply enchanted by it?
"Like a woman."
Could he really smell that? The fact that the object was woman's? Surely he was bluffing.
"And yet, there is not a woman to be seen. Clearly you jest at my expense." Langston wasted no time assuming a more aggressive position, legs firmly planted and arms lowering his poleax so it was just a short thrust away from the other's chest. If reason was beyond this stranger's capabilities, than perhaps a threat would be enough to bring him to his senses. "My patience with you wears thin. Seek shelter or you will be arrested for violating this district's curfew."
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Posted: Mon Sep 20, 2010 5:16 am
A wry smile perked up on Sloane's features, unseen by the man before him as he kept his face hidden. The way he was speaking no doubt made him appear drunk or crazy, either way he was losing his temper and the Plague was finding it rather hilarious. A nice distraction from ensuing failure.
Still, as the patrolman took it personally, he got on his guard and readied himself. Sloane's smile faded, a lip curling to reveal sharp teeth as he sneered. Clearly this man's rank was low but he was putting faith in his skill as a soldier, as a warrior, or else he was merely attempting to intimidate him. Whatever the case, it wasn't working and Sloane shifted as though contemplating, weighing his chances.
A quick, flurry of motion and the sound of his wet cloak whipping back from his arm came abruptly as he pushed his clasped fist out towards the man's throat. No contact was made, but the sing of a blade came next as one unsheathed and pushed itself past the wrist cuff of his white undershirt. It was thin and gleamed like a dagger, the tip having a razor's edge and was just an inch or two from his Adam's apple. "I'll tell you this, patrolman," whatever lilt had been present in his tone previously was now gone, replaced with seriousness and a stony demeanor. Sloane raised his head, swirled eyes finally meeting the cloudy blue of his adversary's. "Unlike many, I have no intention of making your job truly more difficult; I am not here to plunder, hurt, murder nor rape and am here merely in passing. As far as scoundrel's go, I'm the least of your worries."
His grin widened, dagger-like teeth easily visible in the lantern light, a dim yellow glow accenting both men and their surroundings. "If you are intent on picking a fight, I will humor you but bear in mind that I am a knight of the Fellowship," and with that, his arm twisted, fist upward but the blade still close to Langston as Sloane pushed off of the bench and stood at his full height. The intimidating grin became calmer as he looked down on the sodden and sorry looking human. Perhaps he was just doing his job but Sloane was not in the mood for authority to be put over on him, not yet. "If not, I suggest you lower your weapon and I will mine and we can both go about our business." It was hard for him, still, to get his mind off of that scent. Now that he was standing, it hit him more clearly. It was coming from this man, that was for certain. Glancing, he noted a bit of white poking out from one pocket. Was that, perhaps, the source?
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Posted: Mon Sep 20, 2010 1:19 pm
He could feel it before the other man's weapon was drawn; the realization that he had pushed his authority too far with this one. It was only half a second before the instance--certainly enough time to close the distance between his spearhead and the other's chest with a single forward thrust--but Langston, loyal as he was to the service he carried out, was no killer. It would've taken but another moment for the patrolman to assume a defensive position and act accordingly, but it was all the time his spry and decisive adversary needed to gain the upper hand. The hand was too close to the soldier's throat for him to see without stepping back, but the metallic scrape was familiar enough.
And so the two stood, each at the length of the other's weapon, both primed for further action, but one rather more so than the other. The cloaked man spoke in tones that made clear his present irritation. Every syllable emanated with a vivid sharpness that, in his apprehensive state, Langston was made acutely aware of, as was the dreary crackle of rain on cobblestones. Though his mind raced frenziedly about to take in his surroundings, the man's gaze remained engaged on the other's eyes. They were set into a cold glare, as could be expected given the situation, but there was something abnormal about them. They didn't quite match. A few stray glints of a nearby lantern's light revealed them to contain not an iris and pupil, but a circular line that coiled in upon itself. An impossibly wide sadistic smile revealed a set of formidable pointed teeth. Langston's stomach went weak and his poleax lowered noticeably, not out of lack of aggression, but as a result of the fearful slackening of his arms upon sight of the ghastly features. This was no human. Lord save me...
And still, even after this eternity's worth of personal torment, it was not finished speaking. Now it claimed to be a member of the Fellowship--a guild in Shyregoed if Langston's memory hadn't failed him in this moment of stress--but of more interest to the patrolman was the fact that violence was not this being's priority. And a good thing too, for Langston had been quite right about its height, which only served to further dehumanize him.
"If not, I suggest you lower your weapon and I will mine and we can both go about our business." It was a strange thing, being pacified by a commoner while in uniform. The soldier didn't dare turn his head to check for witnesses, but he could not bear to think what Helios might come to if other criminals took this demon's example and resist authority as he did. The greater part of them would, of course, have their efforts made vain by the might and skill of the Panymese military, but the principle of it all... so idiotically contagious.
"Fine," Langston finally replied, hating every fiber of his being for complying with this brute. Keeping his eyes on the other's face, reading for any signs of betrayal, the soldier let his spear drop to the ground, splashing a bit of rainwater on their boots in the process.
He waited until the blade at his neck was retreated to speak further. More than anything he wanted to be rid of this macabre thing and happily carry out the rest of his boring patrol, but it seemed cowardly to simply scamper off without another word.
"If what you say is true, then it would do the Fellowship well to heed the laws of neighboring factions while visiting," Langston said with some sarcasm before straightening himself, bringing his weapon back to its standard position, and continuing along with his soldierly duties. He did not notice the bit of handkerchief that had peaked its way over the edge of his pocket.
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Posted: Mon Sep 27, 2010 1:17 pm
It was interesting to see the man attempting to save face with himself despite no one else being around. The older urchins he had spoken with prior to his audience with Sloane having relocated, likely temporarily, and it made Sloane grin wider, giving a quick scoff before the metallic scrape sounded again and the blade he was threatening the soldier's throat with disappeared. Lowering his hand, he raised his brows as if asking 'that wasn't so hard, was it?' before eying his pocket again.
There was no mistake, the smell of taint and a female was coating the handkerchief and it was all too interesting for the Plague. After all, the current situation was his only distraction from his terrible failure to his Lady, which was only emphasized by Langston's words following words.
Perhaps it was not best to flaunt his position after all if it held no weight in other regions. Being in Shyregoed so long, the home and birth place of magic itself, Sloane was under the assumption that most everyone knew at least a little about them and had some respect. Perhaps his Lady did not exaggerate when she told him that respect for the Fellowship was dwindling fast in the presence of the disease.
"Many apologies for hindering your progress," Sloane began, the words formal but the tone curt, "As a military man yourself, you must understand when a mission is imperative? I meant no harm, merely being unaware."
Sloane bowed his head in apology, waiting until the soldier decided to continue on his merry way. It did not take long and, drawing in a quick breath, the Plague's finger tips gently clasped the small edge of the handkerchief, the man walking it right out of his pocket. Giving it a gentle flap to unfold it, the presence of an old looking black stain in the middle caused his face to flash between first an apologetic frown and then a triumphant smirk.
Whether he noticed or not that he had just been pilfered, Sloane called back to him, keeping his back turned. The handkerchief was held close to his face, the intoxicating smell of taint washing over him from the lace. "Whatever woman this belongs to, sir... I hope you are aware she will not be on this earth much longer," it was not a mocking tone, but one of concern despite his expression. Life and death occurred everywhere and every moment, it was only natural, and from this poor woman's infection and inevitable death would rise one of his own from this very fabric. "I hope you will take care of her," the meaning of his words probably lost on the soldier beyond face value, Sloane wished dearly that both the infected woman and the resulting Plague would be well tended to.
Looking over his shoulder and just catching the soldier in his peripheral, he waved the hanky, letting it flutter like a white flag of surrender.
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Posted: Mon Sep 27, 2010 6:11 pm
Now here was one that just didn't know when to quit. Did his current duties not already appear miserable enough without this thing's mock chivalry? Evidently not, but Langston refused to let it get the better of him. He was interested in another argument or humiliating defeat at the demon's hands and the best way the soldier could think of to do this was by ignoring him and continuing to make his rounds. This he managed to do a little too well, as the subsequent pickpocketing was managed without him noticing at all.
"Whatever woman this belongs to, sir... I hope you are aware she will not be on this earth much longer."
Langston slowed down, but did not stop. Again with the handkerchief? And now what was he prattling on about, some sort of omen of death? How amusing that the supposed military man was now also claiming to be a diviner.
Something was not quite right, though. 'This'? The patrolman instinctively lifted a hand to feel the inside of his pocket, only to find his fingers brushing against nothing more than the inner fabric. He froze dead in his tracks, switched his weapon to the other hand, and did the same on the other side, yielding the same result. "Wh--?"
"I hope you will take care of her."
The butt of his poleaxe came down with a sharp thud. With slow, deliberate motions, Langston straightened himself and turned around to face the retreating being who, from the hazy light of the lamps, could just barely be made out pinching something flimsy and white between the claws on his gauntlets. The soldier's mouth fell open in indignation, but words failed him. Of all the rotten, lowly, thieving, detestable...
"S-sir! You do realize that pickpocketing is a crime in all Panymesian districts, including Shyregoed, don't you?"
Why did he even bother? It was high time the man abandoned formalities and got straight to the point. With renewed indignation, Langston strode testily toward the other man, speeding up as he got closer to veer around him and cut off his path. His weapon was held sideways before his chest, but he was ready to switch positions as he needed to--and this time, he wouldn't hesitate.
"But since you seem to have no regard for laws whatsoever, let me put this in terms even an urchin like yourself might be expected to understand: that handkerchief is mine, regardless of what you think it smells like. Not only that, but it it very important to me." The soldier narrowed his eyes and maneuvered one hand out, palm up. "Now kindly hand it over."
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Posted: Sun Oct 03, 2010 5:49 pm
As soon as the man realized, he was personally affronted and attempted to turn it around into something of Sloane having broken the law, a law that spread well outside of the Center to the far reaches of the Northern Sanctum. His tone was pushy and he brandished his weapon authoritatively which caused the Plague to sneer, turning to face him and give a flourishing bow with the handkerchief assisting him in his showmanship.
The importance of the item struck a cord with Sloane, but he could not tell if the item itself was important to the man, or if it was important because of what it was and what it would become. "By law, pick pocketing would denote that the offender had every intention of keeping said item," he dictated somewhat mockingly, outstretching his hand and giving it a bit of a flip as the handkerchief floated towards Langston as if beckoning him to take it back, "Which of course, I had no desire." Simple as that.
Once the item was returned, he straightened back up and stared at the man's weapon, narrowing his eyes slightly. The poleax seemed odd in comparison to the man wielding it and Sloane wondered if it was standard issue among the Helios military. Though, then again, foot patrolman was a depressingly low rank.
"Sir," he started once more, the air a bit awkward from the previous exchange, "I do sincerely hope you are prepared. Change is coming for you, and it is in the form of a lace cloth," with that he lifted his index and middle finger together toward his head in a mock salute before he turned on his heel and began his retreat. If this was the end of their interaction-- though Sloane got the feeling this man would not let him off without attempting to place him under arrest --then he would go find shelter for the night as previously ordered and leave Helios' borders in the morning. It was clear his success was not going to be met and the mission was a failure, and though he had not searched through Imisus or Mishkan or even Auvinus, there were only so many places he could go and time to waste. His Lady was in more danger with every moment he spent from their cold stone walls.
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Posted: Sun Oct 03, 2010 6:22 pm
Langston left his hand outstretched for a few moments longer, suspecting a trick of some sort on the knight's part, before slowly crumpling the clothe in his closing fist and returning it to his pocket. All the while, his eyes remained darkly set on the other. Once again, he was back to spouting nonsense in his irksomely calm and confidant way. The handkerchief... Why was he so concerned with it? Its value, while real to him, was merely sentimental. Any monetary worth it may have once possessed would have certainly been detracted from the conspicuous black stain on it.
So what then, was so bloody fascinating about the thing?
"Stop right there, sir." Langston said in a voice more commanding than it probably should have been. "What do you mean exactly with all this talk of 'change' and 'preparation'? This 'lace cloth' is nothing more than a gift from a friend." It was strange uttering these words aloud, as if the knight would somehow inexplicably know and point out that the relationship he shared with Lady Alexandra was hardly worth the status of a full friendship. "Pray, why do you insist on speaking of it as some... I don't know, some holy relic."
It was doubtful the demon man would bother honoring him with a response. But it was just as well, honestly. The soldier had a feeling that his explanation would be equally mystifying and besides, he was eager to be rid of the urchin in any case.
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Posted: Tue Oct 12, 2010 9:43 am
Not having taken two steps forward did the man stop him once more. It was beginning to get old and Sloane was growing weary of him, but a Grimm he was and Grimms deserved some amount of respect, at least until they proved otherwise in the care of their Plague. As he had yet to abuse the cloth, and in fact was taking quite good care of it, Sloane stopped any bad blood right then and there.
Giving a quiet chuckle to the man's choice of words in regards to how he saw the handkerchief, he turned to look over his shoulder at the soldier. He really was at a loss, as so many new Grimms were, even though the disease had been raging for many years and phenomena that was 'raising a Plague' was not as new as it seemed. "Oh, it is, indeed, a relic of some importance. To you, to me, and many others," once more he turned to face the man fully, pointing an entirely human looking finger at the cloth, "In particular, it would be considered 'holy' in a most decadent way to the Obscuvan scum I have no doubt you've at least been privy to by word of mouth."
The House of Obscuvos, as well, was not particularly new, having given rise within the last decade if his knowledge was not flawed. Grabbing and clawing their way to gain as many Plagues as possible into their ranks, they did not care if they had to kidnap or murder the Grimms in the process, and Sloane's worry for the kerchief bubbled for a moment. "Keep it away from them, I assure you if they knew of it they would stop at nothing to get it. But your friend..." he mused briefly, gently cupping his chin in thought, "Your friend that gave you this item, they will not be on this earth much longer. I smell her death in the cloth just as I smell the life of the Plague aching to awaken in it."
Perhaps now was a good time. He was a Grimm, after all, this soldier, and he would not be doing it to intentionally frighten him but to better illustrate his point. "She will start small, no bigger than your hand, but she will grow to appear human. The differences are often times subtle, sometimes not, but they are clearest in the eyes," Sloane raised a hand to pull his hood back, the mismatched swirls gleaming in the yellow lantern light. "You are a Grimm, soldier, and you must keep your Plague safe. She will be your precious child..."
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