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knife effect Vice Captain
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 Posted: Tue Apr 12, 2011 5:05 pm
No Incognito
This is a Private RP between:
Piss and Kotas
With Appearances by:
Dorian Arelgren
&
Wickwright Finch
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Where: Wickwright's crib wagon
When: Night
Status: Ongonig
Receive Silence Many people are desperate for peace, and not even the church can deliver at this point. Panymium's main religion or, at least, what's left of it, is taking its daily rounds across the continent and are receiving donations and prayers in return for their services. Many people are confessing their sins before their eventual death, and many are giving their duties and possessions away to the holy church, many completely lost of potential heirs. One specific instance of this has been a giant ceremony near the border of Imisus and Shyregoed, near one of the port cities. People are holding prayers in days-long prayer and are making their route through Shyregoed, robed in a stark red with a cloak that hides their face. A hymnal is to their back and they are going around each and every city looking for more and more followers, confessors, and donators, and are marking their trail across the border at an oddly quick pace. Do you confess, donate, or react at all to this?
✻ ✻ ✻ ✻ ✻
Dorian Arelgren sat lamely beside Wickwright with little to say. He actually wasn't sure what to say, though he knew Wickwright would listen anwyways. He was aware that the caravan was nearing Obscuvian territory and he would either have to eventually leave the company of Wickwright and the other caravan riders. The House would be curious of where he'd gone after the massacre, and they would be less than happy to discover if he was accompanying the sick and dying that he was supposed to have offed.
He stared at Wickwright's haggard face with his own expression of remorse. The House wanted people like Wickwright dead. It did not matter if they were already dying, the fact that the unworthy needed to be cleansed was the priority--the priority assigned to Dorian to be exact. It didn't make any sense to him. He, the son of nobles that despised the lower class and always reminded them that he did was now worried for a caravan filled with peasantry.
Things were different now. Nothing was simple, he was no longer naive to think so. And The House--The House was evil. Perhaps Felicity and Dragomir were not, but the House itself was evil. He could no longer remove his gloves, and while he usually wore a single one, he now wore black gloves on both hands; he felt that if he did not he would forever see his bare hands and be reminded that they were once drenched in blood.
He hated blood. He hated all of it. The "red ribbons" that Obscuvians wore, the loyalty to a cause that seemed so beautiful but was absolutely mortifying in reality. It was all disgusting. It bothered him more that Felicity and Dragomir may not have known or seen what he saw. They were important to him, and he was very afraid for them.
The least he could do now was to apologize to Wickwright. Perhaps explain himself.
"You have my deepest apologies," he repeated. He'd been saying it for awhile now, and he was not the least emaciated by his own words. Disgusted, perhaps, but not emaciated. "It's the House, actually."
He hated himself deeply the moment that he started sobbing. It was twice now--twice that he'd allowed his own tears to fall before Wickwright; and this time, he was sober.
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Posted: Wed Apr 13, 2011 11:52 am
Wickwright took a rasping, shallow breath, and licked his dry lips a moment before replying. His eyes, usually so bright and sharp, were dull, and he was in pain. The disease had crept slow over his body, and unlike the people who got it over with in a day, Wickwright found himself going inch by inch, and sometimes praying for death, praying to a bone that would not listen, that did not work that way. Answers would not cure him now.
When he saw Arelgren come into the wagon, part of him thought to stop him, to tell him that Grimms were no longer immune, but he hadn't the strength, and Arelgren was a Cultist at any rate. Were he to fall ill, at least Wickwright would die having taken a son of Obscuvos with him, a final service to his dying faith. It was a pity though, Arelgren wasn't so bad. Nonsensical, but Wickwright saw much of himself as a younger man in the blonde boy.
The blonde boy was crying. Wickwright focused for a moment, trying to remember what he had said. Apologies. The House. Closing his eyes, Wickwright rattled, "No."
"The fault is yours, Arelgren." What did it matter if he incited a Cultist to kill him? He was already on his death bed. "Just as I sit here with Plague because of my own foolish choices, and not because the Scientists told me to. Because I obeyed..." He coughed, shuddering. "Because I obeyed, because I believed myself immune, this disease is my own fault, and Coyotl's disease as well." He lay in the dark and listened to Arelgren cry, finally taking pity on the man. Softening, he strove to speak again, adding, "I will tell you what I told Meschke."
Gathering his strength, he sat himself up, wincing as his buboes twitched and stung. "Meschke, I told him, told him that it wasn't too late." He emphasized this, "It isn't too late, Arelgren, yes, whatever haunts you now, you can atone for it if you feel remorse, rather than pride." He thought of the face of a girl in Rosstead, thought of a million things he had been trying to atone for his whole life, thought of Hopkin, who he would never atone for when he died and left the little boy alone. "Remorse means you're still human. It's pride that's dangerous, if you commit the crime and enjoy it, then... Then things get difficult." He heaved and sweated, leaning heavily on the bed. "You're young. I am not. You have time, a whole life if you remain healthy, to bury these actions with other actions, ones you can be proud of. Trust..." He coughed again, tears coming to his own eyes from the pain of it rather than the strong emotion. "...Trust an old man, Arelgren. It's not too late for you."
Collapsing back on the bed, he asked, "Did you tell that woman that I am dead," A stab at humour, even near death. "Are my children cared for, damn it all Arelgren, you swore to me."
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knife effect Vice Captain
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Posted: Wed Apr 13, 2011 12:20 pm
Dorian winced at the dying man's words.
It was strange.
While he wanted to make sense of what was happening to him, once it was explained (by Wickwright, nonetheless), he altogether wanted everything unexplained because of how the truths pained him. There was nothing Wickwright spoke of that was questionable, the way the older Keeper made his delivery was all the more touching to Dorian, and he gave a small, dead laugh at Wickwright's black humor. He admired Wickwright to be able to still manage a joke when his entire body was riddled with the inflictions of the Plague, and Dorian suddenly felt ashamed that he, a man with perfectly functional non-plagued body was crying in the presence of a man who truly deserved to cry and have tears cried for him.
He wiped them with the sleeve of his Obscuvian cloak, shuddering when he made contact with the cloth. The black of it bothered him, and the color did not belong on him. Lettie was right all along. She had no reason to speak to him because he was not himself. They were strangers to each other because he'd chosen to be, like Wickwright said. It was then that Dorian questioned to himself if all people bore a red ribbon: a stigma that was obvious in the eyes of others but was invisible to themselves. If they did, they must have loathed it just as much as he.
Discarding the cloak to the floor, he sat beside Wickwright's bed wearily, cringing slightly at the creaking sound when his own weight added. He reached out to clasp the older male's hand, hoping that there was some place in the blackened earth that he could provide warmth to. He tried not to look at Wickwright more than he had already; the man's pained face reflected his own, and he wanted to see none of that. He wasn't as brave as Wickwright, to be able to face his own demons and to reassure others that there were methods to overcome their own. However, he was glad that Wickwright spoke the same words to Dragomir because it meant that his friend, too, had a small chance of recovery.
"Yes, I told her..." Dorian said somberly, his head dipping in understanding. His voice rose more confidently: "I told her that you would live, actually."
He smiled wistfully, shaking his head side to side at the leap of faith he was about to take; a leap inspired by a dying man but a leap nonetheless.
He'd put his faith in the unknown; there was no such thing as predestination in Arelgrenism.
"I will not allow you, nor anyone else on this caravan to fall victim to the Plague nor the House," Dorian said, more affirmatively this time. The mischief had returned to his voice, even if only for a little while. "I've done my part for them, and it was not a role that I am prideful of. You say so yourself, old man! Atonement overwhelms pride, and if anything is able to decimate pride, a grand being, it is something that I seek."
He paused.
"It would be good for Lettie, too. She has been quite cross with me, you see, with good reason."
He wasn't quite sure if he'd made a resolution, but whatever it was he declared, it felt nice.
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Posted: Thu Apr 14, 2011 8:50 am
Wickwright laughed, a harsh, ragged sound that took a moment even for him to identify. "You're an optimistic little Cultist, that's for certain. Meschke was just the same, though he hardly promised to vanquish the plague." Arelgren was full of big ideas. Wickwright was hardly surprised that he was bold enough to take a plagued man's hand and say such outlandish statements.
"Pride can be dangerous," Wickwright acknowledged, familiar with it because he was so often a victim of it himself. "If you're not careful you could end up in a wagon in the middle of nowhere in Imisus with a book that needs you and a plague that kills you." Laughing again, Wickwright winced as his throat complained for his pains. "It's difficult," he continued finally, "To treat people equally and fairly when you don't feel like they're your equals to begin with, but when you start thinking of people as slow, dull, or worthless, you start becoming petty and boring, yourself. That's a lonely road, Arelgren. Especially these days, when there aren't many people to go around. Assuming that you save us all from the plague even, there are still hundreds more out there who will be dead of it by morning." Even in the Jawbone Society, the death toll was heavy, and those who didn't die fled. Their numbers had almost been halved since the plague his Panymium, and now it looked like they were going to lose a Finch as well, despite Arelgren's rash promises. Wickwright had never been through such intense physical pain in his life.
"Hopkin..." he gasped, "Hopkin is upset with me as well. But there's nothing I can do."
Closing his eyes wearily, he repeated, "There's nothing I can do." The book boy and he had been constant companions for over thirty years and it came down to this, separated during their final days together in a probably futile attempt to save everything he'd worked for. He had a plan, of course, Finches always had plans, but it was a decidedly hurried one, and it was hardly going to make Hopkin able to forgive him.
Finch men really did have the worst luck.
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knife effect Vice Captain
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Posted: Sun Apr 17, 2011 4:30 am
Dorian grinned widely when Wickwright dubbed him "optimistic". Oh, he definitely was! He took pride in it, ironic that Wickwright would mention pride in the same breath. He was not quite sure what to make of the older man's advice on the mundane qualities of humanity, it all seemed very depressing to him. He watched unflinchingly as the old man strung together his lessons in words, and Dorian could not help but to be in awe of Wickwright's eloquence of speech. There was no Obscuvian Dorian knew of that was able to speak so purely to him, and he wondered why he did not meet Wickwright sooner in his life. He cursed the circumstances he met him in, and he hoped that Wickwright would quickly forget (though he knew Dragomir would never).
Although...
He frowned at the thought of himself becoming boring. To think of others poorly was something he was rather adept at. To think that doing so would make his very self mundane was something he did not think applied to himself. The truth in Wickwright's statement that there was no way to completely eradicate the plague also dampened the Arelgren's hopes, but not completely. Just a little, he thought to himself.
"Wicky that isn't very constructive." Dorian replied flatly, rubbing a knuckle against his temple. "Hopkin never gave up on you, eh? Perhaps there is nothing you can do, but that does not come across to me as there is nothing you wish you could do. Ambition often produces miracles, sometimes better."
He blinked at his own words.
They sounded so stupid. So naive.
"I am well aware of how ridiculous i may appear to be from having even saying so, but ridiculous people have the most ambition in this world. I place my faith in my ability to be spontaneous."
He gave a dark chuckle, "Heh, sure saved this caravan from a macabre end."
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Posted: Sun Apr 17, 2011 9:22 am
Resting his eyes for a moment, he replied, "I'm not a terribly constructive man, Arelgren. We Finches are scribes, not architects. The Jawbone Society has no demand for houses." Wickwright smiled weakly. "Hopkin would follow me into an inferno if I told him he wouldn't be burned," he stated simply, "But my wishing he wouldn't would not make the flames cold. It's a pretty thought though, Arelgren."
Raising his head a bit, he replied, "I have made provisions for Hopkin, though. Whether they're enough, I don't know, but I have done all I can do in that respect. If I die, he has his instructions to follow." A pile of papers all sealed up on his desk. Letters to Jawbone Men to be delivered by Hopkin, a single letter to the boy himself, a letter to Coyotl, and directions on a scrap of paper, with the words 'WHEN ALL ELSE HAS FAILED' written on it and underscored sharply. Wickwright was prepared to prepare Hopkin, he simply wasn't sure if his preparations would prepare Hopkin properly.
"Oh, I don't know," he replied to Arelgren airily. "I've already outwitted two of your Cultist friends in Gadu, I can't imagine a raiding party would be much more difficult." He wheezed and got paler as a cold chill overtook him, head collapsing back down onto his mattress.
"Admittedly, it wouldn't be pleasant in my condition, so I suppose you saved me a bit of nuisance, yes." More seriously, he added, "Thank you, Arelgren. I don't know what motivated you to spare us, but I am grateful, though I may seem to be nothing more than a cheeky old mendicant."
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knife effect Vice Captain
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Posted: Sun May 01, 2011 7:35 pm
Dorian shook his head incredulously, though he knew that Wickwright was correct about Hopkins naivete. He rather liked the older man's plague, it provided Lettie company and well-being, something that Dorian was incompetent of for the past few weeks. It was nice that she was exposed to such euphoria even if for a little bit--every little bit counted. He laughed when Wickwright agreed at how pretty of a thought it all was. It really was, Wickwright coined the term perfectly to him.
He frowned at the thought of himself becoming boring. To think of others poorly was something he was rather adept at. To think that doing so would make his very self mundane was something he did not think applied to himself. The truth in Wickwright's statement that there was no way to completely eradicate the plague also dampened the Arelgren's hopes, but not completely. Just a little, he thought to himself.
At the sight of the "WHEN ALL ELSE HAS FAILED" paper that Wickwright seemed to have mentioned, Dorian felt a chill run down him once more. He certainly was prepared--he never was--what would become of Lettie if he was no longer there? It was a dark thought, and Dorian hated himself for even thinking it.
"Well of course you could probably outwit them again, Wicky!" Dorian laughed. The man was very smart. Dorian was absolutely positive Wickwright would most likely be well-off on his own. He was glad that the two men were able to rejuvenate each other mutually through such late conversation. He hoped it was the same for Hopkin and Lettie. "They aren't very good at what they do, anyways. I mean. I for one, am here."
It was then that he felt sloppy.
Oh. Ohhhhh.
Dorian abruptly leapt from where he was sitting and with a quick motion, picked his coat from where he left it and stuck his arms in the proper sleeves. He stumbled slightly in his actions, his head dizzy with a pang of concern. He wasn't actually supposed to be here, having this conversation with Wickwright, any of it at all--the House would have him decapitated! Or better, if Felicity spared him any brains at all--not likely--or not?
Stupid D'arelgren, you cannot make any change in this world if you have no body do it--oh bless me--
"I'd love to give you my own thanks as well, Wicky, but I do believe I am in the midst of a frustrating dilemma. Er. You see. You lot are supposed to be long dead, and yet I am here. I-I don't suppose I should stay any longer--I will collect my Letties and you and the lovely guide and the Hopkins and the angry man from earlier with his lovely jug can be free of me!"
And with one fell leap--
"Goodbye!"
His feet landed on soft grass, his hands pressed in dirt. It wasn't the best of landings, but it wasn't painful either. He spotted Lettie nearby--she seemed to have left before he did, strange, but convenient! The convenience wasn't the factor that made him smile. What made him smile was that Lettie herself was smiling also, a leather shawl wrapped around her.
Dorian laughed, closing his eyes. Hopkin. Of course.
"Gadu's night is rather difficult. Let us depart, fair maiden!" Dorian cried, with Lettie upon his shoulder. The two were then cloaked in nocturne when the clouds wrapped over the moon, their cool silk enveloping the sky.
FIN
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