Forums » Fantasy Roleplay » "I'm RETIRED, for magic's sake!"

“Indeed I do,” she confirms, her face taking on a curious expression. So it would seem the two have at least met. That’s good, it means Jon’s ability to defend the area immediately around his home is still intact, at the very least. She’ll see about his competency to defend the province once she gets to Black Pine Crossing and can actually talk to the man. Not that she wants the man to be removed from his position. But she does rather like spoiling him with the kind of care he deserves whenever she can.

Ramona’s eyebrows rise almost to her hairline, and her head tilts at the vampire’s bold claims. Trusted Dream Architect? Now that was something new. Dream architects she had heard of, but she hadn’t ever known Jonathan to be interested in such a thing. She did know a few people who kept them on staff regularly. Some, like the young snow elven prince of Whiterock, have seen horrors so great they haunt their dreams without ceasing, and require the architect’s services in order to sleep through the night. Others, like the twin Drow she must unfortunately call her colleagues, employ them for purely recreational purposes. She supposes she could see Jon possibly falling into the first category. He was very young when Blackstaff invaded his mind. If she’s become enough of a nuisance, keeping his mind burning hot enough to prevent sleep… she could see it justified.

But then…

Why would he have left his Trusted Dream Architect in town while he himself went back home?

And why was he letting the leech feed off of him?

But she keeps those questions close to her chest for now, much like a good deal of other information that the vampire doesn’t seem to have yet. Best not to show her hand all at once. Instead, she holds out her plate, and the remainder of the food on it, to the vampire. She accepts the half cup of warmed wine in turn, taking a brief sip before she speaks again. Having watched the parasite pour and drink from the cup in front of her, she has no fear of poison.

“I am well aware of Jonathan’s deceptively lapdog-like personality.” She smirks, inhaling a good whiff of steam off the cup of warmed wine before having a second sip. “Though I’m sure he’d prefer to be thought of as some sort of livestock guardian dog, if he’s to be compared to a canine. Did he seem unwell when you saw him, then? And I wasn’t aware he had hired a Dream Architect. How long have you worked for him? Seems a rather counterproductive thing to do, to leave one’s trusted dream architect behind, though.”

Allerick frowns slightly while masticulating the crisp, overly salted bartered meat. The woman's line of questioning bothers him, not in the least because it sounds as though she's challenging his fragile new sense of importance. And maybe his judgment.

His lips part and his brow creases. Counterproductive indeed. Why had he allowed Gionata to return to his brother without him? If nothing else, they seem to have smoothed over their differences since their time together this morning, so what sense does it make for either of them to travel alone in this weather?

Unbidden, an image of himself lying blue and frozen solid, but alive enough to ache, fills his mind's eye and he shudders internally. But just as quickly, visions of Jonathan stumbling in the snow and Gable weeping spring to mind instead, and with them comes an uncomfortable feeling he isn't very used to experiencing. He almost can't (or daren't) name it, though it's unmistakable all the same.

He reaches out with his mind to test his tenuous connection with the wizard and finds that the little box he locked the furious stick-woman inside still exists, but its sides feel increasingly delicate as the distance grows between them. Still, the old man can't have gotten too far yet.

Allerick smooths his expression, which had begun to look more than a touch guilty (there, he named it) and it is quickly replaced by renewed confidence.

With a haughty lift of his chin and an arrogant flutter of his beautiful eyelashes he declares patiently, "I am not 'left behind.' I am to follow il mio Maestro after procuring a proper meal for myself. This will suffice. Thank you."

He deposits the plate back into the woman's lap, stands the next moment, and fairly billows in the direction of the tavern door with renewed purpose.

"Ah." The young vampire circles back for the bottle of wine he nearly forgot, and the farewell he owes this stranger. He pauses to refill the woman's tin cup right up to the brim. "For you, with my gratitude."

While bent near to her face, he looks up from the wine, smirks, and kisses her cheek as gently as a bird landing on top of the snow. Then, if she allows it, a cool finger brushes a thick tuft of luxurious white hair behind her ear. It feels as as soft as it looks and for a moment, he seems enraptured by the silkiness of it between his fingers.

He sighs deeply, as though he regrets this inconvenient sense of loyalty that has overtaken him. "Buona giornata, senora. I am returning to il mio Maestro now. Whom shall I say is thinking of him?"

Watching the thoughts play out on the vampire’s face is an absolute treat. The self-important stoicism he had originally borne dissolves like sugar in hot water, gradually giving way to confusion, then something closer to guilt. She sits quietly the whole time, a neutral smile on her face, and eventually the cool confidence from the beginning makes a return.

But why the guilt at all? Perhaps he had tried to leave Jonathan’s employ, and now regrets abandoning the wizard to face his nightmares alone? Or perhaps it is more simple than that, and he just feels bad for leaving the old man to brave the snowy trek alone. Both seem possible, especially if Jon is still the same carpet he’s always been when it comes to letting people have their way over his. If the leech wanted to leave, he probably sent the man off with a full coin purse, a map, and a good coat, even if the wizard didn't actually want him to leave.

The swift and hurried way in which he finally answers her question tells her it's probably a lie. He had purchased a whole bottle of wine after all, and was looking quite a bit sorry for himself when he first shambled over to the hearth to warm it. So either this whole thing is a lie, or he's abruptly changed his mind about something. And that notion is only reinforced by the hasty way in which he shoves the plate back into her lap and delicately kisses her cheek. She doesn't wear her shocked expression long, however, instead morphing it into something almost coy.

"Now, darling, there's no need to be rushing off so suddenly." She practically purrs, wrapping her petite, spindly fingers around the vampire's chilled wrist. One of them is entirely mechanical, the brass of its construction glowing gold in the light cast by the hearth fire. "I'll be journeying up the mountain to join him tomorrow. You can ride with me, save yourself the wet shoes. Besides, Jon can handle himself for one day. He's surprisingly harder to kill than one might think."

"After all..." She trails off, lowering her eyes and turning up her charm just as high as it'll go, with a beckoning smile and a near-flutter of her eyelashes, lowering her voice in an almost conspiratorial manner. "We've only just started getting to know each other, and it isn't every day one meets such a well-mannered, gentlemanly vampire in the flesh."

She may be the oldest girl to ever reciprocate the vampire’s charm, but this white-haired beauty is a girl nonetheless.

The silky purr, her warm caress, the way she looks up at him through her eyelashes… It seems this woman’s girlishness has been refined by her age, ripening on the vine like the finest dolcetto. It is at once enchanting and perplexing and Allerick remains frozen in the thrall of it for a moment, his lips parted but no reply coming out of them; this was not what he had anticipated would happen when he kissed her cheek like she was an auntie.

His charm, if it works at all on the elderly, might earn him a little pity and a gingersnap for the road. But not this.

Is he intrigued? Repulsed? He feels… small, somehow. A novice sailor skimming the surface of deep, uncharted waters. The thrill of it runs up his neck and, slowly, he smiles. “I am not so well-mannered as I appear, senora. But I am nothing if not a gentleman.”

Like a rope of many strands which break, one at a time, his tie to Jonathan frays in the back of his mind and a flavor like mourning rises in his throat.

If he’s honest with himself, Jonathan does not need him for the journey. If anything, he had been a burden, drawing on the wizard’s resources to keep him warm with a heat he couldn’t generate on his own. But Jonathan had seemed so at peace when he had his mind to himself, and a part of the vampire wishes that fact alone made his talents indispensable. If Gionata had asked him, he would have returned to the home on the hill and stayed and served him for the winter, if not longer.

But he did not ask. And so perhaps when the wizard is reminded of her clanging intrusion in his head, he will be glad to see his vampire friend on his doorstep in the morning. Then even Gable would surely see that he is useful. “Thank you. I will travel with you.”

The woman’s fingers, warmed by the firelight, feel like they nearly burn his frosted skin. It isn’t until he rests his own hand over hers and senses the unexpected hardness of metal that he drops his gaze and sucks in a little breath of surprise. The artificial brass digit is exquisitely crafted and unlike anything he’s ever seen. He says as much in a throaty murmur, then lifts her hand to his lips to kiss it, and her knuckles.

“Mi chiamo Allerick Melchiades Silva-Lucarelle. And what may I have the pleasure of calling the sweet creature before me?” He lowers to his knees beside her chair and peers up with the soft, expectant expression of a dog begging scraps at the dinner table.

Want me, it says. Want me more than anything, if only for a little while.

“Oh, and he’s naughty too?” She smirks, accepting his compliment of her artificial digit with murmured thanks. “Lady Ramona Arathel, Brass Mistress of Phaervein at your service.”

Having him kneel beside her puts a strange feeling in Ramona’s heart. It isn’t unfamiliar, per se. In fact it’s almost reminiscent of the feeling she gets when an apprentice takes up almost the very same position and offers their services, in any form they can provide. It makes her feel powerful. And she likes it. She likes it a lot.

“Allerick… that’s quite the handsome name. Shelcanan?” She asks with a tilt of her head and a genuine smile. Her hand comes to rest on the top of the young man’s head, trailing over sleek, black hair and finally settling on his shoulder. “Don’t tell me we’ve both come all the way to this backwoods corner of the world from the same province? What a coincidence that would be!”

She looks at him the way one might look at a particularly fine painting, or perhaps a sculpture, admiring the angle of his jaw, the shape of his cheekbones, the shadow cast by his bangs, the bright plumpness of his lips… She likes what she sees. He’s attractive. Aesthetically pleasing. Cute, even. Her imagination is working overtime thinking of all the things she could do with such an impressive specimen at her disposal. She’s had vampires to study before. But never one so young or so polite. And he seems, for lack of a better word, quite willing. Submissive, even.

Perfect.

“Will you sit with me today, Allerick Melchiades Silva-Lucarelle?” The elder archmage purrs, holding out the full cup of win for the lad to sip from. “I’m afraid I’ll be all alone for the day otherwise, and that would just be terribly lonely. This town is woefully lacking in refined company. I’d continue up the mountain today if I could, but I’m far too tired for it. I’ve been on the road for a week already, and I’d much rather spend the day with you than out in the cold and wet.”

-

Jonathan is about a fifth of the way home when the headache starts.

As he’s traveled further and further away from town, his connection with Blackstaff has gradually shifted, feeling less and less muted. The barrier between them has begun to feel thin. Stretched, like an overfilled water skin about to burst. Then, all at once, the veil tears and he is no longer alone in his own head.

She’s not upset with him, at least not obviously. But her intrusion into his skull is abrupt enough that it’s far from comfortable. Her emotions twist his own, warping his anxious concern into something closer to her own violent self-satisfaction. His mind is suddenly filled with memories that aren’t his, visions of vampires that never existed, burnt to ash and reduced to dust on the wind. It takes everything in him to keep himself from contradicting her version of the past few days’ activities.

She’s not upset with him, but the sudden onslaught of discord in a mind that had experienced peace for the first time in centuries is simply too much. His stomach flips, and in the next instant he’s on his hands and knees, vomiting frothy bile into the snow.

But there’s nothing he can do now about the ache behind his eyes. He can take a tablet for the headache when he gets home if it’s unbearable, but he knows there’s nothing he can do long term about the intrusion either. He got used to her presence once before. He’ll just have to do it again.

"I do not understand why you insist on using this silly, made-up name, my treasure."

Allerdaro's father seemed so large, back then, overfilling the kitchen space that was already choking on the odor of too many herbs, too much acidic tomato, too much steam. But the boy stood firmly and crossed his arms to hide the nervous twitching in his fingers. He advocated for himself calmly, clearly, his chin tipped up like a man: "It isn't made up, Father. It is rare, but it is local, and it will help me to blend in when I start real school."

"Tch. 'Blend in?' But you are not a sheep or a cow, my darling!" The tanned, suave, smiling man laughed musically and the joyful noise made the boy's convictions falter. He suddenly felt a little foolish for taking such a small matter (and himself) so seriously. His father continued: "And you do not belong in a barn, learning to behave like one of the herd."

"But Papa, I want to be in the barn! I am tired of being stuck in the house with the tutors; I've learned almost everything they have to offer me anyway, and you promised this would be the year I am introduced into society. I want to see the world beyond this farm. I want friends. …Have you not even enrolled me yet? …Father?"

Melchiades was not smiling anymore. To see his oft-smiling face look so somber was unsettling, and at first the boy had trouble understanding what it meant. Was this anger? Disappointment? Regret?

No, it was pity, and it twisted the boy's gut when he realized he was its object. It made him feel naked and vulnerable and weak without understanding what the weakness was or how to hide it from view. The burn of it quickly became too much to bear in the sudden silence, so he bristled and snarled, "What? What is it?"

His father cleared his throat. If he had spoken sharply and given the boy something to fight, perhaps it would not have hurt so much, but instead the soft words landed like unwelcome kisses on fresh wounds. "You can't go now, my treasure. Not like that."

"But... You promised–"

"That was before, when you were still a child. I had assumed you were responsible enough to consider this possibility before you allowed the men to liberate you from mortality... You have a different path now, Allerdaro, and you will see and do far greater things than 'go to school' and 'have friends.'"

Trembling in his hands and his lip, the fledgling vampire lowered his fists to his sides. "And what if I still want those things? What if I could have them now, for a little while, until I am ready for the greater things? Because I... I am not ready. I am not a child, but I am not really a man. Surely I can still choose?"

Melchiades stirred his salsa all'amatriciana, then beckoned his son into an embrace. The boy shuffled grudgingly into his arms and his father kissed him. "You deserve worshippers, my love, not mere companions. While other men's sons learn to bake bread and choose wives, you will focus your talents and appease your ancestors so they may accept you as one of their own. This is your path, now, and you cannot afford distractions; all must be done in light of future glory or it all will be for nought. ...You will understand someday and thank me."



Allerick's breath hits the woman's knuckles in a sort of laugh. "No, not exceedingly naughty, either, signora. Only an intimate admirer of great beauty; I believe art should be felt, as well as seen."

Lady Ramona Arathel, Brass Mistress of Phaervein, thinks his chosen name is handsome and the young vampire glows because of it. He clasps his hands together on the arm of her chair and perks up at the mention of his homeland. "In effetti abbiamo! Though I have not traveled as far as yourself, la mia Padrona. My home lies in the foot of the mountains, at the southernmost border of the province: two days of journey on a good horse in fair weather. And I did have a horse, a wonderful creature, when I began. Do you know of Ochi di Lupo, the winemaker of the renowned Collina di Sole cantina? He is my... my father."

The way she's looking at him, the way she touches him... The superior elder woman's attentiveness empties his chattering mind of all other thoughts and he finds it does not matter where he came from or what lauds his family may claim. In fact, he almost wishes he hadn't ruined his own air of mystery so soon, but being in the presence of Lady Arathel makes him nervous like a welp. He knows exactly who she is, along with the bold and intriguing research she leads... She is a woman who pursues Greater Things, and she allows nothing to block her from acquiring them.

His pale gaze lowers to the offered wine.

Cold fingers gently cradle Lady Arathel's hands as he steadies the cup to drink. He bows his head slowly, a bit reverently, to sip like a postulant receiving sacrament from a cleric. In that moment while his expression is hidden, he closes his eyes and thrusts a silent, desperate request to the universe to bless him with her favor.

When he's finished supping, he wipes the dark red liquid from his lips and offers to warm the wine in the embers again. It isn't bad straight out of the bottle, but he does prefer hot liquids in general.

"If you wish for my company, la mia Padrona, it is yours. But… would you not prefer to recover from your journey beside your own hearth?" When he glances up again from the fire's embers, his smirk is as hopeful as it is flirtatious. Gently, respectfully, he reaches for her consciousness with his own.

Only a little trust, Padrona, he seems to say with his eyes and his mind. I know you can't help yourself to new discoveries.

“Mhm, my colleague ever has had an appreciation for the arts.” Ramona hums thoughtfully as the vampire sips from her offered cup. Things seem to be playing out nicely, so far. She likes where things are going. “Crude though his exterior appearance may be, Jonathan does actually have something resembling refined taste. He may take his daily pleasures in the simple things, but he is capable of appreciating the truly marvelous as well, when it presents itself.”

She smiles, watching the way he opens like a spring blossom at her prompting after just a little flattery. The boy must be incredibly vain, or otherwise starved for attention, for him to come apart so quickly and totally. Gone is the moody air of indifference he wore on the way into the tavern, giving way to a subservient willingness to please that makes her giddy with excitement underneath her reserved facade. There’s no hiding that glint in her eye, however. She intrigued by this son of a vintner, and not the least because of the way he postures himself at her side.

“Truly?” Her eyebrows lift again, though not as high this time. She had guessed Allerick would be well-bred, but his admission of his heritage confirms her suspicions. “Well I’d be a liar if I said there weren’t at least a handful of bottles labeled with a paw print in my wine cellar. Your father makes a very fine vintage.”

As she silently holds the cup out to the vampire to be warmed again by the hearth, she considers just what exactly she might be able to get away with, with Allerick behaving so agreeably. A day of pleasant conversation is the obvious answer, but she also knows her own appetites. She'll want more than just that. Intimacy is the next most obvious possibility, especially knowing that Jonathan is apparently in poor health, coupled with his usual tendency to decline such offers. She's unlikely to get much attention from him this trip, so she'll have to satisfy herself in other ways. Field research may be more difficult to pull off, but there are some things she should be able to learn without too much distress for either one of them.

For example: Whether or not this dream architect really is as good as he says he is.

"Now that I've attracted the company of a handsome, well-spoken young companion for the day?" Her smirk is equally flirtatious as she answers, though there is no hope in her expression, only satisfaction: the kind of satisfaction seen in a predator when they know their prey has lost. "I do find myself inclined toward a more... intimate setting."

She says nothing when she feels the vampire reaching for her, nor does she let it show through her expression that she's noticed his mental advances either. But the little tendril of himself that he's extended out intrigues her, and so the tilt of her head as she examines it is the only tell that she's engaged with him at all. He wants inside, but not desperately. Not like a starving leech desperate for a meal. It's an offering, almost.

Ramona's mind is well defended: It is her greatest asset, after all. And a dog on a chain is still a dog, but it is more under control than it otherwise would be without the chain. And so in a way, she chains the pup scratching at her door to be let in, wrapping her consciousness around his, skintight and almost hug-like. It’s a greeting and a heavily-veiled threat all in one. Her touch is so light he might not even notice it, but it’s a tight grasp nonetheless. If he tries to go somewhere he shouldn’t, he’ll find himself quite rudely ejected from her mindscape. She doesn’t open up fully to him, not yet. She’ll wait until they’re alone for that, but she does offer a taste of the parlor that waits within, glinting brass and sophisticated decor.

It’s all she can do to resist the temptation to start digging into him just yet. A surface level examination is permissible, and it’ll do for now, just until she can get him alone with her. She can’t risk scaring him off so soon. Well, not that it would matter overmuch outside of a little inconvenience. He’s already trapped, he just doesn’t know it yet. If he tries to run, all she has to do is snap her fingers to hold him in place, and then she can pull all the information she wants from him. About the leech himself, about Jonathan, about their relationship, about any number of things, really. And if the experience leaves the boy a bit catatonic for a few hours? The only loss to her is that she might have to find someone else to entertain her for the rest of the day.

Lady Arathel’s remarks about Jonathan provide the perfect opportunity to build his own pedestal and express his growing affection for the elderly wizard. He agrees quite enthusiastically. “Oh, yes, Gionata has a most satisfactory eye for the marvelous; he recognized it in me the night we met. That is why he has hired me to weave dreams for the Archivists—to save their worthless lives from ruin.”

If Allerick had been the flat, wrinkled form of a lifeless hot air balloon when they first laid eyes on each other, every complimentary word she breathes is like a gust of hot air that restores him to his grand, voluminous form. “Grazie mille, Padrona. But did you know, Padre’s wine would be nothing without our fine workers? I myself have hand-selected each of them for their sturdy costituzione fisica, which is so vital to enduring the labor the profession demands. Many are as strong as mules, but very stupid, when they begin... I use my expertise to train and mold each young man into the perfect vigneron; they learn of varieties, pestilences, husbandry…”

Allerick sighs a bit dreamily and rests his chin on his folded arms, gazing into the fire. It’s wonderful to be listened to, and he imagines Lady Arathel enjoys the sound of his voice. The accent is pleasing, the information intriguing… Yes she is quite fortunate indeed that he hadn’t left the tavern like he’d planned to. Poor old thing would starve for company in this place, even if she were surrounded by a hundred of this shoddy little camp’s brightest individuals.

Despite having felt the expression on his own face so many times, Allerick is completely blind to seeing the triumphant glow in Lady Arathel’s eyes. All he can see is a bright, promising future decorated with marble floors, brass fixtures, and… the faintest whisper of silk sheets? Those remain out of sight, but not out of mind.

Allerick takes what she gives him. It isn’t much at first, but as he amplifies what little he can see, he feels the inner rooms of her home unfurl before him like the frond of a magnificent leafy plant. His addition to the splendor of the home is subtle, but classy. On the table in the parlor, two sparkling crystal glasses hold white frozen cream pierced through with a swirl of blood-red cherries in their own syrup.

Vain.

She has decided that Allerick is deeply, undeniably vain, and she loves and hates it in equal measure. On the one hand, his self-absorption has made him easier to trap than a child lured in by candy. Sweet words are better to the vampire than honey is to flies, and words are so, so much more powerful. She’s offered him validation, something to be proud of, and an ear that will listen to him gab about himself for the foreseeable future. But on the other hand, the way that he used what she said about her beloved Jonathan to build a pillar upon which to set his own ego makes her teeth itch. She doesn’t like it, but the trade off is worth it, at least for now.

She has a good hunch that, even if she scares him off now, he’ll just come crawling back to her and beg for more. Jonathan certainly isn’t going to butter him up this way. And if what he spilled about him ‘working’ for the younger archmage is true, then Jonathan hasn’t really hired him at all. At first she wondered if he might have brought the vampire on as a sort of artist in residence, keeping Allerick on as member of his staff simply for the pleasure of being the sole patron of his artistry. But this idea of having the vampire use his gift to improve the lives of the Archivists sounds so much more like the Jonathan she knows that it’s not hard to pick out the truth. He probably saw the threat that Allerick posed, and came up with his own string of honeyed words to convince him that work in the archives would be a noble cause worthy of his talents. That way he could keep tabs on the bloodsucker and get him to do something useful at the same time.

Good to see he’s learned something from her. They are both, after all, politicians by profession. And despite the fact that he alone in their order wields the sword of execution, it’s no secret among them that he also has the softest heart. It’s gotten him in trouble on more than one occasion. Poor thing, he really did get thrust into the wrong line of work for his temperament. Twice. Possibly even three times.

“My, my, you do have talent.” She purrs, watching as he extrapolates the vague vision that she had teased him with into a fully fleshed-out environ, complete with a tart-looking dessert that she can practically smell. It makes her mouth water. “But we’d best be saving that for later, shouldn’t we?”

With a flick of her wrist, the alchemist dissolves the vision. She stands, then, half-empty breakfast plate in hand as she gives him a coy, tempting look.

“Bring your wine and your little tin cup, Mr. Silva-Lucarelle.” The words come out as something close to a command, but it feels sweeter, something more like a request. “I do believe I’d like to share a dream with you upstairs in my room. I’d like to see what you are truly capable of. And then you can tell me all about this silly business in The Archives Jonathan has you all tied up in.”

The archmage swans off toward the stairs a moment later, dropping her plate on the bar top as she passes, and pausing only briefly to ensure Allerick follows close behind.

Her room is, perhaps surprisingly, somewhat better furnished than the accommodations that were had by Jon and Allerick the night previous, with a comfortable lounger by the hearth and a slightly larger bed. There are fewer stains on the rug, and the chair by the writing desk is in better repair. The linens are of a slightly higher quality. The curtains aren’t as sun-bleached.

“I always try to reserve the owner’s suite whenever I stay here.” Ramona hums, draping herself over the couch by the fire. It’s already lit, casting warmth and light across the room. “Now, where were we…? Oh yes. My parlor back in Phaervein, and a scrumptious looking dessert, if I remember correctly.”

He’s left with his mouth agape, blinking like a welp on the first day it ventures outside the warm, enveloping darkness of the den. No one has ever flicked his visions away. Fought their way out of them, certainly, but never flicked.

“Your… room, Padrona?” Allerick swallows. It’s one thing to be the pampered companion of an aged beauty for the day, or many days, but it’s quite another to bed her, and he fears that is exactly the cliff towards which this train is heading. He tries for just a moment to imagine what she would have looked like at his own age—perfectly smooth skin, dark hair of an unknown color, possibly a more maiden-like wardrobe—but he only can picture other women who are actually his peers and former bedmates. No one has that much imagination. Except perhaps Gable, but Gable would never find himself in this sort of situation…

Because he’s boring.

Lifting his chin a little, the young vampire reclaims that small-boat-over-deep-waters thrill that had swept up his neck earlier. He is a man, not a boy. He hasn’t been a boy for quite some time. “Yes, Padrona. But… with the deepest respect, it is not ‘silly business.’ I am to be responsible for these peoples’ lives. It is a duty and an honor. I will report to Gionata and the Keeper very regularly, for they must be sure I am upholding my promises, after all, and not exploiting these vulnerable persons. I am being entrusted with very much.”

Allerick continues to chatter on the way up the steps, only falling silent for a few seconds to swill off the tin cup.

Once inside the room, he casts an eye around at its peasant decor and scoffs quietly. “I pity the owner…”

The wine is placed very near to the open flame before he carries the chair from the writing desk over as well, positioning it as close to the heat as he dares, lest the fire spits an errant ember at his trousers. He settles in with a sigh and a little smile. “Esattamente.”

When Allerick reaches out to Lady Arathel this time, it isn’t with the same gentle politeness he’d shown beside the fire downstairs. This is a bold approach, presenting himself ready to surrender as much as invade. He didn’t close his eyes the first time, but now he smirks at the elder women before his black lashes shut lightly.

The crystal glasses he presents for the Mistress’s pleasure are exquisitely crafted, with each facet reflecting the light of the tasteful room almost as brilliantly as a diamond. The luxurious frozen cream and punchy red cherry filling inside are just as indulgent, and the pure silver spoons (long handle, small bowl) add a metallic zap to the flavor that, having come from the vampire’s own memory, adds a superior sensation to the commonplace experience of dining off silverware. Relying mostly on what he does know when so little information has been granted to him, he adds a few grounding details like garnish on a platter: native birdsong just outside the windows; Shelcanan folk guitar music floating in from another room; the soft and echoing tap of servants’ feet down distant corridors…

“Padrona, tell me true.” Allerick has yet to partake in the desserts. He doesn’t have to go through the motion of pretending to eat the food when he can taste it through memory, but he is very careful, like with Jonathan, to only offer the flavors to Lady Arathel once the cold cream is melting on her tongue, each tart cherry bursting between her molars. “Would you recommend me for the same position Gionata has offered? I would not like to take the position a better man should fulfill. The work is too important to allow my pride to get in the way…”

Much like Allerick, Ramona closes her eyes this time as she watches him reconstruct the vision from before. He’s much less careful this time, perhaps because he knows now that she’s not so fragile as she might appear. Age is just a number and all that. Or perhaps her initial positive reaction has bolstered his confidence? Either way, the version of her parlor that materializes in her mind is far more detailed than the last, and it brings a pleasant smile to her lips. There are easy discrepancies to spot that mark this as a dream, of course, but they are small and easily ignored as she indulges in the vision.

The elder archmage sits, one leg crossed over the other, on one of two plush chairs set on either side of the table on which the treats sit. She doesn’t hesitate to take up the spoon and sample its flavors as she waits for Allerick to settle down and join her. Something seems to have put him on edge, or at least unsettled him to a degree. When the question comes, she sets the crystal glass and its equally elegant spoon back on the table, folding her hands in her lap as she seems to regard him with something like an air of appraisal.

”I would recommend you for that and greater things, darling.” She bears a soft smile, something reassuring and honest, as she speaks. ”Our dear Jonathan has a soft spot for the chattel in The Archives, no doubt because he’s been the one to put most of them in there. I can understand his desire to put your talents to use there. Personally I feel like they would be wasted on those who are as good as dead in the eyes of the law, and mine as well. But it is quite the noble cause, as you’ve said, helping the poor things live an easier life.”

It’s interesting to see just how tightly the boy has attached himself to Jonathan’s offer. Perhaps he lacks direction in his life? Unless he truly is that vain to think that the wizard’s flattery of his abilities is the actual truth. Allerick has talent, certainly, but is he the best, full stop? That can’t be proven, though it is possible. More likely, she suspects her colleague might have inflated his words a bit to prey on the vampire’s apparently vulnerable sense of self-worth.

Or at least she hopes that was the case. If not she’s going to have to set that straight with him tomorrow.

”Your attention to detail truly is remarkable.” She purrs, watching a flinch flutter past through the window behind them. His creation, not hers. The dream itself could be a little more robust, in her opinion, but that’s technical magic, not creativity. But she won’t tell him that, at least not yet. Once she’s snatched him out from under Jonathan’s nose, then maybe she’ll offer her tutelage, but she’ll wait until she’s brought him home for that. Because that’s exactly what her goal is now.

”Now, won’t you tell me about what all this business in The Archives is about?” She rests her chin on her palm, the absolute picture of rapt attention. ”It isn’t that I don’t believe the task Jon has set you up to isn’t important, dearest, but I’m afraid I’m not quite sure what the details might entail. He’s hardly shown any interest in the archivists since the ousting of the last keeper, so I’m curious to see what his thoughts are.”

Greater things. Is that really what she said? Like the flutter of a dove overhead, or a star-leaf crossing one’s path in autumn, her use of those exact words is a sign. He knows it is. They were destined to meet; she will show him the way he must go. Every word that follows holds him captive. Especially when she, in essence, calls him noble.

Allerick restrains himself from gushing at her compliment on his dedication to detail, but only barely. “Thank you, Mistress. I have found ‘more’ is always better.”

He spends a moment quietly admiring his work, secretly wondering if he should have made one thing or another a little differently. When Lady Arathel’s question comes, paired with her rapt audience, he straightens a little in his chair and smooths the front of his shirt.

“It is… an experiment.” He doesn’t like admitting he cannot guarantee results, but he can’t lie to her. Not like this. Still, he’s smiling, and his earnest hopefulness and bright-eyed ambition beams through their connection like pure moonlight piercing his otherwise inky subconscious; people with power are finally recognizing him for his talents, not only his dietary needs, and for some very specific reason that he keeps locked up too tightly to pry into at a casual glance, that makes him very, very excited. “The archivists who are released into my care will live with me on my father’s vineyard and become vignerons and gardeners. I will give them dreams at night, and stirrings of thought in the day, and whatever else they may need… We hope to extend their living. If we cannot, then they have seen the hills and the sun again, at least, and shall be buried in pleasant earth where it is peaceful.”

Jonathan had tried warning him not to expect too much in the way of restoration to the archivists’ mental state, but Allerick’s optimism seeps out of him and into the atmosphere. It’s so easy to envision himself as a miracle-worker. A healer. A savior.

In a word, a god.

Ramona can practically taste the waves of hope coming off the vampire as he iterates the experiment he and Jonathan have planned. It’s sweet, really. They’ve done to all this thought to come up with a way to improve the lives of people whose fates matter only little in the grand scheme of things. Who cares if these poor unfortunate souls should live their shortened lives in the permanent semi-dark of The Archives, their corpses burned and ashes turned to fertilizer to grow the crops that feed the province? They hardly have a personality after the archival process anyway. Most of them can’t even react to pain anymore. But these boys and their soft hearts… bless them for trying.

”That sounds like a noble and merciful cause.” The elder archmage takes up her spoon and dessert again, raising the crystal glass in a salute to the boys and their touching plan before continuing to indulge in its equally sweet and tart flavor. ”It sounds as though you’ll only be taking a few of them, though? I assume that means the ones who aren’t there for committing some horrible crime are the ones you’ll be caring for. I don’t think even Jonathan could be convinced to let those out from under his thumb.”

It’s sweet that he thinks he’ll be able to give the archivists back some of what they’ve lost. Dreams, yes, he might be able to give them dreams. How responsive they’ll be to that will remain to be seen, apparently. But conscious thought? To think he would be able to give them even a flicker of such a thing is incredibly far fetched, even for someone of his skill. It almost makes her wonder if Jonathan was entirely truthful about that part at all.

”Allerick, darling, did Jonathan show you how archivists come to be?” The tone she uses is one a concerned mother might use for their child who has misunderstood some critical instruction and is unknowingly building a lie on that false foundation. ”As in, how they become the docile creatures we know now from whatever slavering, violent beasts they were before? I’d rather not put such a damper on our afternoon, of course, but I do think it’s important that you understand what these individuals have been through if you are going to be taking care of them.”

Allerick nods his head graciously to her salute and reaches for the second glass to lift it in thanks. He still does not partake in the dessert himself, but finds great pleasure in watching her lift another spoonful to her lips. Like Jonathan and countless others before them both, this seems to be everyone’s favorite part: gorging on fine cuisine and decadent sweets without remorse. “Yes, that is correct. Only those who are of no threat to others. Though I dare to admit I would not mind a challenge.”

The gentle tone she uses reminds him he had thought she looked comfortable to hug. Now he’s not so sure he’d like to touch her, if the touch would be misconstrued, but he finds her concern for him (although misplaced) endearing nonetheless.

“He inferred it was not a pleasant ordeal. ‘Gory,’ was the word, I believe. Will you show me?” The vampire’s eyes glint with something other than enthusiasm now. The enthusiasm has not left, but something dark and morbid—like the intense fascination with his brother’s deformed condition on his sickbed—twists the innocence of youth out of his expression.

If Ramona thinks of him as noble, tenderhearted, or altruistic in his motivation, the way he leans forward with the gaze of a starving cur stalking a bleeding child ought to tell her otherwise.

”Gory indeed.” She smiles, donning an expression that almost mirrors his. Almost. Something dark and enthusiastic, yes, but there’s also an air of knowing about hers that sets it apart. But the fact that he’s followed her this far proves he isn’t quite the gentle lamb he’s portrayed himself as so far. The boy is a vampire, after all, and a squeamish vampire is, more often than not, a dead vampire.

Ramona clears he throat and stands, pacing around the room and changing the scenery as she moves, leaving bare stone walls and an equally bare stone floor where luxurious marble and plush velvet had been but moments before. The sunlight streaming through the window is replaced by a sphere of pale light that casts the room in a sickly glow. In fact the setting is almost reminiscent of the bunker Gable spent the last full moon in, save for one door, made of slatted steel, set in the far wall. A young boy, probably no older than ten or eleven, sits huddled on the floor, his wrists shackled and chained to a ring set in the center of the floor directly below the glowing orb. There is a gold band around his left wrist, and tear tracks on his cheeks. He has dark brown hair, and darker brown eyes.

Oddly enough, the comfortable chairs and table from the parlor remain, and once she has fully set the scene, the archmage returns to her seat to watch the proceedings.

Everything happens with a crispness that comes from memory, as opposed to fantasy, right down to the conversation heard from outside as if it happens right in front of them.

”Do you want me to come with you?”

“Please.”

“Remember, this is the best thing for him, Jon. Really.”

“Are you so certain?”

Ramona’s disembodied voice does not answer, and instead the door opens to admit one Jonathan Eris, and an almost uncanny version of the elder archmage behind him; her hair is smoothed down and perfect, there are fewer wrinkles, her eyes are sharper. It is how she sees herself in her mind’s eye.

”Hello, Earold.” The wizard says, a friendly smile upon his lips. He’s dressed a bit more formally than he was the day he met Allerick, wearing an ensemble of champagne gold and deep burgundies, though it looks like whatever outer mantle the outfit is meant to be accompanied by has been left outside. ”Do you remember me?”

The boy nods, muttering his frightened greeting around a wet sniff. ”Hullo Archmage Eris.”

Jon’s smile broadens a bit, and he gestures to the figure of Ramona. ”This is Archmage Arathel. She was at your trial yesterday, do you remember her?”

Earold nods again, and when he speaks this time, his voice cracks with the promise of more tears. ”Are you here to e-e-execute me?”

“No, Earold. We are not here to execute you.” Jonathan’s jaw is set as he says the words, but his complexion looks more than a tad queasy, though he tries to hide it behind another amicable smile. ”We are here to take away the bad things in your head.”

“The things that made me hurt my family?”

“Yes, those things exactly.” Earold cowers as the wizard steps forward, but there’s nowhere for him to run, now: The length of chain tethering him to the floor is hardly a meter long. ”Can you lay down on the floor for me? On your front, with your arms stretched out? You can hold onto the ring in the floor if it helps.”

The boy’s hands shake, causing the chains to rattle as he does what he’s told, stretching out flat on the floor as Jon comes up beside him and rests his hand on Earold’s back.

”Everything is going to be alright, Earold. This will only take a moment.”

The younger archmage replaces his hand on the boy’s back with his knee, holding his trembling body still against the floor.

”Is it going to hurt?”

Broad hands tilt his head downward, pressing his forehead down against the floor before the fingers of those same hands comb through the hair on the back of his head.

”Only for a moment. I promise I’ll be gentle.”

He holds the boy’s head still with one hand, and Ramona places a rather simple looking brass device in the other. A metal tube, perhaps just over half a foot in length and half an inch in diameter. One end is capped with another rounded piece of metal, but the other end is open. There are runes pulsing in an angry red light along the exterior. The open end is pressed against Earold’s scalp, midway up from the base of his skull and just slightly off center from the midline. The touch of cold metal elicits a whine from the boy, but Jonathan is quick to shush him, and he quiets down.

For a moment the only sound in the room is the three of them breathing. Then, without warning, the wizard’s thumb slides over one of the runes on the device, and a sound like a snake’s hiss is heard just before a sharp crack and a brief whimper from Earold. His body goes still after that. Blood and bone fragments ooze from the quarter-inch diameter wound in his scalp when Jonathan rises, leaving a puddle on the floor that matches the color of the tart dessert on the table nearby. A brass wire springs from the wound as well, the metallic sheen its only distinguishing feature from the hairs on the boy’s head.

”In short…” The real Ramona begins her explanation as the memory stills, with her figure cleaning an errant blood splatter off the brass tube and Jonathan staring at the young boy’s unconscious form with an expression that sits somewhere between pity and physical illness. ”We place an enchanted rod in their brains that acts very much like a magic suppression cuff. It’s about the size of my pinky finger, just large enough not to fragment when breaking through the skull.”

She takes up the blood-and-bone colored dessert and has a few satisfying bites as she stares at the motionless scene before her. ”It isn’t always so smooth. Usually there’s a good deal of screaming and thrashing, but Jonathan truly has a gift for handling the little ones. Like Earold, there, who discovered his arcane self by accidentally liquefying his family’s bones.”

Allerick takes notes.

As the room shifts all around them and the pleasant, warm glow of sunlight turns sick, the vampire's observant gaze crawls over every detail with the enthusiasm of one artist learning from another’s work.

It surprises him to see Jonathan appear in the barren stone room, but it intrigues him even further to witness the old wizard spearheading the unusual procedure. He can hardly look away from the gentle man’s nauseated expression… until the young boy whimpers on the floor.

Allerick's pupils widen and his nostrils flare. The scent of blood, sharp as copper, is far from being the subject of Ramona’s memory, but it’s still very present in the room with them and Allerick’s body has tensed because of it. Lifted halfway out of his chair already, he looks poised to fall upon the decommissioned little boy's throat until Lady Arathel’s voice startles him out of his focus.

He blinks at her, then nods shallowly and swallows. He smooths himself over with a cool hand and an even cooler composer, but there's no mistaking the pang of an unsatisfied urge that just rippled through their connection. “How unfortunate.”

“I am familiar with the cuffs. Gionata used one on my brother for a short time while he recovered from illness. Am I to understand these rods are permanent? The brain, it is damaged?”

It’s hard to miss the way Allerick reacts to the boy’s blood pooling on the floor. The sudden tension, the pure excitement she catches from him… it’s a remarkable display of self-control that he remains in his seat at all. If he was supposed to feed from Jonathan this morning and didn’t, the poor bloodsucker must be quite hungry by now. Perhaps she’ll have to reward him for his behavior later. For now, though, she leaves the scene as it is, blood and all, laid out in front of them while they talk. She isn’t doing it to be cruel, of course. But if she can test how far his patience can be stretched now before she brings him home, she’ll be able to go into things that much more prepared.

”Yes to both, unfortunately.” The artificer hums, rolling a cherry around in her mouth and savoring the way its sour juices coat her mouth. ”The physical trauma associated with the implant’s placement is a source of damage in and of itself, but the enchantments infused into the metal offer a second source that is… difficult to account for. It seems to affect higher order thinking to various degrees depending on where in the brain the implant finally settles. Speech, complex emotions, problem solving, creativity, and as you’ve already heard, the ability to dream, all of these are negatively impacted by the rod’s enchantments.”

“I’ve had the opportunity to perform numerous necropsies on archivists over the years, and the conclusion I’ve drawn is that the spells used to sever their connection to the arcane seem to also lead to the degradation of certain parts of their brain. I won’t go into the unnecessary details of how certain effects are seen with damage in specific areas, but you should know that there may be a good number of maladies among your future charges that might not be helped by sunshine and fresh air alone. Movement disorders, for one, are more common in older archivists. Anything from mild tremors to partial paralysis, though the latter mostly occurs with poor aim when the implant is first placed, usually because they aren't as cooperative as little Earold was. Based on what you told me about which archivists you would likely be caring for, you shouldn't run into that too often."

For the moment, she sets down the crystal glass and spoon, and reaches into the pocket of her dress. There is no real pocket there, but the motion serves as a segue in the conversation as she pulls out a replica of the rod that was just placed in Earold's head, complete with the little wire at the tail end.

"I should mention that the device can, in a way, be removed." She admits this in the same moment that she tilts the device with the leading end downward, causing three spade-like barbs to unfold out from the sides like an umbrella. Righting it causes the barbs to fall back, flush with the rod so that the entire thing is smooth again. "Doing so kills them almost immediately, but it can be done. It is one of the more humane ways we have of euthanizing them when their times come. They don't feel it, and it is quick. I don't imagine you'll be making use of that function unless there is an emergency of some sort. Jonathan will probably want a keeper to oversee such things."

Ramona places the rod on the table between them, so that Allerick can examine the device if he wants to, and for a moment, she goes back to admiring the bloody scene she's left on display before them. Her eyes dart between the clotting blood at the back of Earold's head, Jonathan's sickened expression, and her own look of satisfaction at a procedure well-performed. Then, she turns back to the vampire.

"I did not know you had a brother, Allerick. Is he a mage, then?" She can't help the look of genuine happiness that creeps into her expression. It's been decades since she first started badgering Jonathan to take on an apprentice or two, not only because she thinks he would be a marvelous teacher but also because she truly believes he could use the help, and she's been met with nothing but resistance that whole time. To hear that he might finally be accepting a student... that's a step in the right direction. "He must be, at least in some capacity, if Jon put a cuff on him while he was ill."

The vampire keeps his eyes trained on Lady Arathel’s lips, concentrating on each new shape they make as they form her words. Does she not realize the bait she’s dangling in front of him by keeping this bloody scene and its scent clinging to the air while her reposed form lies before him, vulnerable, in the real world? He remains very still throughout her explanation of the enchantments, the damage they cause, the symptoms of the ruined mind… Only his long pale fingers twitch and fidget, stroking and twisting the buttons of his suit coat.

“I see…”

The morbid interest returns to replace the drawn hunger on his face the moment the medical device makes its appearance. The folding and unfolding of the barbs seems to mesmerize him, and he reaches for it before the lady artificer can put it down between them.

“Yes, I believe I am reporting to Keeper Makkaz. That is the name Gionata mentioned, and I shall be glad to defer such… gruesome feats to her authority.” The smile Allerick manufactures to go along with his claims of untroubled subordinance is not all that convincing, but there is no trace of insincerity in their connection. He does not plan to harm his wards in any way. That would defeat the whole purpose of becoming their savior, after all, and the personal risk of an excruciatingly long life in prison (or an equally discouraging quick execution) far outweighs any interest he may have in performing odd experiments on witless subjects. Or at least these specific witless subjects, who are so heavily protected.

Allerick lifts his gaze from the sleek metal tube to scrutinize the archmage’s face for a moment, frowning slightly at the pleased expression he finds there when she asks about Gable. He can practically feel her attention slipping away from him, which does not thrill him in the least, but he puts on a polite smile and nods to her conclusion.

“I believe the most accurate term for Gabriele’s classification would be ‘sorcerer,’ if I am not mistaken. He was born with magic in his veins, gifted to him by our ancestors in the same way my superhuman talents have been bestowed upon me... But his abilities are like child’s play. He carves wood and the wood… does things.” He flaps his hand dismissively and chuckles very coldly. “He does not even know how to control when it happens or what it does to his creations. But my small nephew could feel his pains while he was ill, and for that reason, their tie was temporarily severed. We Silva-Lucarelles are hunt-bloods.” Pride in his heritage brings a little of the warmth back into Allerick’s expression. But it's still a bit taut, a bit tense, a bit distracted in the presence of that bright copper scent.

She can tell his attention is wavering as she explains the nuances of the archivists’ various neurological conditions. His interest remains, but only to the degree that a layman’s might, even without the scent of blood hanging in the air. She can’t blame him all that much, she is toying with him, after all. At least some of his focus is regained when the device comes out, though it only serves to take his attention away from her and onto its brass structure.

”As I suspected. Keeper Makkaz is a grim and exacting woman. Just the kind of personality perfect for working with emotionless chattel in need of minding.” Ramona nods,considering the implications of Jonathan’s offer. Having some of the archivists relocated for a better way of life would in general be a good thing, at least for those who get to live under Allerick’s care. But the functions of The Archives in regard to its innermost chambers, and knowledge of the keepers and archivists themselves, are not terribly common knowledge. Few know they exist, and somewhat fewer approve of their existence.

In short, it could become a real mess. The reputation and credibility of The Court could be thrown into question. There could be riots, demands for justice on behalf of the beasts kept locked away from the sun. It could become dangerous, even. Folks coming to hunt them down, kill them for endorsing such an affront to humanity.

But that’s what public relations and official statements are for, after all.

”Well that explains things, then.” The elder archmage says thoughtfully as she considers dispelling the vision of the dungeon and bringing them back to her parlor. He’s behaved remarkably well thus far, but there’s a part of her that feels the need to push him further, to see just how much it’ll take before he breaks. He already looks annoyed, but that could very well be because of some sort of sibling rivalry. ”An active imagination is one thing, but it takes a natural talent with telepathy to do what you do with dreams, Mr. Silva-Lucarelle. Especially without formal tutelage. This gift your brother possesses does sound intriguing, and with a bit of work it could perhaps be refined into something useful. Do you happen to know if Jonathan is teaching him? I’ve been trying to get him to take an apprentice for decades, but he always manages to dodge the topic when I try to send him the good ones.”

Just as he’s beginning to glow beneath the warmth of her renewed praises for his natural talents, Allerick’s smile falls flat like folds shaken out of silk. Annoyed and bored, he studies his nails during his reply. “A man that old must leave some impression on a simple farm oaf, whether he means to or not, but I do not know what goes on beyond their closed doors when I am not there. I have only visited once and Gable was ill, as I’ve said. They tell me he is Gionata’s horse boy.”

His knee has joined the fidgeting. It bounces along with his foot.

Earold’s prone body can be seen out of the corner of his eye so long as he’s looking down at his own nails, so he lifts his gaze gradually, making a great effort to smooth any jerky movements before they can happen. He refuses to appear as the slavering monster Lady Arathel and her ilk surely think him to be, but that doesn’t mean he can’t remove himself from the situation if it’s causing him discomfort... Far from it, sometimes the only way to remain respectable is to calmly terminate the annoyance.

"Shall we return to your lovely home now, la mia Padrona?"

The sickly light of the dungeon room flickers a warmer shade at Allerick’s first attempt to return them to Ramona’s parlor. But only a flicker. He blinks. His brows come together very subtly. He tries again, harder, but only succeeds in shifting the color of the stone walls to a slightly whiter shade of gray. A hint of panic cracks Allerick’s cool facade as he tugs against the dungeon construct again, like a kidnapped child pulls against a captor’s hold on his wrists.

Allerick has felt real hunger before. Endless nights chained beside the stove, the aroma of home cooked foods and the blood of raw meat and childrens’ bleeding scrapes just beyond arm’s reach. He has felt exhaustion from that hunger. Delirium, weakness, a listlessness as good as death but far from peaceful… This is not that. Not anything near it. But still, he struggles to pull himself away from this bloodied room into the daylight he so craves. Why does he feel so weak?

There is very little leniency in the grip of the dream at first, but suddenly he breaks through, tumbling back into the sleek marble parlor and a blast of sunlight that makes him squeeze his eyes shut and lift his hands over his face. His breathing comes in fast, shallow gasps that morph into whimpers, then cries of pain. Small, concentrated dots of light like the sun focused through a magnifying glass appear all over his skin, scorching him, playing out an old memory.

He claws at his suit, rips buttons off his shirt, knocks over the large chair with the strength of a panicked animal and falls to the floor. The vampire jolts upright in the waking world to the sound of his own scream.