( an imp will arrive, carrying a box with a letter fastened on top. the box contains some hard to come by medical supplies, a one of the more intricate maps of the Drabwurld as created by the Runners, and a few drawings in oil pastel. one of the stage at The Rook, the skyline of Redgate, and a simple sketch of Lauralae. )
Lauralae-
I hope you're doing well! I had some medical supplies left from setting up clinics at the Unseelie spires; I hope you can find a use for them. Free time means I can get back to doing art, I've never used oil pastels before, so I'm experimenting in the art I send you. Hopefully they're not too bad.
[ The note that is sent back carries very little, save a letter and a set of vials, each labelled. One is poison, created from ivy and the sap of plants, another a light coloured paste, noted to heal wounds 'from the knife that powers you' and another which is fine powder - 'for those fine cheeks that bring naught but smiles'. ]
Clarke.
I return to you gifts to keep you safe, to care for you when the Light comes and you fear you may fall. Let the poison guard your blade, the medicine heal your wounds and the rouge colour your cheeks when fear or nerves make you pale.
The drawings you make are welcome, beautiful, and I shall treasure them. Do not think otherwise.
( near the end of November, a carrier bird will find Lauralae wherever she is in the Drabwurld, delivering a very unassuming package for her. a box wrapped in plain brown paper, tied with string. should Lae open it, she will find a compact mirror and a pocket watch, along with a letter, and a small sketch of the Black Shuck as Clarke had seen him at Samhain. )
Lauralae-
I know that lockets are a commodity for shardbearers, but relying on letter relay can take too long. Please find a mirror and pocket watch included for you and Iorveth. They will function similarly to the currently defunct shardbearer lockets, but can only be used to communicate between both of you if you're ever separated, or to me, should you want to. All you'll need to do is open it and say the name of who you need to speak to.
If I ever find a way to expand the network so you can contact others, I'll let you know.
[ She is delighted. Being able to contact Iorveth is one thing, especially should danger part them, but being able to contact a student and (possibly) friend is another. It has been some time since anyone wished to see her or speak to her and she embraces it with glee. ]
Clarke.
Your gift is beautiful and I will use it wisely and with discretion. To be able to speak to you when I feel the urge or the ache of missing you is the true gift and I shall treasure that.
Find, in return, the presents I have carried for you. Use them well and let your path be filled with promise.
- Lauralae.
[ Returned, in the same box in lieu of anything else at hand, are a few things. One is a small knife with a bone handle, inscriptions in Drabbish decorating the side, the metal of the blade itself sharp and thin; obviously for the use of blood magic. A second is a small set of miniature vials, four in total, red, blue, green and white, paints made by hand from flora found in the forest, mixed by Lauralae for Clarke alone.
The last gift, a third, is something more personal, something for them to share alone. A set of gloves, fine and black, the insides fitted with animal hair to make sure that they afford the best warmth, a sly poke at herself - Clarke knows how Lauralae feels about her hands and offering her gloves as a gift is as much a request for solidarity and friendship as it is a gift in it's own right. ]
[ She comes because she has been asked to. She leaves Iorveth behind her, telling him if she does not return before this time the next day then he ought to continue without her; there is no love lost between them, after all, and she would not expect him to come to her aid. She wants him, not the other way around, and he would not chase her down if she were lost. That is an easy part of their friendship if nothing else.
Crossing the land in her wolf-form, she moves quickly, climbing faster and moving as quick as she can, at least until she is half a mile within the bounds of the Spire itself. Then she turns back, stepping forward and beginning to move, step by step, careful, her hood over her face and her arms covered by the depths of her cloak. She climbs the cliffs with a slow and steady pace, and she ignores the way that her expression darkens as she continues, following the pathways that lead to the Spire itself. She doesn't care about the people that watch her, warily; she is sure they have seen stranger in their time here.
When she reaches as far as she dares go without welcome she waits. The Vampir will come, she is sure, and she will raise her head and speak to him. ]
[He comes, of course, informed of her presence by his own senses and by a messenger from one of his lookouts. As dark-hooded as his visitor, and with certain aspects of the Northern wildlings, where she is truly wild he nonetheless bears the marks of urbanity.
He doesn't come too close. Puts down his hood, bows to her; not so low as to appear parodic, nor so shallowly as to be perfunctory.]
[ She tilts her head, regarding him, silent before she adjusts her hood. It hangs back on her face now, covering her ears still but baring pale skin to the light of the sunshine, even in the shadow of the Spire itself. ]
Vampir Brucolac.
[ She doesn't bow nor does she curtsey. Instead, she offers a nod, an incline of her head and a slight movement of her hand. She is not one for formality, certainly not towards ones she doesn't know nor respect. ]
[ Her expression flicks at the notion of the Aellyn, but she says nothing. She is not of their race any more, cast out, her eats cut under her hood as proof of her disgrace. ]
I shall walk.
[ She steps forward, her voice careful and low. ]
Magic, tools of power. That is what I trade in and what others gift me in return for tutelage.
I'm no tutor, and only a thru'penny hack of a magician. I can show you what I can do, if you really wish it, but it's paltry compared to what passes for magical skill in this place.
But...perhaps other means of payment may be possible. I have a small supply of blood granite. Would a portion of that be acceptable to you?
[The blood granite was alloted to Srathmarbh for the safekeeping of magical prisoners...of which he has none. He would prefer to keep it that way, as well. Prisoners are most often a foolish indulgence, meant to flatter the pride of a would-be conqueror or the vanity of do-gooder without the stomach to execute.
And in any case, he spends long enough bemoaning the general tendency of the Unseelie court to keep only the most scattered accounts of military requisitions and the like; he may as well make something positive out of it.]
[ That does, as she's sure he wanted, catch her attention. She pauses in her stride, watching him for a moment. ]
Blood granite. Do you have a means of carrying it so that it will not affect unless I choose for it to?
[ That is most important for her. If she can take the granite with her, to be used as she desires? She may well be capable of touching someone without scarring them or earning their ire. If she can use it as a tool to punish as well... ]
If so then I shall be at your service, in fair trade.
Madam, if I had that kind of power my fledgling little city would be far richer. It's one of the great inconveniences of trading in the damnable stuff. But it can be broken up; small pieces used to imbue weaponry with a nullifying effect without too much danger to the wielder, things like that. If you're concerned about weakening your own powers while on the road, I can arrange for it to be delivered to some secure place for you.
[He jerks his chin in a brisk nod. Fucking elves, he thinks, with no particular rancour; fucking vampir too.
If he's wrong, this gamble won't pay off, and he might not know it until far too late. But what he's offering is no small boon. Blood granite is hard to come by and always expensive.
From a pocket, he draws the papers found on the elf Paloma had dragged back to Srathmarbh. He sees no reason to explain how he came by them.]
[ She moves, quick to turn the corner of the page so that she might see it, her eyes skimming over the language. Something catches in her throat, a soft gasp, before she turns once more, lifting dark eyes to look at him.
It's obvious that she is curious, wondersome, desperately so, and she hesitates before she speaks. ]
This is an elven language of old. It was once used in the time when their clans were united in their old kingdom, as one rather than apart. I have not seen it written for some time.
[He leans in very slightly. Interest sharpens in his expression like a knife, gives his face a cast of urgency.] The midland clans were briefly united under a shardbearer king. Missing now.
[ She moves her head away from his, but leaves room for her to narrate aloud, her voice soft and careful with each word. ]
'You were right old friend; the Gods are awaking from their slumbers...' The next part is ruined, I cannot read it, the words faded. It says that something is 'truly nearing its end. We must finish what we've begun, at whatever cost.'
[ She shakes her head. ]
The next phrase has more damage, I cannot read it all, but it mentions a 'wolf' that 'will be extinguished...'
[ The rest, though... It is all unmarked and easy from this point forward, her voice soft, not toneless but lifting, her frown soft as she translates. ]
'I have been hunting hard, will try to take the strongest while there is yet life in us. We were fools, to be swayed by the bright prince, brought together for a dream that is already ash. And that mortal castellan, a shardbearer blind as any other... who have we to trust with ancient truths but ourselves? Be safe. Give my love to my daughter. I miss her so much. Please, please take care of her.'
[ Turning her head, Lauralae watches the Brucolac, her gaze hard, dark eyes stuck upon him. ]
[He doesn't answer for a few moments, staring hard at the paper in her hand like he has not heard her question. Eventually, he stirs himself to respond.]
One of my people was attacked while travelling. This was found in the remaining mess.
[Pickpocketed from a dead man.]
Thank you for this. There are no names? No indicators of who sent or received it? Who would speak this language?
[ Her expression tightens, her eyes drawing along the note again, memorising each word with careful flicks of her eyes before her gloved hands drop away. ]
You would do well to heed, then, that this letter will be missed. Those that speak this tongue are not so foolish to allow it to travel unthought of.
[ This man does not seem the type to allow anyone to survive an attack, so she assumes his fellows are much the same; she will not comment, for now, content to let him have his secrets. There are matters she cares more about, and that is what this note means, what she must keep in mind for the future. ]
No names nor calling cards, nothing that would hark to who may have written nor their families. I do not know the style of pen, either.
[ The rest comes with some thought, careful and slow before she breathes. ]
It is an old language, not so commonly spoken now that the clans have split and the elves are no longer a unified force. I can read the language from studies of my own, from walking this earth and liberating tomes from where they had once been hidden, but this will be seen more as code to a modern child of the forest, a whisper, I think, of time gone by. The person that wrote this is either very, very old or like me. Learned and well-taught to know to use the words of clans of old to hide their speech.
[ All of this is, of course, her own assumption. It had been a very long time since she had been a part of her own race, considered to be one of them, and their thoughts on the matter are as foreign to her as they might be to him. ]
[He rubs his jaw, grinding his teeth together.] I would place my money, personally, on very old, or else following the instruction of one so ancient. What do you know of elven elders?
We un- and ab-dying races, we do tend to place great stock in antique personages. [A teeth-bared sort of joke, his countenance grim.]
The elders are more important than I can put into words. Each of them, those that exist in their clans, are respected and cherished for their knowledge and their strength.
[ She hesitates, pausing, before she turns her head away, lips curled back in a nearly-there snarl. ]
It has been many years since I was considered close enough to be a part of any talk of elders.
[His interest sparks, but it would be cruel to press it. He inclines his head.]
The vampir, similarly, rally about their sires and sires of sires as family. More than family. We look to our elders to define our own nature, we see them as examples of the very highest possibilities of vampir aspiration. They are both icon and...limit. Mothers, fathers and brutal politicians. [He shrugs.] I have been disavowed by many of my kin here. Close ties make for...very pointed exclusions.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
autumn.
ＭＩＤ－ＯＣＴＯＢＥＲ
Lauralae-
I hope you're doing well! I had some medical supplies left from setting up clinics at the Unseelie spires; I hope you can find a use for them. Free time means I can get back to doing art, I've never used oil pastels before, so I'm experimenting in the art I send you. Hopefully they're not too bad.
Be safe out there, okay?
Clarke
no subject
Clarke.
I return to you gifts to keep you safe, to care for you when the Light comes and you fear you may fall. Let the poison guard your blade, the medicine heal your wounds and the rouge colour your cheeks when fear or nerves make you pale.
The drawings you make are welcome, beautiful, and I shall treasure them. Do not think otherwise.
Lauralae.
ＬＡＴＥ－ＮＯＶＥＭＢＥＲ (eats up your timeskip page)
Lauralae-
I know that lockets are a commodity for shardbearers, but relying on letter relay can take too long. Please find a mirror and pocket watch included for you and Iorveth. They will function similarly to the currently defunct shardbearer lockets, but can only be used to communicate between both of you if you're ever separated, or to me, should you want to. All you'll need to do is open it and say the name of who you need to speak to.
If I ever find a way to expand the network so you can contact others, I'll let you know.
Clarke
OH NO THIS IS ADORABLE
Clarke.
Your gift is beautiful and I will use it wisely and with discretion. To be able to speak to you when I feel the urge or the ache of missing you is the true gift and I shall treasure that.
Find, in return, the presents I have carried for you. Use them well and let your path be filled with promise.
- Lauralae.
[ Returned, in the same box in lieu of anything else at hand, are a few things. One is a small knife with a bone handle, inscriptions in Drabbish decorating the side, the metal of the blade itself sharp and thin; obviously for the use of blood magic. A second is a small set of miniature vials, four in total, red, blue, green and white, paints made by hand from flora found in the forest, mixed by Lauralae for Clarke alone.
The last gift, a third, is something more personal, something for them to share alone. A set of gloves, fine and black, the insides fitted with animal hair to make sure that they afford the best warmth, a sly poke at herself - Clarke knows how Lauralae feels about her hands and offering her gloves as a gift is as much a request for solidarity and friendship as it is a gift in it's own right. ]
late september; srathmarbh.
Crossing the land in her wolf-form, she moves quickly, climbing faster and moving as quick as she can, at least until she is half a mile within the bounds of the Spire itself. Then she turns back, stepping forward and beginning to move, step by step, careful, her hood over her face and her arms covered by the depths of her cloak. She climbs the cliffs with a slow and steady pace, and she ignores the way that her expression darkens as she continues, following the pathways that lead to the Spire itself. She doesn't care about the people that watch her, warily; she is sure they have seen stranger in their time here.
When she reaches as far as she dares go without welcome she waits. The Vampir will come, she is sure, and she will raise her head and speak to him. ]
no subject
He doesn't come too close. Puts down his hood, bows to her; not so low as to appear parodic, nor so shallowly as to be perfunctory.]
Milady Lauralae. Welcome to Srathmarbh.
no subject
Vampir Brucolac.
[ She doesn't bow nor does she curtsey. Instead, she offers a nod, an incline of her head and a slight movement of her hand. She is not one for formality, certainly not towards ones she doesn't know nor respect. ]
Your Spire is grand indeed.
no subject
[He gestures her on.] Walk with me? Before I ask anything of you, I'd know what would be a suitable reward for your information.
no subject
I shall walk.
[ She steps forward, her voice careful and low. ]
Magic, tools of power. That is what I trade in and what others gift me in return for tutelage.
no subject
But...perhaps other means of payment may be possible. I have a small supply of blood granite. Would a portion of that be acceptable to you?
[The blood granite was alloted to Srathmarbh for the safekeeping of magical prisoners...of which he has none. He would prefer to keep it that way, as well. Prisoners are most often a foolish indulgence, meant to flatter the pride of a would-be conqueror or the vanity of do-gooder without the stomach to execute.
And in any case, he spends long enough bemoaning the general tendency of the Unseelie court to keep only the most scattered accounts of military requisitions and the like; he may as well make something positive out of it.]
no subject
Blood granite. Do you have a means of carrying it so that it will not affect unless I choose for it to?
[ That is most important for her. If she can take the granite with her, to be used as she desires? She may well be capable of touching someone without scarring them or earning their ire. If she can use it as a tool to punish as well... ]
If so then I shall be at your service, in fair trade.
no subject
But nothing more.
no subject
A secure place, where I might hide it and use it. May I have two pieces?
[ She leans close, her expression tight. ]
One shard for myself and one in a dagger or knife, to be given to someone. Would you allow that, Vampir?
no subject
Provided you can help me. Certainly.
no subject
[ She nods her head, held high. ]
Ask what you will of me.
no subject
If he's wrong, this gamble won't pay off, and he might not know it until far too late. But what he's offering is no small boon. Blood granite is hard to come by and always expensive.
From a pocket, he draws the papers found on the elf Paloma had dragged back to Srathmarbh. He sees no reason to explain how he came by them.]
Do you recognise the language?
no subject
It's obvious that she is curious, wondersome, desperately so, and she hesitates before she speaks. ]
This is an elven language of old. It was once used in the time when their clans were united in their old kingdom, as one rather than apart. I have not seen it written for some time.
no subject
Can you read it?
no subject
[ She moves her head away from his, but leaves room for her to narrate aloud, her voice soft and careful with each word. ]
'You were right old friend; the Gods are awaking from their slumbers...' The next part is ruined, I cannot read it, the words faded. It says that something is 'truly nearing its end. We must finish what we've begun, at whatever cost.'
[ She shakes her head. ]
The next phrase has more damage, I cannot read it all, but it mentions a 'wolf' that 'will be extinguished...'
[ The rest, though... It is all unmarked and easy from this point forward, her voice soft, not toneless but lifting, her frown soft as she translates. ]
'I have been hunting hard, will try to take the strongest while there is yet life in us. We were fools, to be swayed by the bright prince, brought together for a dream that is already ash. And that mortal castellan, a shardbearer blind as any other... who have we to trust with ancient truths but ourselves? Be safe. Give my love to my daughter. I miss her so much. Please, please take care of her.'
[ Turning her head, Lauralae watches the Brucolac, her gaze hard, dark eyes stuck upon him. ]
Where did you find this?
no subject
One of my people was attacked while travelling. This was found in the remaining mess.
[Pickpocketed from a dead man.]
Thank you for this. There are no names? No indicators of who sent or received it? Who would speak this language?
no subject
You would do well to heed, then, that this letter will be missed. Those that speak this tongue are not so foolish to allow it to travel unthought of.
[ This man does not seem the type to allow anyone to survive an attack, so she assumes his fellows are much the same; she will not comment, for now, content to let him have his secrets. There are matters she cares more about, and that is what this note means, what she must keep in mind for the future. ]
No names nor calling cards, nothing that would hark to who may have written nor their families. I do not know the style of pen, either.
[ The rest comes with some thought, careful and slow before she breathes. ]
It is an old language, not so commonly spoken now that the clans have split and the elves are no longer a unified force. I can read the language from studies of my own, from walking this earth and liberating tomes from where they had once been hidden, but this will be seen more as code to a modern child of the forest, a whisper, I think, of time gone by. The person that wrote this is either very, very old or like me. Learned and well-taught to know to use the words of clans of old to hide their speech.
[ All of this is, of course, her own assumption. It had been a very long time since she had been a part of her own race, considered to be one of them, and their thoughts on the matter are as foreign to her as they might be to him. ]
no subject
[He rubs his jaw, grinding his teeth together.] I would place my money, personally, on very old, or else following the instruction of one so ancient. What do you know of elven elders?
We un- and ab-dying races, we do tend to place great stock in antique personages. [A teeth-bared sort of joke, his countenance grim.]
no subject
[ She hesitates, pausing, before she turns her head away, lips curled back in a nearly-there snarl. ]
It has been many years since I was considered close enough to be a part of any talk of elders.
no subject
The vampir, similarly, rally about their sires and sires of sires as family. More than family. We look to our elders to define our own nature, we see them as examples of the very highest possibilities of vampir aspiration. They are both icon and...limit. Mothers, fathers and brutal politicians. [He shrugs.] I have been disavowed by many of my kin here. Close ties make for...very pointed exclusions.
Do you know names? Even whispers. Where to start.
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