"Has your memory flown?" Arkady's chin dips, his eyes cast downward as he goes on. "You've found me lacking caution often enough. Never courage." He turns, feet scuffing the ground, for the moment unable to look at the dream-shadow of his late wife. "But why? Why would you return to me now? I thought that..."
Arkady's words wind down into silence, and he is left for a moment chewing at his lips in thought. A deep breath, and his eyes rise skyward, still avoiding the vision at his side. Something between a whisper and a chuckle parts his lips before he speaks.
"Tell me, then, how you may yet return. Tell me why you would return now, and perhaps we will not yet sing songs of your glorious death." It has never been something he believed in - the idea of a worthy death - and Arkady can't hide his wry grin as he speaks the phrase that they so often argued over, sometimes playfully and other times with more vigor.
Is this a dream? Arkady thinks to himself, raising one hand to stare briefly at his palm before his eyes are drawn again to the woman before him: his late wife. If so, a strange one. No, this is my... This is her. Radiant, powerful, wild. He stretches his hand toward her, and in the hallway his words are muffled, though in the dream they are sharp as a blade's edge. "Zus? Perhaps. But I think not me, Min Askväder. Tell me truly... Do you believe that an afterlife at your side awaits me? Or will I be denied you again, beyond the veil, for eternity?" His smile is a wound beyond healing as that outstretched hand falls to his side. His chin cocks to one side so that now he watches her out of the corner of his eyes, awaiting her answer.
Arkady’s hand, still resting atop his son’s chest, tightens as if to throttle his first answer to the boy’s question. Slowly, dark eyes close, and his shoulders rise and fall with a deep breath. ”A dream,” he mutters, affecting a dismissive tone. ”Nothing more. Rest.” He rises to his feet in a single motion, an uncoiling, the only sound a soft grunt for Zus’ benefit. Inwardly the widower curses her for not visiting his dreams, then curses himself for that bit of foolishness. ”Rest,” he says again, then slips back out the way he came.
In the hallway, he slouches against the wall next to his door. Fool. Leave the boy to Gytha, or to Kabula, he chides himself. You know no comfort yourself; how will you comfort your son? No sooner does his soft, bitter laughter become audible than it dies on his lips. Focus on what is in front of you. A peace accord where no peace is possible. Seeing to the safety of a man who will suffer no guards. Hunt a lich with the power of a god, a cyclops who sent the monster that… For a moment, his thoughts are no longer his own. A wordless roar fills his mind as he raises one hand to press his knuckles into his forehead, then drives the heel of that fist into the stone wall at his side. Damn him, he thinks. ”Damn you,” he whispers then, in case it is listening. Alone in the hallway, Arkady slides to the floor, back against the wall, and sits for a time in silence.
Arkady slouches in his seat at the "children's table," the appellation drawing a sardonic smile from his otherwise impassive features. Even this mirthless twist of the lips fades quickly, however, gone long before Jhod's outburst. His dark eyes track from Verik to Jhod and back, and though he does not straighten in his chair, his hands ball into fists beneath the table.
Jabber's entrance creates the briefest lull in the tension, and in that instant his attention flits to Nikolai, alert for some sort of signal. His brows jerk, his lips draw slightly downward, but almost immediately his eyes return to the late arrival. A kobold. And why not? Surprises at every turn. He leans forward in his seat, nodding at Borodin's words, his attention following the speaker.
Once the spymaster has finished, Arkady clears his throat. "I took the liberty of evaluating the Callistrian contingent, and found them... Thorough. Perhaps next I might fall in with the Pitaxians? Play on our common heritage, subtly dig for their true purpose in agreeing to the summit?" A brief pause as his eyes find Borodin and he adds, "No doubt their officers have found a place to congregate, and no doubt you know where that is?"
Varnhold. Town Hall - the private offices of Banker Verik Jarrow. 28 Calistril, 2713.
"I should hardly call violence an old friend, Banker Jarrow," Arkady says with a chuckle at the back of his throat. "It has rather more in common with a cousin who visits often. The sort who is generally unwanted and boorish, but occasionally enjoyable when he is drunk." His brows lift, looking for something - agreement, perhaps? Understanding? Either way, he presses on.
"You must have surmised, keen as you are, that I lack the temperament of a proper arcane scholar. I am a man better suited to practical applications of the arts, whether arcane or martial. So let me be clear, Banker: if we properly understand one another at last, then your next and final offer interests me a great deal."
Settling back into the chair, he lifts one foot to rest it on the opposite knee. One hand absently brushes dust from the hard leather of his boot, but soon his gaze returns to the man opposite him. "I believe you, if that matters. I know that you have seen otherworldly evil, faced unknowable violence, and prevailed."
His lips twist into something not quite a smile, and he shrugs. "I suppose I am something of an ingrate. You and your fellows are likely the reason that my son lives..." He can admit that much, but adds neither an apology nor any words of gratitude. ...though you were too late for my wife, are the words he fights to hold back.
"So if you believe you have some use for me, some role to which I would be well suited, then you will find me open to discussion at the least. Though I do not wear uniforms, do not mark tallies or collect fines, and decidedly do not get along with Kharkarov, I think you may find that I do have some use."
Kabula's mask covers half his face in brightly colored silk, accented with peacock feathers he retrieved from the home he shares with Arkady, Zus and Gytha. That home is his personal retreat. It gives him purpose and hope for the future. The mask is a symbol; it means joy, revelry, and looking ahead to a new life.
Arkady's mask is black, a domino style, its only affectation a scattering of black stones that sometimes reflect the firelight. This mask comes from their home as well, retrieved by Kabula, a relic of happier times. To Arkady, that house is a tomb - worse even, a haunted manse, its empty spaces echoing with half-remembered laughter that mocks his despair. The mask is his refuge, privacy in the crowd, a moment spent outside its suffocating walls.
"Not bad for a one-legged man, eh?" The Little Bull is sweating despite the chill, fresh from the fireside where he used his crutch to impressive effect in an attempt to teach Varnholders both new and seasoned a celebratory dance. How many times had Arkady danced the energetic steps at his side, laughing and encouraging new friends as they learned to revel in the Mwangi fashion? Now, the Pitaxian only looks away from the mask in his hands to scowl at him. So The Little Bull, ever determined, answers himself. "Not bad for a one-legged man."
The mask in Arkady's hands is an icy blue, somewhat larger than his own mask, cut to cover one cheek. It is stiff and sculpted, though not extravagant, with a pair of ribbons to flow free from one side. The sort one might find in any common Galtan market on a feast day. She was never one for expensive affectations.
The music flows over and around him, ignored save by a small voice in the back of his head. This Sphere and Rose troupe is more than passable. Quite good. There was a time... But that time is past.
His dark eyes wander as Kabula rambles at his side, weaving in and out of his native Mwangi, the words interspersed with soft laughter. There the smith, well into his cups, lifting another mug of ale. There one of the new guards, taking her leave of the festivities; who is that at her side? There Gytha, still at the fireside, still trying to teach Zus the steps to that absurd dance. Save for those few - Gytha, Kabula and Zus - the Varnholders Arkady knew are dead, victims of The Vanishing. Weyam, Piotr the wheelwright, Amma, the aged baker who flirted so salaciously, even Maegar Varn himself.
What safety could there be in a town like this? Could Aldori mercenaries and newly-minted militia protect Varnhold? He fights a sudden urge to leap to his feet and scream at them to flee. To Sanctuary, to Olegsgrav, to Pitax or to Brevoy, to fly with all haste to anywhere outside this cursed village. Instead he raises his own mug to his lips again, then drops it empty at his feet.
His eyes return to the mask, held in both hands now, and he leans forward to rest his elbows on his knees so that his hands hang between them. Through the mask's eyes he can see the dirt of the square. Grave dirt. The ribbons are so pale against the tanned skin of his hand. Unconsciously he wraps them around his fingers. Not unlike her hair. All too aware of where this line of thought leads, he looks up to scan the crowd again.
There the Banker, with whom he will soon meet. There a fine stallion, well-ridden. The rider dismounts, pressing into Banker Jarrow's embrace. There, new love. Arkady's grip tightens; the mask cracks in his hands, destroyed. To the sounds of Kabula's protests, he makes his exit.
"You should be thanking your pink-skinned gods that your son lives, n'kosi," the squat warrior says, his common still thick with the accent of the Mwangi Expanse evengeance now. The burly tribesman Kabula - The Little Bull - stalks Arkady, keeping up through sheer stubbornness despite the loss of one leg at the knee some time ago.
"They took her from me, Bull. I'm not minded toward gratitude," Arkady seethes, his voice held low. "The gods have no use for my happiness, likely less for my gratitude." The tracks of his tears are still visible, freshly carved through the dirt that cakes his face. His open palm strikes the wooden door, causing it to swing dangerously, supported as it is by just the top hinge. Heedless, he strides into his home. No, comes an uninvited thought, Not anymore - not without her here. His right hand balls into a fist at his side, and Kabula starts at the sudden violence of his old friend lashing out to shatter a finely painted vase.
Debris litters the floor. His knuckles drip blood. In the next room, someone sobs.
"Zus needs..." The Little Bull begins softly, but Arkady interrupts.
"How soon can we leave?" His dark eyes cast about the room as though he were searching for something, but sorrow and fury drive him rather than any purpose.
"Not soon," Kabula says, the words thick with his own grief - for the friend who was slain, and for the one standing before him, lost in her wake. "There is no money. The roads are not safe. The Banker said when you..."
One hand, open, lifts to call for silence. "I damned well remember what the Banker said," the dark-haired Pitaxian growls, and then for a moment the two men stand in silence.
"Zus needs you, Arkady," Kabula finally whispers.
"Gytha will see to him," comes the reply, the words devoid of feeling. He raises a hand to comb fingers through his dark hair, leaving a mess in their wake. His shoulders rise and fall with a slow breath, and when he speaks again his words are measured, his tone controlled. "Come. Sit. Tell me all you know about Banker Jarrow."
