Fantasy 〘 𝕋𝐡𝐞 ℝ𝐚𝐯𝐞𝐧𝐜𝐫𝐮𝐬𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐬. 〙

[mother of sorrows]

One raven to another flies,
One raven to another cries:
‘Raven! Where should we dine out?
How are we to make that choice?’
The other raven replies in turn:
‘I know where dinner can be had;
In the open fields, beneath a willow,
There lies the body of a knight.
Who killed him and why
Only his falcon knows,
And his jet-black mare,
And his maiden fair.
The falcon flew off into the grove,
His enemy sat astride his mare,
And his maiden awaits her sweetheart,
Thinking him still alive, not dead.’
Alexander Pushkin, Voron.​

 

[mother of sorrows]

H

filler! ignore

P

filler! ignore

• aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa
• aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa

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  zhelezy holdery

  
  
  
  

  in the morning hours...

  
  
  

  
  
  
  
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  Vagabond livingdead demonology ravensunset cavitea Sear arthur morgan. nav

  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  
  

  location

  
  

  location here

  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  
  

  outfit

  
  

  outfit here

  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  
  

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  tags here

  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  Gregor curled up a mustached lip and shook his head when the maintenance door sprang open.
  
  ''Mighty fine work from these fancy engineers,'' the guard thought bitterly, ''Letting any thief dance in.''
  
  That's the problem with all these young folk, going to God knows what universities and institutions. They get these pretty little degrees there and walk around with minx fur around their necks, but leave good and simple farmer logic behind. Used to be in this country, you had responsibility to your job and the people around you - Gregor's uncle was punished for a crime he did not commit, but that happened on his watch as a military guard. Well, had that happened in these times, well... These uppity graduates would call it tyranical. They grew up without discipline, that's all, and that made them lazy.
  
  ''Lack of discipline, that's all there is to it.'' The old man mumbled to himself, latching the door further open. ''And if someone had walked in and stole? Whose fault would it have been then, hm?''
  
  Zhelezy Holdery is cradled under a weight of unmelting snow, though you wouldn't know it so deep into the ground. It has been a particularily brutal storm, even for a wasteland such as Zadniela. Out here, the strict, enormous building can get snowed in for days - ice flowers clings to the widely carved pillars and on iron bars sitting in front of windows. All those modern security gates sizzled with loose electricity, and it turned the twisting halls unpleasantly warm despite the winter that rages outside. The vaults themselves are closed too tight to allow any air flow, and it made sweat pool under his heavy cotton uniform.
  
  The maintenance tunnel, at least, brought a thin draft across Gregor's face. There should be no wind.
  
  ''Bloody idiots. Probably left the one in the vault open, too.'' He lifts the lantern on his hip, casting unsure shadows all across the thin hallway. It is big only for a single man, and Gregor is barrel-chested despite his advancing age. He ducks below the metal pipes and descends into the fourth layer with careful feet, huge hand gripping a slippery wall. It is black like pitch, but he won't simply let it be open for anyone to walk in. Darkness clings to his light and he meets the stairs, takign care to not lose his footing to them. He reaches the other hallway, finding the door just as open as the one before - Gregor curses, shaking his head. What a lack of care. How hard is it to do this one simple thing?
  
  He goes to close the door. Pauses. Uncertainly, he sticks out his head into the shadowy, deserted vault.
  
  It is massive. So large he does not even see the walls from where he stands, too dark to make out their massive ribs. Flickering gaslight reveals a gray wall now and then before plunging it back into obscurity, giving it the appearance of an underwater cave. Only a handful of people have ever echoed a footstep here. It is so quiet, so, so quiet...
  
  Odd, he thinks hesitantly, hand coming to rest on the baton on his hip, it is almost as if I heard a...
  
  The vault is dark. Too dark to make out the figure creeping up on him, too quiet to hear a whisper before it is too late. Is he hallucating? No - Gregor starts, turns. His skull is crushed under a force before he can yell.
  
  A fireworks display goes off in his head...
  
  

  
  
  

  
  
  
  

♡design by dreamglow, coded by uxie♡

 

[mother of sorrows]

the black goose

scene i:

where we meet.

♡coded by uxie♡

Novygrod is quiet. Dream-cast and rinsed with rain, mosaic roofs dripping and cobble-stone streets abandoned - parties have tested mid-winter ice, but that is the cold and this is biting wind. Those that had homes, stayed inside. Those without stayed away from Srebrnica. The river gulped at ropes and thrashed the boats, throwing up white foam at the slimy channel walls. Melting mountain snow fed the river, and it becomes ravenous at the hint of storms. All passage past this grayish, deep patron of Novygrod will have to be reserved for morning, but you can still hope for the bridges to rise tall enough.

The Black Goose, however, cares little for the wind's yowl, or the acidic sting of rain. The tavern is open for anyone that dares the weather outside, which is a few stray drunks and a barmaid with the gentle face of a sheep. It is no fine place - you will find no noblesse here, though the rats that peek out with glittery, black eyes are of an utmost fatness. The gold and porcelain are of an aged quality, impressive fifty years ago, and the air is mellow.

At the back of it, there is a curtain. Behind it, there is a room.

There is no one in it yet, but it was been reserved for the night. A few customers eye it with curiosity, and the barmaid tries to recall the last time it has been used. It is nothing special - on the walls, folk paintings hidden under a layer of dust, and a table with barely seen scratches on the surface. A booth surrounds it in an almost circle, lowered into the floor like a vault to the underground. It is colder in there, somehow.

On the table, there are nine cups of tea.

THEY ARE THERE FOR
ravensunset Vagabond demonology Sear livingdead arthur morgan. nav

 

[Sear]

yefrem

"D

og-shit weather isn’t it?” The carriage rocked from the force of the wind, muffling the man’s voice as he tried to keep any sort of small talk going between him and his unwilling passenger. Who, eyes peeled to the gray city outside, offered no encouragement for the conversation that had been tested with more than one statement prodded towards the weather. There was no use beating a dead horse, but the silence falling between the two of them unnerved most.

Yefrem would have preferred it had stayed that way.

The letter pressed to his abdomen was digging into his skin with each shift of the rocking vehicle, a reminder of the purpose of his outing. The Black Goose was not a tavern he had been to previously, even in his outings in years long passed. It had been a pleasant surprise to not see a familiar name, one that soothed the anticipation rearing its head.

He might die tonight. This could be an ambush. The thought had crossed his mind when he had draped the fur over his shoulders stepping over his doorstep and now again, on the way to his destination. It had been years since anyone had fallen onto his trail, but he was not enough of a hopeful fool to believe that the storm was over. That old grievances had been laid to rest without more blood being spilled, the past being left in the past. Until he was dead, they would not rest, and until they were dead, he would not rest either. This could be the start once more of a war; a poke to see if he would bite and show his hand, or a situation all unrelated to the past that kept its claws dug into his back. Only appearing at The Black Goose in person would answer his question.

The momentary respite of thoughtful silence that the coachman had offered was quickly broken by the carriage slamming to a stop, violently juddering over uncut cobble, and Yefrem felt himself fall forward, catching himself with a gloved hand as the coachman scrambled down from his seat at the front.

The carriage vibrated from the hit that followed, accompanied by a curse swallowed by the night and Yefrem carefully disembarked. The man that had been trying so hard to drag him into a conversation was finally silent. He stood stiff with arms crossed, staring straight ahead to where the road was scattered with debris. The wind that had been nipping at Yefrem’s skin the entire journey had done its job earlier, howling through barrels and sending them breaking against the street to either be swallowed by the hungry river to their right or smash against rock. It was a great loss for whatever family had been the owner of them previously, and would make the ongoing winter that much harder to survive. If mother nature cared, it did not show, for the snow began to come down harder.

It was a sorry sight.

Yefrem came to a halt behind the coachman, a silent figure of unmentioned intentions, watching the sight impassively. The snow came to rest on his shoulders, melting into the fabric as it was tugged tighter around shoulders. The two of them stood there, watching and when the coachman finally turned to glance at him, his lips were set into a thin line, and Yefrem knew the words that would come out of the man’s mouth even before he spoke them.

“I gotta apologize to you sir, you’ll have to go on foot. It’s right around that corner-” he pointed past the dirtied goods to where the street disappeared out of their sight, “Just a minute's walk.”

Wordlessly, Yefrem bowed his head in thanks, placing his fare and a sum more into the man’s outstretched palm before heading into the thickening snowfall . ‘Just a minute’s walk’ had been an underestimation by all accounts and by the time Yefrem had rounded the corner, the cold had seeped into his bones even through layers of fabric and fur, and his curls had been beaten down until they were plastered to his skin. He was miserable, eyelashes fluttering behind the cold metal of his mask on his face, and for a moment his hand came up to hover over it, before coming back down. Yet, he did not have the heart to be more than exasperated with the coachman as he side-stepped a puddle that had begun to claim the leather of his shoes.

It really was awfully cold.

Yefrem came to a stop, staring up into the night sky before exhaling and pulling out the watch nestled deep in one of his pockets. It served no functional purpose, the hands showing a time that spoke of morning - not the night that hung around them, but the image painted on the cover was one that brought a smile to his lips. Gently his fingers ran over it, the paint recently refreshed, and welcomed into his space his companion with an internal invitation.

The watch disappeared back into his pocket as he felt space tug at him and then with it, a creature that circled around his legs in a thankful gesture. Rajka, a creature of both fur and scales, unwound from his legs in one swift movement and ran ahead with the intent of diving into a snow pile before halting, glancing over her shoulder with eyes in thoughtful consideration of Yefrem. He always suspected she knew more than she let on, beady eyes concealing the wisdom of more than a decade. A low rumbling hum came from within her chest, and she moved back until she leaned her head against his leg.

“Rajka-” he started, earning himself teeth in his ankle that dragged out a ragged sigh. The pressure from her head didn’t relent. “Come, else we will be late.” The sting released, and with her at his heels, dutifully sticking close, he finally ended up on the steps of The Black Goose without losing a shoe to the slush.

The inside of the tavern was warm, and Yefrem dragged in water as he hovered in the doorway, willing himself to stay unnoticeable even as he swept his gaze around the tavern, turning his body away from the door to keep that in his sight too, suspicion rattling in his ribcage. It didn’t seem to be an ambush, but being alert had saved his life more than once - that and looking powerless. No visible weapons and a simple career of a painter had served him well over the years.

Power came from blending in, and Yefrem knew that he did that well when he wanted to. Not that he could exactly do that with Rajka seconds away from bolting into the center of the tavern, muddy paws and all. The glint in her eyes was suspicious, and the way her nose twitched in the air was even more so.

He tsked, the sound only loud enough for her ears, and she stilled, going limp as his fingers closed around her and tugged her up gently. Her body dangled in the air, beady eyes watching him as he methodically began to drag a hand down her fur and scales, squeezing the water out and letting it drip down onto the floor below. When he moved to her tail, she began to wiggle, giving him a frustrated side-eye that he pointedly ignored. It was only when the fur no longer was plastered to her body with the weight of the water, and her tail resembled less of one of a rat, that he settled her back down on the floor, watching her shake herself out in an attempt that only ended up with fur sticking up at odd angles.

It was, however, far better than her dragging water everywhere since she refused to go back inside her space. With Rajka running ahead of him, diving under a tablecloth and disappearing from his sight, Yefrem found himself striding towards the curtain in the tavern.

Behind, in the reserved room, a table awaited him and Yefrem took in the table before settling down as far as it physically was possible from the other person. There was no need in interacting with them just yet, and if the amount of empty spots were anything to go by - there were others that should be arriving.

He would wait, and pray that his companion who was currently exploring some poor drunk’s pockets wouldn’t leave the man without money for a tab.

MOOD

who knows

OUTFIT

[discord]

LOCATION

a tavern

TAGS

coded by xayah.ღ

 

[Vagabond]

yu xingfu

T

o most, the heavy rain was a deterrent - an ill omen. It drenched the already frigid streets of Novygrod, leaving the roads slick and uninviting. He sat outside the small rundown house of the Abdulov family - both surprised and impressed it managed to hold up under the torrential downpour of the weeping heavens above - the wooden rafters rattling with the howling winds.

The sun was setting.

Xingfu handled the letter with careless ease, his grip not quite so tense that it left a crease upon the rather cheap envelope. It was a poorer paper, thin and relatively easy to obtain. He tilted his head thoughtfully. Even with the wax seal stamped upon it, it was more the illusion of wealth and class rather than a proper representation of an affluent sponsor. It sat loosely between his thumb and forefinger.

"Are you going to go?"

The ornate yanmaodao at his side pulsed with warmth, warmer than it had been originally - offering solace in the bitter winter cold. He glanced down towards her, the gold of the hilt glinting in the moonlight. So she had an opinion after all.

It had been addressed to one Tianfeng - a request, nay, a demand for the bounty hunter. He flipped the letter over, expression neutral even as raindrops bounced away before colliding with the letter - the paper strangely dry despite the rain. "Yes," whatever language he spoke, it was most certainly not the native tongue of Novygrod. His voice was gentle, even - lost in the heavy silence of winter's solace, but Daiyu had heard him all the same if the same pulse of warmth by his side was something to go by.

There was something else on her mind, but she said nothing. As did he. They shared their doubts, but he also had to admit he was curious. Whether this supposed benefactor be wealthy or poor, a good job could be as valuable as an artifact covered in muck.

"Chengxi?" Mikhail's voice shook ever so slightly, either from the chatter of his teeth in the biting cold or the persistent cough that had become more and more apparent as the days passed. Xingfu turned his head towards the other man, able to make out his silhouette as he stood in the doorway - the light from within outlining his form. Mikhail Petrovich Abdulovl was a rugged man, well into his mid-forties with early greys woven into his sandy colored beard and hair. He was heavyset, large and well suited for the work he took to like a fish out of water. And yet, as he took a step forward, he did so with a slight stagger - a telltale sign of his failing health.

Water dripped off the brim of Xingfu's straw hat as he stood to his feet, closing the distance between them. He knew better than to reach out and steady the other man. "Where are you going? The weather's awful." Mikhail spoke gruffly, as only honest people would. His hands were shaking even within the confines of his wool gloves as Mikhail moved to grab at the edges of his heavy, furlined coat. It was old and worn, tested and tried by time.

Xingfu gently placed his hand over Mikhail's before he could continue, "It's not far from here, Mikhail. Keep the coat." He lifted his head slightly to meet the other man's gaze, the stern insistence in his eyes enough - if not for the gentle coercion of his firm grip - for Mikhail to relent. They both knew how equally bullheaded the other could be, though Xingfu was more than certain he outclassed Mikhail in that regard.

"It can't wait until tomorrow?" Mikhail pulled his hand out from under Xingfu's after the silent agreement, using them to pull his coat tighter to his body even as the rain and wind beat against his battered frame. "They ain't a good friend if they want you going out in this kind of weather." Xingfu's eyes softened slightly as he shook his head, a small smile toying at the edge of his lips.

"They are not a friend, but perhaps they might be."

The younger man's features dropped. Mikhail had learned over the past few months not to ask. When money exchanged hands, it ended up keeping the Abdulov's table full of food and offered them the opportunity to buy new shoes. There was a silent understanding that their new guest - and in many ways, tenet - was the sort of man the less one knew about him, the better off they were. Still, it didn't keep Mikhail from prying when they worked at the construction yards. "Don't get home too late. Galina's a light sleeper."

With those words hanging in the air, Mikhail took a long hard look at Xingfu - asking without words once more for him to stay indoors where it was both safe and warm. Home was a sweet word when it came from the Abdulovs. It sat in their mouth kindly, an open invitation - a reminder there was somewhere to return to. "She won't even know I was gone." His smile spoke of a secret only he knew, a joke that Mikhail could never come to understand.

The heavyset man shook his head, exasperation clear as day as he turned to head back inside. He paused for a moment at the door - once again letting the cold into the precious warmth of their fragile abode before shutting it behind him.

"He speaks out of concern. But perhaps, he is also not wrong to worry."

He lifted his head to the open skies, droplets of water splashing off his face reminding him of the chill he rarely felt. The daunting reality others had to live with, the fearsome enemy that was the cold. "The heaven favors us today, Daiyu."

Rain was, after all, an auspicious sign.

He took his time in front of the courtyard of the house, securing Daiyu to his belt before passing by one of the haphazardly fixed windows - wooden planks boarding up the window that had been shattered earlier in the fall.

As with the poor, with one misfortune came another. A persistent cough that was manageable in the warmer summer heat became a deadly reminder of how fragile and precarious their lives truly were. He tucked the letter back into his pocket, gloves once again feeling at the edges of the paper. His brows furrowed, though he said nothing.

"Perhaps you should not be so dry," exasperation colored her words even as he turned his back on the building, the rain drops bouncing off his cloak without soaking it through completely.

She knew him. He had already decided on going, there was no changing his mind on that. Though Daiyu had made a fair point. Yóuxiá were inherently different from vescha. They were the same, of course, but the opportunities afforded to them was like day and night. Which, in turn, made them quite dissimilar despite everything.

Vescha were neutered - despised and forced into hiding, murdered if exposed. Like tigers without their teeth, kept as pets for the lords that found amusement in their existence. Only in the seedy underbelly of Novygrod was there some semblance of appreciation for the true power of a vescha. Things were vastly different in Qichun where his kind were feared, but that fear went hand in hand with respect. The sort that forced layfolk to avert their eyes in fear of catching the attention of an ill tempered yóuxiá. There was a passivity to their magic, a tempered weapon that came as naturally as they breathed - for it was both an integral part of them and a lifelong companion.

The rain did not so much as pitter patter as it did thunder upon the rooftops, drumming away at the wood - demanding its presence be known. The roads were empty, enough so that he did not mind wandering the streets instead of lingering above in the rooftops. Most were tucked away in their warm abodes, those that still were outdoors seemed to be in a rush - scampering for any overhang that would offer them a bit of protection from the biting winds.

A horse-drawn carriage clattered past him, throwing up water and mud. He took a step back, closer to the dark empty windows of an unoccupied building, tilting his head to regard its receding form in the distance. If the streets were often dubious to wander at night, now was an interesting hour for someone with that kind of money to be spending time here. Much less in this kind of weather.

He did not see the carriage for a stretch of time even as he meandered along. He figured he was making good time and if they simply didn't want to wait for him, then the job wasn't meant for him. The rattling of windows and shuddering of buildings reminded him strangely of the streets of Donghe with the hollow faces of its inhabitants. If not for the biting cold this close to the river, Xingfu was certain it would have been a near-perfect replica in all the ways that mattered.

He paused midstep as he made out the carriage in the distance, moonlight glinting off the top of its waxed roof, black reflecting cool hues of whiteish yellow. "Twice makes it a coincidence." It was not waiting for him though, not in the way Daiyu's warning echoed even as Xingfu watched the two of them speak before the coachman clamored atop his seat and turned the carriage around, leaving a stranger stranded in the snow. He could only hum in agreement as he kept his distance, curiously observing the individual as they all but trudged through the snow with the grace of a newborn fawn.

It would seem, though, that this was not merely a coincidence. Even as the tip of his boot stepped atop the surface of the puddle, Xingfu watched as a small creature started bounding away from the legs of its companion. He had not seen it before - nor heard it make a single noise.

"It seems like you're headed to the same place," Daiyu's voice was warm, but tinged with worry. It would seem that old habits died hard.

A small smile crossed his face as he shook his head, allowing the duo to enter The Black Goose ahead of him. He had never been here before.

It was too far from the Abdulov house and twice the distance from there to here compared to the current construction yard they worked at. It was by no means a decrepit building, but it echoed the same sentiments as the letter that had landed itself in his hands.

Now to see what the bold charlatan had in mind.

The tavern itself is worn, beautiful - as all places once loved are - but marred by the years like skin aged by the sun. It is not full of unruly folk, but they were all caught up in their own quiet conversations - wary gazes were thrown in the direction of the strange fellow he walked behind first and then towards him. But never lingering. Never for too long.

He lowered his head, stepping over the puddle of water the stranger had left in his wake with the assistance of his companion. At least the wooden floorboards seemed to be waxed, though he could catch a glimpse of the barmaid's lips turning downwards at the mess she would inevitably have to clean up.

Xingfu took his time picking his way through the room to the very back, noting the people that lined the walls. The glances they shared, the whispers under their breath far too quiet for him to hear. They were content with going unnoticed, as was he.

Places like these brought with them a quiet mutual agreement.

He raised a hand, lifting the curtain ever so slightly to allow himself to enter without catching it on the brim of his straw hat. Inside were two people, one the stranger he spotted on his way here, and the other yet another unfamiliar face far sharper than their wet, sopping companion for the evening.

What remarkably fierce eyes. Xingfu offered them a smile even as he took his seat - right in between the two of them, shifting his cloak ever so slightly that the gold of Daiyu was visible for only a brief second as he sat down. His cloak was hardly soaked, his boots failing to leave any imprints behind - telling signs of the lack of mud and sludge upon them.

He was a meticulous man, slow, unbothered.

As such, he took his time removing the straw hat from the top of his head. Beads of water ran down the side of it and he gently wiped it with the pad of his thumb before placing it atop the table. He glanced toward the other individual, whose face was hidden behind an ornate mask.

Silence lingered in the air

Xingfu took that as an invitation to pick up the cup of tea sitting before him. If this was an attempt on his life, then he supposed it would have been the wisest one by far. Dying with a drink to warm himself in this bitter cold was poetic in a way. He took a sip and his lips were pressed into a thin line even as he considered the two individuals before him.

The tea was herbal, something strong - left to steep too long. It was warm, but not hot. What a waste.

He took another sip.

"If I may be so bold, I don't suppose the both of you are here at the insistence of a letter as well?" How fascinating. This was no ordinary meeting and most certainly not an easy task if there was a need for so many people. "I'm Tianfeng. It's nice to meet you."

If they were strangers to him, it seemed a fair assumption that they knew little of who he was as well. His words were accented, soft with the careful tact of the Qichun Southern sons, and quiet at his own insistence. He removed the envelope from his pocket, placing it on the table beside his hat. He tapped it with the tip of his finger but said nothing.

After all, there was no need to say too much. There were others that had yet to arrive.

He was curious, much like a fisher with a lure, at the kind of job he had landed himself. And the kind of people he was currently with. They could not be better than him - criminals as they were - and they could not be worse than him either - dangerous as he was.

MOOD

Calm, curious

OUTFIT

this, and this

LOCATION

The Black Goose

TAGS

nav , Sear

coded by xayah.ღ

 

[mother of sorrows]

Alyosha Yevgeniycha

S

uccess, Alyosha's father used to say, comes not from being the smartest, or the most studious, but from knowing all the right people.

When his back swelled with disease, he could ill afford the doctors he was forced to visit. The medicine itself cost them a pregnant mare, and it only lasted enough through the winter before the wounds turned black again. So when the pain grew worse, and the money ran out, he downed a bottle and paid his butcher friend to cut the sick out of his muscles; it hurt like hellfire, but her father walked upright a few months later.

Silk was at a decade high during her cousin's engagement, but no self-respecting bride would drape herself in hides, and Mitreja was far too pick for linen. Instead of going to a proper seamstress, they asked an aunt to help. She had none of those fancy machines that sew handless, but she had patched the skirts of women rich enough to not do it themselves - the dress was maybe a bit too tight and reflected cheaply in the light, but the aunt had worked the material so cleverly that nary a person noticed.

And when Alyosha's birth mother found herself between a burning field and a husband that did not love her, she stumbled upon a cherished classmate from her days in big city schools.

That classmate had no need for a wailing babe, but she loved Alyosha's mother enough to take it from her anyway.

It is no lie that hard work can spring gold, or that eyes of velvet can melt hearts of the rich - folk consciousness is proof enough, with the tales of golden-haired maidens seducing the sun, or the poor humble farmers that have shown kindness to a starving hedgehog. But success, true success, molded by your own hands and not by some fickle fate vilas, comes from people loving you enough to do all the things you can't. Alyosha, wild and stupid and weighted down with impossible grief, knew no need to take notes at the frozen cold seminary. But in the dorms, she held hands with the children that still cried bitter tears for their home, and during the miserable breaks, she taught them games with rocks and old peas. It got her notes thrown into her lap during tests. The most clever would sit her behind the old, weary willow, and explain what a lamentation is in somber tones.

And when she grew out of her uniform and gained a sword, Alyosha was thrown into the world and expected to know how to live.

Novygrod does not burn. Not like Domovan did. The people here are mostly unkind, and they spit on the ground. You're taught to avoid people in the alleyways and to greet only those you know by name. They live next door to blabbering, white-hot technology, but they fear vescha more than in the barren West. Alyosha is a stranger here, but no stranger than any of the people that pass down the Srebrnica; here, people lock their doors twice, and hide their keys.

Alyosha never had the need for keys. All she has to do is knock.

She has been here for three months only, and the snow grows ever higher beyond her thin doorstep, the wood starved and showing its ribs like a skinned martyr. The rats are more well-fed than she is, her bad leg screams with the wind. She pays for her board with prayer and a few coins, her landlord a pious old lady of failing breath. This is not quite success, but it's the beginning of it.

What's a priest to do with hardened criminals?

Divana had asked, leisurely pinching the stitching from her velvet skirt. She is a mean woman, laying most days in the lap of imported wine or smoke-filled coffee houses; but she likes Alyosha, enough to bring her whispers from the dark gates of the underbelly.

Alyosha smiles, an open, inviting smile, the one she knows opens doors that demand keys.

A mystery for you to solve. Maybe I'm hoping to make them see the light.

DIvana laughs, though Alyosha doesn't find it funny. She keeps grinning anyways, the scripted friend in all the fine plays.

She hears the whispers. The pitter-patter of feet across the city, the shadow of deeds. Bad, bad people, willing to do anything for money - capable, but starved out in the ruinous economy. The royal family eats gold-crusted liver. The peasants fill their rooms with fresh flowers to cover up the stench; death brought from infected river water, blamed on the veschas. The patrols grow ever larger, more frequent. Smoke rises from all corners of the city and not everyone is willing to go outside spending coin.

Alyosha finds them before the ravenous city guard does. Not names, but reputations; and for the first time in a miserable year, Alyosha is closer than ever to her plan.

❍​

The Black Goose melts most of the snow from her cape, and Alyosha beats the worst from her heavy boots with a stomp. Her hair, the biggest victim of them all, has gone flat with giant droplets and sticks to her forehead miserably. Walking the snow-clad streets has ruined whatever hope she held for a proper entrance; a shivering, soggy woman in an outdated overseer uniform is no sight at all, looking more a hapless recruit that got the outside shift. And yet, her face is vibrant - confident, an edge of sharp intelligence to her eyes. She gives the barmaid a wink and a wave, and it gets her a familiar smile.

Alyosha, drenched to the bone and armed with a failing revolver, half-mad and never so sure, walks towards the back of the room.

Her gloved hand twitches for the curtain and she throws it apart, stepping out from the chatter and into the silence. Two figures wait for her already. A man that meets her own smile, but has the sharp lines of a person used to harsh work. A sad looking thing sits beside him, with eyes of a dog that got kicked too often to flinch. How different; she doesn't know who is who yet, but she remembers the promise of their skills.

Alyosha does not yet sit. She watches them watch her, and she thinks something to herself.

'Hello. I hope I didn't keep you waiting for too long."

MOOD

cringe.

LOCATION

The Black Goose.

OUTFIT

here

TAGS

here

coded by xayah.ღ