faderift | OPEN: Kirkwail

OPEN: Kirkwail

WHO: Anyone
WHAT: Ghosts
WHEN: Wintermarch 20
WHERE: The Gallows
NOTES: OOC post. More content warnings than you can shake a stick at, probably, including allusions to slavery and violence in the body of the log post. Please use appropriate warnings in the subject lines for your own threads.

The storm sweeps in like an assassin: unexpected, in the dark, and throwing sharp pricks of sleet at exposed eyes and noses with expert aim and enough force to almost draw blood if the angle is right. Half an hour after the clouds crest the cliffs is all it takes for the city to retract indoors and huddle around fireplaces, settling in for a long night that will, unforeseen, turn into a long two days.

The Gallows, too, is pelted with ice; the walls of the cliffs and the fortress protect much of it from the worst of the wind, but when it can find a path over or through the walls, it slams through windows or doors to scatter papers and snuff out fires.

In the dark, in the rain, hurrying between towers or already accustomed to jumping firelight casting strange shadows and the wind howling like a wounded animal, people might be forgiven if they don't notice at first. But there's a hanging in the courtyard, a dozen translucent wisps of bodies dangling from the idea of nooses, and there's a girl's voice in the basement of the templar tower screaming for her mother, and there's a ghostly man in the library holding the blade of a knife to his palm and whispering this is it, this is it—or maybe there isn't, actually, when you lift your head to pay closer attention.

But as the night wears on they multiply, and they brighten, and even if you haven't noticed them, they begin to notice you.

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Sorrel didn't answer right away, only stood leaning against the windowsill, shivering with the chill of the morning and of the breeze. When he did look up, it was first to seek Adasse's eyes, to squeeze his hand in comforting affirmation. He managed a grim ghost of a smile when he recognized the question.

"Someone, or some thing, is thinning the Veil in the tower. You remember, how often I've told you, the Fade all around the Gallows is terrible?" He gestured vaguely, a circular hand that encompassed the whole of the tower and needed no explanation, "It's leaking through, and the spirits are pressing up against the Veil. We need to keep our heads; they're only hungry, and panicking will only draw them in for more. And, until whatever's doing this is found and stopped..."

Adasse looked back at him, immensely relieved that Sorrel knew what was happening. Even if it was absolutely shitty on all levels of shitty, Sorrel knew what was going on. So that meant, Sorrel could figure out a way to fix this.

He squeezed Sorrel's hand in turn, nodding his head. "Yeah, it's all ... leaky. Like a bad bucket." He frowned, rubbing his face. "Maker's balls - I've been panicking all night. Probably made it ten times worse."

He looks over at Sorrel again, "Do you know how to stop it? Or at least, have you got some idea where to start?"

"Some. My first plan only went find Adasse and make sure he's alright though," Sorrel admits, sheepish but unrepentant, "I think it's the sort of thing you'll know when you see it, but to do that I'll have to find it. Probably blood magic, or some artifact, and who knows what shit the shems left behind. I don't want to leave you."

That last appended abruptly, because with the thought of how to solve the problem cam the next thought; that he'd have to let go their hands and strike out alone.

"I don't want to leave you. I will stay, if you ask...But we can cover more ground apart, if we're smart enough to outwit a pack of greedy Fade-dwellers. And the sooner it's found and done with, the sooner this all ends."

Adasse swallowed, hard, but he lifted his chin a little and set his gaze determinedly on Sorrel's. Squeezing his hand again, before making himself stand all the way up. "This needs to end. I'll be fine on my own."

He looks at Sorrel, searching his face, and seeing Sorrel so unafraid made him feel ... more settled, more in his own skin once more. Sorrel would take care of it, because Sorrel was a Maker's be damned magical genius.

"What can I do to help? Besides get out of your way."

"Just... hold on to me for a minute?"

It comes out with surprising uncertainty; Sorrel had thought he was coping well, but the sound of his own voice, of the unintended vulnerability in it, is embarrassing.

"I panicked too. I screamed like a kid, until I finally realized what was happening," The admission spills out of him with the same humiliating force, as if whatever spell had thinned the Veil had also obligated him to vomit his secret terrors out at the earliest opportunity, "I could use an Emerald Knight right now."

Adasse looked at him for a long moment, before he folded Sorrel into his arms, tucking his chin atop Sorrel's head. Keeping him safe and tucked in within his arms.

"I'm no Emerald Knight, I think ... but I'll try for you, 'Rell." He murmured against his hair, squeezing him a little tighter, in this terrible night.

Sorrel stood gratefully in the tight circle of Adasse's arms, eyes pressed closed, and thought of nothing at all. It was this moment, this simple warmth, that he would need later to be a bulwark against the terrible things, the fear, the panic. He tried to commit it to memory, like the impression of a mold.

"I love you, so much," He said, though it was muffled to a mumble in Adasse's shirt. They stayed like there, together, for a long count of ten. And then Sorrel opened his eyes.

And stiffened at what he saw around the curve of Adasse's shoulder, coming down the hall. Just one, a person— an elf. They were Sorrel's height, thin and dressed in robes, and trailing blood like a veil, clutching at their middle. Light fell across them as they drew nearer, a tortured, pained expression, and it was truly, truly unsettling to recognize his own face.

"Don't panic, I'm right here." He said quietly, beginning to feel the start of a hot, impulsive anger. How dare they? How dare they, "But there's something coming towards us. It's pretty bad. But I'm right here, love. Okay?"

Adasse pressed his face down into Sorrel's hair, closing his eyes and breathing in the comforting scent of Sorrel. Ink and wood and all things you could find when reading a book out in a forest.

His voice was soft, "And I you, sweetheart."

It is quiet, for a moment. Quiet and still. Until ... it is not. He stills in Sorrel's arms, his heart rate kicking up a little at the other elf's words. His eyes open, then closed, as he lifted his head.

"Okay. Should I ... should I not turn around?" He whispered quietly.

"It's. I don't know," He admits, just as quietly, "But— Just, don't panic. Just remember, it isn't really me. I'm going to try and talk to it."

He's going to do more than talk. Sorrel really is getting angry now, hating every step the thing that looks like him is taking, hating the way it gasps and breathes, audible wheezing, a fascimile of pain that a spirit can't really understand. He holds tight one moment more, squeezing as fiercely as he can, then steps not so much away as past, all but ducking under Adasse's arm in order to put himself between the thing and his lover.

'Adasse...' the thing moans, in Sorrel's own voice, choked with bubbling pain, 'Help... please, love. Please. Why won't you... help me. It hurts.'

Edited 2019-01-16 17:07 (UTC)

"...Oh shite." Adasse muttered, closing his eyes tight for a moment. He gets to hold Sorrel, his Sorrel, for one more moment before Sorrel ducks under him to face whatever is behind them.

It's the voice, honestly, that makes him turn. He could never turn away from Sorrel in pain. Not even if it was a bastard spirit stealing his love's voice. Adasse faces the spirit and has to keep himself from throwing up, from moving or speaking.

It's not real. Sorrel's right here in front of me, protecting me. Adasse swallows down a scream, and what comes out is a growl, "...Get away from us, you fucking messed up spirit."

The Sorrel-thing gasps, hurt and confused, leaning with one blood-wet hand against the wall. It watches Adasse with enormous green eyes, bent over as if there were more than just the ugly red mouth of a gut-wound at his stomach.

'Y...You don't want me, anymore?'

And oh, now Sorrel is running hot, because that is exactly what he would have said. But he never did, would never have to.

"Well done, very well done indeed," Sorrel snarls, stepping forward with a terse, outraged energy. Fire licked up his wrists, fists clenched, but he ignored it, "But you forgot; the real thing is right here. No one's going to buy an illusion next to the real thing. And there was not that much blood, and he knows it! How dare you! Go find someone else to bother, or I'll give your someone else to bother!"

Oh Maker Help Me. Creators Help Me. Whatever is out there, take this away from my sight. Adasse can feel his knees shake, and it's in his voice but he's nodding his head behind Sorrel. He knows he won't be able to do anything, but he's got Sorrel's back. Sorrel is protecting him and he can trust Sorrel. His Sorrel.

"He will! He will! You're not my Sorrel! I don't know what you are, but you're not My Sorrel! So Piss off!"

Anger is as good as sorrow: the spirit persists right up until Sorrel puts his hands up and the flame rises in his palms. Right until it washes through the place where the spirit is pretending to stand, because as thin as the veil is, it hasn't torn open. There's nothing there on this side but a spirit pretending to scream and scorch, to try and wring one last horror out of Adasse, and then its gone.

"...I did not do it that hot, you over-dramatic wisp, what a load of—" He's still angry, despite the adrenaline of the moment, "—I'm sorry, 'Dasse, I'm so sorry. I shouldn't have done that, anger isn't any better than fear. If I keep feeding them, they'll only come back, this whole situation is... just..."

He's so busy being annoyed that it's only just then that Sorrel looks up at Adasse's face, sees his expression and reaches out to draw him in again.

"...You're so brave, Adasse. You did so well."

Adasse is choking, somewhere between a laugh and a scream, because watching even a spirit-Sorrel on fire is not going to do anything for his particular nightmares. He shakes his head, and knows the shaking is all over his body, a fine tremor.

He sucks in a breath, going into Sorrel's arms and holding on tight. "I'm trying, 'Rel. I am trying so damned hard." He leans back to look at his lover, dark eyes haunted and solemn. "I'll be okay. I know it's not real - if anything that just ... brought it home. You go save the day. I'll - I dunno." He grins, suddenly, half-hysterical and half amused, "Hide under a bed with Coco. Ghosts of dust bunnies can't scare me."

"Could be worse," Sorrel soothes him, trying for humor because if Adasse's coping with a grin, he can humor him, "Imagine being a mage!"

It's a joke, you see. Some jokes are funny because they're ridiculous; others, they're funny because they're a little too true. But then, he sobers.

"This whole tower is full of people. They're all in the same state we are, and even if you could hide from it, there aren't enough beds, or enough Cocos, to go around. You're really good at calming me down, when I panic. Do you think maybe, you can give some of that, to someone else too?"

Adasse grimaced then, because he couldn't - he could not imagine living like this all the damned time. He'd go mad. Yet here was Sorrel, strong as steel, wrapped in the softest silk, with soft lips and soft eyes and he handled it every night. He cupped Sorrel's cheek them, a little smile still lingering, "Can't ever imagine being that brave, love. Not like you."

He straightens a little at that, his brown eyes narrowing a little as his mouth presses together, looking around them. He can hear them - screams from courtyards and rooms, all over the Gallows. Adasse squares his shoulder, lifts his chin.

"I can. I will. I'll do what I can to help while you're saving us all, ma vhenan.."

A pause, and those dark eyes search green ones, "Sorrel, be careful. Come back to me."

"I'll be fine," Sorrel promises, unable to resist the softness he feels at the endearment, sure that it shows on his face, "You be careful. Use the crystal to call for me. And I'll see you tonight, if nothing else. I promise."

No matter what happened, they could meet up again, as they always did. Sorrel had never been happier that Beleth was out of the Gallows.

"I promise."

Adasse nodded his head once, and pressed his mouth against Sorrel's quickly, before looking back at him with a faint 'Dasse grin. "Go save us from the things that go bump in the night, love."

He winked, then pulled back, huffing out a breath as he went towards the first scream he heard. He did look back, and wave to Sorrel, before he picked up his pace.

Tonight. He would see Sorrel tonight, because Sorrel never broke a promise to him.

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OPEN: Kirkwail

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