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WHO: Byerly n Vanadi
WHAT: a stray cat (elf) slides around for a visit
WHEN: Third week of August
WHERE: Byerly's place
NOTES: n/a

[ Vanadi has had quite a week, and would like nothing more than to never think of any of it again. That's probably not very likely, but he can at least find some kind of distraction -- which is the thought that brings him to Byerly's door late in the evening, a bottle of gin in hand. He's not certain the man is home -- or even if he'll be welcome in such unannounced circumstances. Or perhaps Byerly might have company, and not be the sort of man (or it be the sort of company) to want to share. There are a hundred reasons this may not be precisely the best idea, but Vanadi knocks regardless.

He looks tired, with dark rings under his eyes, thought of course there's a certain weariness that's always with him and this isn't so far past the norm. He pushes it aside as he knocks, standing himself up a little straighter, pushing his shoulders back a little more. It had been the charming and flirtatious face that had first set him on the right foot with Byerly, so in the spirit of taking no chances, that's the face he pulls on as he waits for response. ]

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[ A hesitation, and then a little tilt of his head. There's a dose of honesty in it when he says: ]

I appreciate it. Frankly. People around me occasionally assume my intentions are villainous. Something to do with the mustache, I suspect. Not my favorite thing in the world, though it can have its advantages.

[ He stubs out the blunt, now expended, and holds up his hand. His pinky finger is crooked. ]

This one isn't salacious, or romance-based, so it may be a bit of a disappointment, but it is my greatest mystery. When I was younger, I had a cousin who enjoyed breaking my fingers. Still don't understand why. I suppose there are just people who are like that.

[ It's a welcome and appreciated change of subject, even if he'd taken pains to make sure there would be one. He'd noticed that finger and its crook previously, but to think it's from as far back (relatively speaking, for a human) as childhood? His brows arch upward. ]

There are, as a rule. But fingers, plural? Did either set of parents have anything to say about it?

Oh, yes.

[ He pitches his voice a little higher: ]

You must be more careful, Byerly.

[ A briefly curled lip sums up his thoughts on that. He reaches a hand to trace an idle finger down the outside edge of Byerly's hand in question, wrist to pinky's tip. ]

Dare I ask what that cousin grew up to become?

Oh, he's likely to inherit the Bannorn.

[ His smile is rather twisted and bitter. ]

Ah, justice.

What was his name?

[ Asked casually, just in case he ever gets a chance to use the information. You never know. ]

Richars. Rutyer, obviously.

[ A little quirk of his lips. ]

Avoid him, if you have the chance. He is, unsurprisingly, shitty to elves.

[ It's still casual if he asks for the where alongside the who, right? He's going for it. ]

And -- remind me, my geography lessons are a work in progress, how far from here is he likely to be?

[ That quirk turns into a smile. ]

Sail due south and you'll hit it.

[ He nods, and tucks that away. He'll look into it later, see if he might be able to offer the region a small favor, at some point. ]

I can't imagine you're exactly in contact, or keeping up with whatever he may be up to these days, hm?

Oh, I keep an eye out.

[ His voice is mild. But there's a glint in his eye that's rather...intense. Then, a breath - ]

Why, dear fellow? Going to avenge me?

[ It would be so easy to lie, to brush this off as interest, to cling to his uselessness and unwillingness to fight. He considers the words for a few seconds, then huffs a quick sigh. ]

What would you think of it?

I suppose it would depend on what you did.

[ He reaches out to toy with a tendril of Vanadi's hair. ]

[ Vanadi's attention is close on Byerly, trying to use his few seconds to gauge him, to read the unspoken preferences there. It's a gamble, but he again finds his way to reluctant honesty. ]

There are options.

[ He glances away, listing them to the chair he's left empty: ]

A quick death. A slow death. A good scare. Nothing at all. [ A brief pause. ] I don't really believe a good scare is for anything beyond momentary satisfaction. They always return to old habits.

[ His fingertips brush Vanadi's cheekbone. There's fondness in his face. ]

You are a kind fellow, dear Vanadi. But I certainly haven't earned that kind of service from you yet, I think.

[ The brush is reassuring, suggests he's picked the right course here. He closes his eyes and tips his head into it.

Quietly: ] It wouldn't be just for you.

Hm.

[ He hesitates a moment, then says: ]

Perhaps I should say, rather, that I don't think I've shown you enough of me for you to trust that my villains are true villains. I hope you know enough to know that I don't mean you ill, true. But I don't deserve that much trust yet.

[ He's quiet for a few long seconds, weighing the words. They're true enough, there's no denying that. He pulls back after a moment, fixing his attention back to Byerly again. ]

I do think I trust your judgment. But -- I wouldn't make any promises without exercising some of my own, first. This is nothing to go mindlessly into, I know.

Yes.

[ He hesitates, then admits: ]

I suppose I simply don't like thinking that you feel like you must do things for me. I'm dreadfully fond of you without any of that.

[ There's a quick flash of skepticism, a thinning of his lips, there and then gone again. A faint smile chases after it. ]

Remove the must from that thought, my dear, and you'll have it closer to the truth. It pleases me to offer what I can. [ A brief hesitation, and he adds: ] And, well, this particular offer would come with quite a lot of satisfaction for me.

Well, if it's for personal satisfaction, it seems reasonable enough.

[ It's just if it's for Byerly's sake that it seems ludicrous. ]

[ He winces, even though it's really just his own words parroted back. This seems like a very good time for a deep swig from the bottle, though. He risks an apprehensive glance back at By as he sets the bottle back down. ]

Byerly — have I painted a picture of myself for you as some ... vengeful murderer, stalking the night with a bloody knife? You will have to be honest, I think there's too much elfroot in me to know if you lie.

[ A quick laugh. Then - ]

Ah, sorry, that question was in earnest.

[ He gathers himself - ]

No. Certainly not. I'd be intrigued if you were, though.

[ It is actually reassuring, laugh and all, but he still sighs. ]

No, you wouldn't. A stalking murderer's cloak has no fashion at all to it. The entire look is a lost cause, really.

I don't know. I feel like you could make a look of it. Or perhaps if you went for a slim, tight-fitting black...?

[ His grin is broad before it lessens somewhat for a rather less flippant: ]

I am not afraid of what you would do, my handsome fellow. It is simply that it seems that at least one lover has taken advantage of your kindness. I wish to ensure that, at least for the time being, I shan't do the same.