closed | road trip

[dissolving]

WHO: Cedric & Gwen & a skull sippy cup
WHAT: Road trip!
WHEN: Vaguely after Satinalia
WHERE: Cumberland
NOTES: I'll edit as appropriate.

The Abbey's an ugly scene.

Thick walls, massed bureaucracy; some clerk dredged up to speak with her in quiet, clipped Orlesian. They cannot make promises for the Spire, but he will pass whatever papers she has brought along if she will just wait here, in the hall,

And no further. Young, robed things watch her sidelong. Older ones watch the doors, shaggy with humped muscle; eyes faded, skin worn hard for sixty. The hours pass. Some shift exchanges, a new man led out by the crook-curved arm. Armored, and not armed. Mouth turned down in dull, unhappy line.

An ugly scene. That was before the door slammed. Glass shatters, a breathless shout: "Carsus — !"

Amazing, the ground he can cover in a skirt. Commotion somewhere behind. The guard starts. Their eyes meet,

He looks like he means to say something. And then they're both out the doors.

Comments

fambly;

[dissolving]

Good thing he sprung for two rooms. The air's thick all afternoon, thunderstorm louring over riverside. There are lanterns, there is art, there's a bleak fucking mood. And eventually, there's a reply: Yes, they'll meet.

Cumberland is beautiful, Cumberland is grand. But it's a city. The buildings tower even as streets narrow, pitted out from cobblestones to rising mud. Ornate facades fall off to patched boards, painted letters; high as some kid might scramble. Chickens run. Rats do. And in the distance, branch lifts above wall,

They don't cross it. They haven't been invited. You hear stories: A jilted lover, debt-collector, con man preying on loss. His name's on the wall. It'd be easy —

So it's a cramped bar they shoulder into. The patrons jumble human, elven, one great horned man by the door. Cedric squints, and folds his sleeves for the seventeenth time. It occurs, finally, that he's got no clue what to look for.

"I'll go ask," Maybe he shouldn't do that alone. Last time he left her to go ask, he smashed a goddamn mirror. It's been half a day. "Y'want a drink?"

tattoo;

[dissolving]

It's been four hours. It'll be a few more.

"You're done?"

Faint despair. It'd taken her long enough to decide, and here he is, still draped over chair like a skin rug.

after;

[dissolving]

It all feels too small: The stupid pictures he's made her post, fistfuls of fried dough, statues; a dogged insistence that this wasn't just for him. It's not enough.

They're under the cover of trees before —

"Y'don't have to tell me what's been going on," There are things they don't talk for, that aren't his to hear. Just he's started to think some of those go the same place. "I know you got folks."

Friends, lovers, acquaintances and uncles and cousins. Proper family. Just,

"You got me too."