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[volkarin]

WELCOME TO THE SALTBURNT NETWORK

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delivery 🧂

[saltburnmods]

[ A knock at Emmrich’s door alerts him to the presence of one Jonty Balfour, who perks once he answers, seemingly excitable. ]

Emmrich, ole chap! Now, a little birdie did tell me you were quite interested in the graves on our lot. Now, I’d be delighted to share what I know of the old family history, but I found this, and thought it might be a bit of some help to you.

[ He hands him a wrapped package, containing a very boring ledger of everyone who’s buried in the Saltburnt cemetery, names and dates only. Surprise — it’s actually a plot coin! Enjoy! ]

🎁

[multiverse]

( as expected, parisa is a lot better at receiving gift than sending them. so — the "present" is a middling at best, and a few days after christmas anyway, and not thorough or thoughtful or anything but completely indulgent. in fact, it's just a card. on his pillow, no less, behind a door that might've been locked but was fondly compelled in a different direction. on it is written: )

I like gifts.

Parisa.

( and signed off with a squirt of parisa's perfume and a kiss — namely with the lipstick emmrich bought her. maybe she perfumed his pillow too, for good measure. see you in your dreams, professor. )

un: persephone | text | around 12/20ish (body horror, blood)

[semicharmed]

Body horror, blood in the tag and in the link ... yay!

[ A little while after Matt sprouted wings and fled to Armand, and Armand secreted him up to these hidden honeycombs of attic room, he realized, This probably counts as more symptoms. ]

Hey Professor. Bit of an update.

[ The photo attached shows Matt's forearm, his sweater rolled up to reveal a small, white wing protruding as if it's about to try lifting his arm into flight. Matt's managed to clean up most of the blood, but the skin around the wing is visibly red and irritated. ]

if you go by the ic timestamp i'm basically on time

[volkarin]

[ Well, that's certainly unusual. ]

How quickly has this growth progressed?

[ Then, almost immediately afterward (though the answer seems evident): ]

Are you in any pain?

Christmas Eve

[homebird]

[ the servants bring a box to emmrich's door late on christmas eve. inside is a set of handkerchiefs, hand-stitched and embellished with his initials. alongside them is a short note signed with the direwolf seal of House Stark: ]

Emmrich,

Please find enclosed a small gift, which I hope may be of use to you.

You have been very kind to me, and I shall not forget it. It seems that nothing is ever easy in this house, but I hope that you shall find some peace here this winter.

Your friend,

Sansa Stark, Queen of the North.

delivery ❖ post-nye

[wines]

[ At some point in the days just after New Year's, Emmrich will find a small but lovely arrangement of white datura and black hellebore, with a hand-penned, lightly perfumed note: ]

Professor,

A little something to brighten your room, after an unexpected - but deeply welcome - reunion.

Your wayward pupil,
Dorian

✉️

[oisre]

[ sometime after his network post, which she read but feels incapable of responding to — she hates the little phones, a knock comes at the door and a maid stands there with a letter on a tray. it's sealed with a glob of wax, pressed flat with a fingertip, not a seal.

in a careful, very old fashioned cursive in shimmery blue ink because they only gave her gel pens, ]

Professor,

Forgive my intrusion but I felt compelled to tell you of my gift now that I know of yours. Despite not being possessed of magic myself, I can see the magic of others like threads in a tapestry surrounding them. At times I can venture a guess as to the nature of the magic, especially those I am familiar with, but other times I am simply ignorant until the magic reveals itself.

I only wished to convey that your magic is beautiful.

Obligingly yours,
Pearl

[volkarin]

[ Not too long after, a letter finds its way to her in response, the handwriting on the parchment similarly neat — though apparently Emmrich was exempt from the gel pen rule. ]

My dear Pearl,

It is no intrusion at all — if anything, I am glad you would see fit to share such a thing with me. I suppose I've made little secret of what I can do, but I've long understood that such a thing is hardly a barometer by which I ought to form my expectations of the behavior of others.

And thank you, of course, for your very kind words.

If the idea does not displease you, perhaps further conversation would be better served by an environ of our own choosing, rather than another of the house's revels?

Yours in turn,
Emmrich

💌

[multiverse]

( sometime after the crypt expedition, there's a letter tucked somewhere onto emmrich's person, while parisa herself is missing from his side. in regular parisa fashion, it's squirted with perfume (a necessary keepsake even in these frugal times) and signed with a kiss, in a familiar shade of lipstick. it reads: )

دورت بگردم

It's Persian. It directly translates to "let me circle around you" or, in meaning — I would do anything for you, protect you from anything, and let our bodies be synonyms to each other. When opposite crescent moons cup together like hands, they make a perfect circle. I'm sure I don't need to tell you, that so do we.

— Parisa.

[volkarin]

[ As simple as it sounds, the letter makes him smile. He turns it over in his hands in the same way he turns the syllables she'd uttered to him around in his mind, their meaning suddenly illuminated, made more sweet.

Two days later, a response, into which has been tucked a pressed sprig of globe amaranth — unfading love: ]

My darling,

Let me circle around you — a sentiment as beautiful as the one who'd first borne it to me. Beautiful, and apt. How else to account for the way each star in the constellation of my mind turns toward your sun? In constant pursuit, yet also in constant embrace in the expanse of the sky. To call you beloved near pales in comparison.

Dare I ask if you'd begrudge me the endeavor of learning Persian? On my own time, of course, unless you've a mind to teach it to me. I'd like to know you that much better, if you'd allow it.

[ Then, replicated as best he can manage (which is, to be fair, quite well): ]

دورت بگردم
— Emmrich

text — un: @aemond

[provoke]

Have you a name for your deity?

[volkarin]

She calls herself "the Sibling."

[ A beat. ]

But I've taken to calling her Daisy.

text; un: gingerailed

[dead_tongue]

hihihi

this is Ignatius Melville. I just wanted to thank you for fixing the whole undead thing. I'm sorry I wasn't much help and that I kinda got eaten and stuff.

ok that's all.

[volkarin]

My dear Ignatius — if anything, I feel it is my apology that is due to you. Had I not been so preoccupied — had I taken action sooner — you may not have endured such a fate. I hope you'll allow me to make it up to you in the days to come.

text ❖ @orchid

[wines]

Just making sure you haven't fallen in a well since our little revenant excursion. If you have, say the word and I'll send someone better-equipped to pull you out.

[ Not that Dorian's exactly been out and about since February, either, but this is his way of being nice and checking in. ]

[volkarin]

Fortunately, there'll be no well extractions necessary. Thank you for checking on me, Dorian — though I might ask you the same thing. Have you been keeping well?

cw: nsfw

[multiverse]

( she feels it when the mattress dips as emmrich gets up, letting out a sleepy, discontent sound before rolling over, occupying the warm spot in bed he just vacated. emmrich is always up early, or parisa is always sleeping in — whatever the case, he's reliably up first most mornings, and parisa is reliably grouchy about missing her more and more frequent bed warmer, laying face down on his side of the bed. still mostly asleep, she huffs several grumpy breaths, listening to the sounds of emmrich tending himself in the morning, a pattern she's long since memorized. the bathroom door opening, closing, and opening a bit later with the fresh scent of his aftershave filling up the bedroom. immediately, parisa wants to bite his jaw, and run her thighs against the freshly smooth skin. it's better than an alarm clock.

still mostly flopped on her stomach, she peers through a space in her hair to watch him, deliciously fussing around, shuffling in his little slippers, bedecked in his handsome robe, facial hair groomed with product. a smile turns up the corner of her mouth, the corner of it just visible above her elbow. enough of that. resigning herself (now, much more happily) to being awake, parisa tosses her hair over her shoulder and lets out a sleepy, kittenish sound as she stretches out, settling into an artfully suggestive position, arm draped over the rise of her hip. the bedding gathers at the dip of her naked waist, equally as purposeful. )

Come back to bed.

( she inquires — or suggests, because begging feels needy. a hand flattens on the bedding in front of her, soothing it out for him. )

I have a present for you.

[volkarin]

[ It's not so much routine, Emmrich would say, as it is a scientific control. There are other matters — other people — to which they divert their attention, days and nights that see them apart rather than together, but she's the sun around which he orbits, bright and lovely and lively, new and familiar at the same time. And yes, he typically rises first, but that fact doesn't account for the moments he spends to linger, to simply look at her still sleep-warm and glowing, to tuck the blankets in around her before allowing himself to make his way to the suite's bathroom.

That little mewl gets his attention before her actual call does, the turn of his head bringing the rest of his lean frame along with it, the hem of his robe moving in a circle about his calves. There she is — every day, a different image of her to etch into his memory.

(He sketches her a few more times, in the wake of her note that he'd yet to draw her up to that point — one or two, one or two from memory, one in particular, drawn in a moment of perhaps uncharacteristic fancy, rendering from the waist up the image of her as she'd been atop him the previous night, lips parted and cheeks flushed.) ]

A present? [ he hums, as he settles easily into the space she's set for him, one hand keeping him propped up. ] You do spoil me, my dear.

nebulously timed

[nishtha]

[ It's not difficult to track Emmrich down, not in a house full of gossips and maids with considerable emotional investment in, as one of them had put it, "older men with a sort of sexy librarian thing going on". Armand encounters a little difficulty when the manor itself contrives to throw him off the scent and the room he's directed to ends up being on another floor entirely, but he finds the correct window in the end, alighting on the balcony and glad to find no sign of magical wards. A different sort of necromancer than John Gaius, then. Or at least a man who doesn't expect to be disturbed.

The lock is no problem for a telekinetic vampire; he slips soundlessly into the dark room, finding himself in something that looks more like a study than a bedroom, piles of books on every surface, strange diagrams on the walls. The faint scent of the man he's hunting tells him he's in the right place, so he lingers, exploring a little while he waits for his quarry to arrive.

By the time he's discovered, he's made his way through half a dozen volumes, moving them from one stack to another as he finishes them. He doesn't glance up from his latest acquisition as Emmrich arrives, having made himself comfortable in an armchair, flipping through the pages with uncanny speed. ]

You have made yourself very comfortable here, Professor.

[volkarin]

[ It's the sound of pages turning that alerts Emmrich to his visitor before he actually sees him, pausing by the door, his hand on the light switch — and looking only mildly surprised — before closing it behind him. ]

One learns to adapt, [ he says, schooling his expression into a polite smile.

A part of him wonders if he ought to have expected this to happen sooner. He's hardly unaware of the fact that he's made himself somewhat unpopular, and though he's giving Armand the benefit of the doubt as to why he's here ... benign encounters typically don't begin with breaking and entering. ]

I wasn't expecting guests.

@hightower — after alina’s post.

[unapparent]

Nick, Ash, Armand.
Those are three who paid the blood price for your research, though I know there were more who perished. Those are the bodies I saw with mine own eyes, as I tried to keep us safe. A boy, no older than my sons. A husband, beloved by his partner. And a man who has surely suffered enough in his long life.

Will you offer your services to them as Alina has aided her Paul?

[ because it isn’t alina’s job to fix all who have been broken. she exhausted herself in the game. she risks herself now by coming forward. this is supposedly a necromancer’s specialty, is it not? ]

[volkarin]

[ Not too long after the message is sent: ]

Of course.

[ Then, a beat. He thinks, again, of Alina's message. The daily offering of blood. He can't ask that of them, not when he's responsible for how much they've given up already. Formless, shadowy thoughts begin to coalesce as he reads over Alicent's message once more. ]

It ought not to be their burden to bear.

💌

[multiverse]

Emmrich,

I expect by the time this letter is in your hands, you will be among the living again. Regardless, I'm starting it on the night I killed you, which I imagine you can use as written confession if things ever go tits up for us. In any case, I won't lie to you and say its been easy. You stayed warm for a good while after I strangled you, but there is a draft in your room, so you might've stayed warmer longer somewhere else. I was with you, in that time, if you're curious. Most wouldn't name my word as a particularly powerful thing, but you asked, and so I was there through the night, the room so quiet no one could mistake you as simply sleeping. There was still a little heat to your body as they took you away, but it'd been totally lifeless, and not especially appealing to touch. That said, I don't find gravel particularly appealing to touch, but you still cup it when you fall and scrape your knee, so I held your hand, even if you couldn't hold mine back. I like when you wear fine things of gold, with dainty chains and rich stones, timeless like everything you own has a prolific history — my fingerprints around your throat were not a particularly good accessory, and I don't think I'd care to see it again. Not for a long while, at least.

They tried to dress you in this hideous black suit to be buried in. Imagine the monstrosity. Pinstripes? I told them it'd be a cold day in hell that I let someone I care about be buried in such terrible fashion. I think I upset the mortician quite a bit. Ultimately, I picked your clothes and I dressed you, under the natural presumption it's what you would've wanted, although writing it now I think you'll actually disapprove of my involvement. Still, it's a weird thing to look back on, as I'm writing it out — I couldn't let anyone else handle any small portion of your burial, almost as if I was possessive of your death. I don't think it was that I was bothered by someone knowing what I had done to you, because I own every action I've ever made. More, I think it's that I have an obsession with understanding the whole meat and bones of you, which your death left incomplete. Seeing you dead is awful, but at the same time, being apart from your corpse is worse. If someone else looked at you, what would I do? So selfish, to be so needful of you when you're not even here to tell me to fuck off. Even if you begged me, hand in heart and bowed on knee, to remove myself from you, I don't think I could do it. Rather, I wouldn't want to.

Anyway, I chose the green. It's a nice suit. You look handsome in it, even if it washes you out a little. There's a very interesting balancing act between wanting you to look your best and also knowing you'll need to burn this suit after you wake up, because I'll never want to see it again. But then, I'm not precious with clothes and our manor hosts are generous with the wardrobe, and you look excellent in most things. So. It's really a non issue. I hope you found the underwear funny.

I think Dorian is a lovely man. He's very charming, and very handsome, and very generous with his time given the whole state of affairs, which I believe have impacted him in a very predictable way. I think he's a bit soft on you. I don't really blame him. You ought to be kind to him once you return, as he's been kind to me. He came with me to your burial because I asked him to. I don't know what emotion crossed over his face when they lowered you down, but it felt a little crafted, like someone with a talent for marble and chisel. Artist hands, he's been careful for a very long time. Unfortunately, I felt the hunger pangs from my own lingering effects of death tonight, which was especially poor timing, all things considered. Nevertheless, Armand and I went to Otherworld and it was business as usual — he bit them, drained them, and I flayed them, ate them. I don't usually talk to you about these things, because they're not particularly attractive, but I wonder now if I should've, if that might've dissuaded you from your death. I went to be sick in your bathroom because I forgot you were dead in the whole mess of things, which was a little silly of me. Very fun, that remembering weight. Your bed still smells like you, but then, you haven't really been gone long, all things considered.

I'm not predestined towards hope, so I accepted you might die for good the night that I killed you, and that could be the end of it. You promised you'd come back. It feels fragile, like wishing on a star, or pulling petals off of flowers. Do you have that belief in Nevarra? You pluck petals from whatever flower you have, announcing opposing statements to each. "He loves me/He loves me not" is traditional. The last petal is meant to represent the truth. I found a purple rose not far from your grave and played the game myself. He'll come back, he'll stay dead. The last petal told me you'd stay dead, but then, there's a stupid little trick where you pretend to stem is the final phrase — and I had already resorted to seeking answers in flowers, so I wasn't above the cheat. I'll get my answer one way or another. You should probably remember that.

I think you'll wonder why I haven't immediately given you your stone, particularly after reading this letter. I know Daisy is curious, and not exactly happy about my decision, because she misses you too. I think the answer to that is that I know you, and I know you aren't against other deaths, a multitude of them, to further your research. I will take your death by its own devastating neck and wring out every fraction of information I can from it, to keep the thought of doing it again from your mind. We will both sit here, suffering, and I will learn whatever it is your death has to tell me. So — you're an angel, I suppose. When people rise they have aspects of different folklore and fairytale creatures that effect them. I know of one other person who suffered from this ailment, our old friend Matt, but we know vampire at least is another one. Why that? I couldn't say, but they both have elements of death already baked into their well known folklore. Mermaids, less so. You're responsive like you're alive, perfectly conscious and adjacent to your usual self, if not for all the glowing and the feathers. But it doesn't feel like you, not exactly. It's like I'm looking at your mind on a diagonal, like you're italicized in some way. I have your stone in my hand, pressed against my heart, and that feels more like you than the body you're in. You want it, I can tell. I'm some kind of evil for keeping it from you. I've done the research I can, taken notes to the best of my ability, and tried to be the enterprising student you believe me to be. But I'm done now, I've decided. I'm giving you your stone, and that had better be the end of it for a good, long while.

Your beloved murderess,
Parisa

@september | voicemail/action, post resurrection

[dwelt]

[august had seen the post that emmrich made on the network. an evening spent staring into his screen, realizing he'd helped clean up the mess someone else had made. the admittance of fault hangs over him, but there's nothing to hold on to anymore. time has passed, the issue is resolved, and nick is back to normal. august hasn't been avoiding emmrich on purpose - the man's been at the back of his mind, an afterthought. the two of them hardly crossed paths to begin with and it had been gale to be the first and last to connect them.

the more recent announcement that alina makes reminds him: they should talk.]

Emmrich, it's August. Can you meet me at the piano bar tonight? Eight o'clock.

[he poses the question as a request, he means for it to sound like a request. it's not really a request. come 8, he's sat in one of the booths facing the door. lucky in the sense he's already gotten the hang of most of the rooms and their routine, he's hoping emmrich doesn't need directions. already nursing a glass of whiskey, he could have been here an hour early or five minutes.]

[volkarin]

[ The message is relatively brusque, but it's not particularly surprising even given his passing acquaintance with August — and, more to the point, it's hardly as though that'll keep him from meeting him at the appointed place and time. Punctual as ever, Emmrich arrives early, smiling and bowing his head as he settles into the booth.

(He hasn't told anyone about his death apart from the trio he'd appointed to see him through it, and no visible marks of it remain. There's just the patch of grey, pallid skin above his heart, as though to make it clear where he's always been weakest. An academic, through and through, with the kind of soft heart that complicates a matter like death. But that's tucked away beneath his shirt, his waistcoat, layers of clothing that make him, to the naked eye, exactly the same as the last time they'd encountered each other.) ]

I'm glad to see you, August, [ he offers, his attention warm and keen. ]

How have you been?

text ❖ @orchid

[wines]

I hope you know I'm still furious with you.

[volkarin]

I do.

And I hope you know I'm still sorry. For what happened, for involving you. But I didn't want to leave Parisa alone.

@fen'harel

[dirth]

I assume you have returned to us as you left?

[volkarin]

I'm afraid I'd make myself a liar if I said I am exactly as I was, but for the most part, yes.

More importantly, I owe you thanks, Solas, for your assistance in my return.