volkarin | SALTBURNT

[ 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! ]

( 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. )

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. ]

[ 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?

I've had worse, for sure.

[ You know, like when he was being murdered, or several hours ago when he sprouted all these feathers. It's such a dodge, and Matt's sure it comes across that way, but he just--really wants to be seen as a field researcher offering valuable insights on phenomena, not a callow youth who's making problems again. Anyway, how to describe the pain he feels? It hurts like it must hurt to be the inside of a church bell, hollow without its songs of praise. He wants Armand to bring him something. Food, even though he isn't hungry. Blankets, even though he isn't cold. Something to show his ḑ̷͈̞̫̺̩̘͒̅́͂̍͊͘͠͝ẽ̵̡̤̬͇̤̱̞̝͎̩̋̀́̐̈́̓̎̚͝ͅv̶̢̡͓̲̩̣̗̘͒̐̀́̊ö̴̧̢̧̞͇͙̫͙̱͈̦͇̘̼͇́̿͐͆̉̕͜t̶͓͕̤̭̤̬̥̭̱̘̭̙̖̝̱̔̀̍͊̈́͆̔̈́̒̕͝ͅí̸̖̲̲͕̭̠̝͆̀̃͊͂̕͠ͅọ̸̢̯̹̦̇̀͑̔̇̾͒̽̂̓͋̃͠ͅn̸͕̥̺̼͎͓͉̥̤̳̟͔̹̬͔̈́͒͑̄̽̀͌̒̽̉͋̆̐̀͘͝ͅ. ]

It seems to come in fits and starts. The first spike was maybe six hours ago? That was dramatic, it hasn't been so bad since.

But I'm still finding new growths.

I see.

[ Well, not literally, hence, ]

May I come see you?

No.

Sorry.

I'll send you pictures and video if you want a better look at the phenomena, but

[ "I'm being hunted" feels like guy-who-causes-problems territory. Plus, what if Emmrich tries to confront Heinrix and something happens to ... well, to either of them? The less said, the better. ]

some friends are checking on me. I don't really want anyone else to see me like this.

[ That's— fair, despite what Emmrich would describe as professional curiosity. ]

Of course. I'd appreciate being kept abreast, but not so much that you ought to concern yourself with it rather than looking after your own wellbeing.

If there's anything I can do, please do not hesitate to reach out. And, if you'd be so kind, let me know when you're [ what's the best word for this situation ... ] safe.

I appreciate that. Really. I'll keep you posted.

[ A few minutes later, a couple more photos arrive, showing wings of varying sizes blooming from unexpected and painful-looking places. Matt's arm, his temple (carefully cropped not to show his eyes). There's a video, too: A closeup on Matt's back, where large white wings flex uneasily. No sound.

Matt considers what more he can offer. While he's thinking, his hands type out:

The Bridegroom is coming, beloved.
With red wine and yellow wine.
Engraved upon your wedding ring,
I EAT, THEREFORE I AM.

The words flow with the practiced ease of a memorized poem or prayer, no input required from his conscious mind. But when Matt sees what he's done, he deletes the message.

He doesn't reach back out to Emmrich until days later, when it's all over. ]

Update: Back to normal (successful ritual). Next time someone dies, find a rock with their name on it in the lake and fish it out.

[ 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.

[ 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

Edited (wrong flower link rip!!) 2025-01-13 19:32 (UTC)

[ 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

[ 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

Emmrich,

There is some freedom here that has been lacking in my previous life. I have never had the ability to be anything less than unforthcoming though many times I'd wished it. While enjoying my privacy, I must admit that oftentimes it can become lonely.

I spend most days in the sitting room by the front parlour. It has the best light for my needlework and reading when it is too cold to venture out into the grounds. Unfortunately it has been blisteringly cold as of late, a tragedy I must only endure for a few months longer with any luck. I would be happy if you joined me there.

Still obligingly yours,
Pearl

[ it is not blisteringly cold, she is a baby. ]

( 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.

[ 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

( reliably, emmrich will always at the very least match parisa's schmoopiness, or more likely blow it out of the water — which in turn makes her feel a little less insane about writing him letters when there are 1. easier avenues of communication and 2. he's literally always right there, nearly within arm's reach. it's a romantic gesture, the written word, and if she was prepared to pretend it never happened in the first place, the second letter makes it clear she's aware of their game — she slaps the letter flat on his chest, sparing the kiss she usually saves for the paper to passingly smudge lipstick on the corner of his mouth. a single footstep on the map of where he's been or, as is more accurate, where parisa has. )

To my newfound pupil —

I have every reason to believe if you were not a necromancer, you might have been a poet, although I suppose the two aren't mutually exclusive. In fact, I think death might only be rivaled by love for topics of epic poetry, and the two are so often mixed, they may as well be sisters. Cousins, at least. To the poet in you: if I was a flower, which do you think I'd be? And don't say rose.

If I'm honest, I haven't spoken the language regularly in many years. The accent I wear is more French than Persian, which I've spoken a bit longer in the grand scheme of my life. Still, one never forgets their first, and I'm not in the position to deny the chance to mentor you for a change. Your first lesson is now. All Arabic script is written and read from right to left, so I imagine you wrote that backwards on instinct. That said, it's an impressive first try — you have lovely script, Emmrich.

A fair note of warning: I am not as gentle a tutor as my beloved necromancer. Of course, we both know I wouldn't dream of going easy on you. When have I ever?

With forward glances of working you to the bone,
Professor Kamali

Edited 2025-02-13 14:26 (UTC)

[ The more time they spend together, the more evident it becomes that, simply put, he enjoys it. Any opportunity to make a romantic gesture, any chance to do something for her, unnecessary or not. Where he's concerned, it's part and parcel of being in love. What time he has, he wants to spend on her.

The second letter's method of delivery makes him laugh, the lipstick remaining smudged over his lips until a sheepish maid points it out to him later in the day, making him sheepish in turn. Later in the night, as Parisa dozes in bed, Emmrich sits at his desk, bathrobe draped over his shoulders as he writes. He leaves the finished letter on the nightstand, kissing her forehead before falling asleep, himself. ]

Professor Kamali,

You called me legible, once — I think I only now begin to understand how much that is the case. I was once asked what I think I'd have become, had I not joined the Mourn Watch, and the answer I settled upon was: a botanist. And here you are, a step ahead of me, in the garden of my own mind.

As for the matter of which flower you are, the bloom that comes to mind is one I believe is, regrettably, not shared with this plane. In Nevarra, we've a flower known as Shroud's Kiss. Delicate white petals that seem to glow in the moonlight, anthers of a rich purple. Legend has it that it grows on lovers' graves, and that to breathe in its scent will bring one closer to the Fade, what one might colloquially describe as the spirit realm. I would describe you in much the same way: the locus of my affection, your magic so deftly opening possibilities to mine that I'd once thought impossible. Singular, subject to rumor — the truth being what one makes of it, reserved for those who would take the time to attend to it. A rose could hardly compare.

Fortunately, I've always been a diligent student. You're quite correct, of course — I failed to consider the language's orientation, but that's a mistake that is easily corrected. Besides, I can allow myself only so much latitude when facing the idea of disappointment from one who would call me beloved.

Your lucky pupil,
Emmrich

[ And below, this time, a sketch of the flower mentioned above. ]

( the thought of emmrich sitting at his desk, brow knotted, watching her while he writes for her, is such an intoxicating image that parisa tucks her knees up to her chest and reads it a dozen times over, wondering where he paused, what he thought. she's admittedly precious about it — won't read a word until he leaves to bathe in the morning, sitting where he sat and mulling over every line. she wipes the smile off her mouth once he exits, sucking her cheek in, before pulling emmrich back to bed, rendering his bath null and void.

her returning letter comes a few days later, though it might take longer to find, folded in between the pages of a book emmrich's been looking through lately. )

Beloved,

You earn points for naming a flower I've never heard of. Really, it's clever — I have no point of reference on whether to be flattered or not, but the mysticism has gotten to me, Monsieur Botanist. They look lovely, going off your sketch. And, on that note, who knew you were such an artist? It makes one wonder if there's anything you can't do. If you'd provide some examples, I'd like to hear them.

Truth be told, I've never give much thought to what I'd do if I wasn't a telepath. People seem to be my natural calling. Maybe I'd be a mortician, and see you in whatever avenue fate chose for you — necromancing or botany. Of course, if handsome men like you make a habit of visiting funeral homes, I imagine more people would find their way down there sooner rather than later, inside or out of the box.

Yours,
Parisa

P.S. I think bluebells for you.

( additionally, there's a writing sheet for practicing letters — parisa wrote out the persian alphabet, leaving empty space for emmrich to test himself. )

[ It's the rare distraction he allows to actually hold his attention, leaving the book — an account on the history and development of funerary rites in this world (or one close to it, at the very least) — aside as he reads over her letter. Already, he's begun to treasure each exchange, keeping every letter tucked safely into a box, itself hidden away in one of the compartments of his desk.

He doesn't write the response in full view, this time, though he does work on his practice sheets while she's around, occasionally asking after the stroke order, or the ways the letters change when in front of or between others. Beautifully complex, he hums, once, seemingly — no, obviously — pleased at having something to put his mind to, at being taught by her.

A day or two later, placed carefully in the pocket of her bathrobe: ]

Ma moitié,

As much as poetry may suit me, most of the bardic persuasions are quite far out of my grasp; put a musical instrument in my hands, and I wouldn't know where to start, though that problem can at least be solved through the application of time and effort. Then there's the matter of humor, which I've been told is an art that is lost upon me. I confess, I find puns tolerable only in severe moderation.

Then again, I would say that your talent for poetry puts mine to shame. That we might find each other in some other life is quite the romantic picture, but somehow also one that doesn't strike me as being particularly far-fetched. I typically consider myself quite responsible when it comes to my work, and yet I find myself wondering if, in this hypothetical, I wouldn't occupy too much of my time attempting to craft the perfect arrangement for your parlor in the hopes of attracting your attention. Only you, I think, could so sway my attention.

I wonder, occasionally, if whatever doorways through which this place has pulled us together would allow for some travel. Would you ever consider visiting Thedas with me? The possibility seems distinctly faint, if present at all, and yet I find myself compelled to ask.

Eternally yours,
Emmrich

P.S. You may have to take my word for it, but I do think bluebells and Shroud's Kiss would make quite the lovely bouquet.

[ Two of the writing sheets sit inside the folds of the letters: one clear, columns filled with Emmrich's careful script; and the other, while still filled with repeated letters, full of notes in the margins — reminders of the contents of their earlier conversations as to the language, numbers indicating stroke order, so on and so forth. ]

( the next letter comes with another hand delivery — parisa perched on his lap, waving the perfumed parchment under his nose. except every time emmrich makes moves to grab it, parisa pitches it out of his reach, stretching until he offers something else in return, payment for the letter boy. maybe a little extra, enough that when he does eventually find the letter, it's tangled up in the sheets, wrinkled from misuse. )

نیمه دیگر من

Picking up another language, are we? You're certainly ambitious. French is considered the language of lovers, actually. It does seem up your alley.

Musical prowess is overrated, anyway. Songs don't butter your bread. And I like your sense of humor, for the record. It would seem I find even the worst things about you exceedingly tolerable, if not wonderful. Don't you think so?

Speaking of jokes. It's funny, I think the only thing waiting for me at home is a suitably tragic and unavoidable death. Sacrifice, as the Society would call it. I don't know if I could say that to your face, as I know talk of my death upsets you. The point is, there's nothing much awaiting me in Paris, or all the rest of the world. I've spent my life trying to outrun it. I'm hunted. Eventually I'll get old and lose the fight.

You say "visit" like you aren't the destination, Emmrich. How many different ways can I spell it out? It's you.

Universally and multiversally yours,
Parisa

P.S. Draw me one, please. For my collection.

[ He laughs — the way he always does when she flirts with him, as though he's surprised by her attention, that she'd choose to bestow it upon him. It's a little less so, these days; it'd be a disservice to keep acting as though he doesn't understand why she bothers with him or that her affection is genuine. So its timbre is more pleased than anything else, grateful. And there's nothing like doubt on his features when he kisses her, the letter still held out of his grasp, or when he simply sweeps her up and carries her to bed.

It's not quite tit for tat, after. As they settle into the house's theater — he picks A Matter of Life and Death, largely for its title, though he's shed a tear by the time the film ends — he sets a tray nearby, arranged with a plate of cut fruits, a box of chocolates, and his letter propped up against a bottle of wine. ]

جیگر طلا , mon choupinou, my sweet,

I could hardly leave well enough alone once you'd mentioned it. What sort of lover would I be, if I did? And I did warn you — as a pupil, I strive for comprehensive comprehension.

I've wondered at that, in truth, since the first moment we met. What I'd consider damning about myself, you have a way of finding redeeming; and I, the same for you. Perhaps that might be thought of as one of the layers to that first phrase you taught me: دورت بگردم. We are complementary, lucky to be whole.

And so it goes: I, for you; you, for me. Let me, for once, borrow your boldness—

Stop running. Leave those would hunt you, who would see you as anything less than what you are. Be with me. Here, in Thedas, anywhere the world takes us.

There is no world, for me, that exists without the memory of you in it.

Love,
Emmrich

[ As promised, there's one more sheet folded into the envelope. Lacking a reference, there's a touch of awkwardness to the sketch, but nevertheless: he's arranged blossoms of bluebells and Shroud's Kiss onto the paper, filled out with sprigs of sweet alyssum (sweetness of soul) and ragweed (reciprocated love). ]

( it becomes obvious what parisa is doing just a touch too late to nip it in the bud, as she ordinarily would — making plans for the future. a criminally unlike her thing to do, for several reasons, not the least of which is because her shelf life as a beautiful, fuckable woman is closing in around her. a few more years and her assets are going to wrinkle and droop and gray, and if one follows the direction of these letters, where does that leave her? in another world, at the whim of a man's interest in her. of course, that man is emmrich. of course, it's difficult to imagine his love for her is fleeting, passing by with the wind. but even then, these lessons have been hard learned through a lifetime of education, and very basis of parisa's philosophy on life counters these letters in the fabric of the words, the skeletal marrow of meaning. parisa always knows the exit route of any room she's in, and she always has a backup. there's nothing she can't replace if she has to.

except, there is emmrich. a different kind of equation.

she mulls over responding, different tactics to the same outcome. whether parisa believes in permanent, honest love is the whole crux of the issue — because she doesn't, not really. every one of her family members loved her to a point. every relationship she's ever had has been functionally the same, except for this one. unconditional love is a myth perpetrated by children's animated feature films in the name of population control, turning little girls into little lesbians when no man matches up to prince charming. parisa is, first and foremost, a realist. and while emmrich might be generous with his affection, might even mean everything he says, parisa is too well trained to believe in the permanence of anything.

even if, maybe, she wants to. believe. maybe. )

Emmrich

What if you tire of me? Don't say it's impossible — I assure you, it is very possible. I'm remarkably tiresome. I can list references if you don't believe me, and you would probably make that list, by the way. I found a gray hair the other day. Several of them, even. I'm going to age like spoiled milk. What if I follow you home and eventually I lose whatever made me attractive to you? I'm not getting any younger, and a woman like me has her golden years, which are already coming to a close. What if I'm in a new world and something happens to you, and I'm alone?

I am tired of running, for the record. I think I was born tired. I don't think I've ever wanted anything in life as much as a place to belong, but I don't think I can belong to a place that isn't in my control, which I understand sounds completely insane. I am an insane person, probably. That's what life has done to me.

If you really mean it, and want to live this relationship beyond our captivity here, then I want to. Logistically, I know the equations of how to make new worlds, and the philosophies behind it. At the risk of sounding overambitious, while admitting there is plenty of room for failure, we could make one that suits us, if I find the right people and parts to help.

The question is: do you want to become gods with me? And at what cost?

Parisa

( she leaves this one unfolded on his desk, face up, watching him read it while she's tucked into his bed, nakedly pinning the covers to her chest. )

[ He reads with his chin resting on his hand, his back a little hunched as his eyes flicker back and forth over the paper. The fact is that he's seen glimmers of these sentiments before — in the way she says I love you in every way but that, in the self-deprecation that seems to spring from a deeper, more bitter well. Were he a younger man, perhaps he'd push harder, more insistently, against the idea that nothing could change the way he feels, but he isn't that man anymore, has lived through enough relationships he'd thought would last to know that he can promise her, without a doubt, that change will never extend its long fingers in their direction. All they can do is live it and see what happens.

But the glow of certainty persists in his chest, regardless, each glance she casts his way like a breath over burning coals. He wants to believe — does believe, just as he believes in Rook and the rest of the party, just as he believes in Manfred, in goodness as a whole. The fatal flaw of a romantic, perhaps, but he knows she's seen it, in his head. In his heart.

So he reads over her letter once more (the notion of godhood ringing in his ears) before returning to bed, tucking her against his side (if she'll let him) as he settles a book on his lap, and on top of that, a sheet of paper. He writes in full view, if she so chooses to watch, though it's just as easy to turn her head away or leave, entirely. ]

Parisa,

You're right, of course, that none of us can truly tell the future. But at the very least, I might say that to become a lich goes well beyond what one might consider the territory of spoilt milk, having surrendered the very idea of flesh at all, and yet you hardly blanched at the idea. It'd make me quite the hypocrite to allow such a thing sole authorship over my affection. In fact, I daresay we'd make quite the pair of skeletons, if you so chose to tread the same path. We could spend the centuries comparing which varieties of bleach to use on our bones.

But, as for the rest:

I mean it, most ardently. I would follow you to the edges of the known universe, if you wished it — and, it would now seem, beyond those limits, too, provided a little time to put a bow upon the business that presently awaits me in my own world.

I suppose my question to you is: do you truly wish to become a god? Is that the choice you'd make for yourself, were I not a part of the equation?

Yours,
Emmrich

( there's no part of her that even considers leaving, cheek pressed on his chest, watching his fingers flex while he writes, a front row seat to exactly what she's been curious about this entire time. as it turns out, emmrich doesn't worry over words at all — he writes from the heart, with immediacy. with intention, even. it's ridiculous she ever considered otherwise, like he isn't always whipquick with his romance in conversation. of course, part of parisa knew she was shedding some light on darker parts of herself better left in the shadowy corners of her mind. this is something akin to slicing pieces of her meat on a plate for him to poke at. then again, it's nothing she hasn't made him do, so. maybe it's past time.

she snags the pen from him when he's done, using his lap to write her reply in the margins of his words. )

The making of a new world has been attempted, before. It didn't go well, if I'm honest. I wasn't present for it, but someone I cared about was murdered. It was done in opposition to what you just poised to me: the question of why, met and matched with the question of why not? Not a good reason, as it stands. A very classic tale of academic arrogance, which I believe you can understand.

So, no, I wouldn't attempt it again if not for you. But taking you out of the equation feels counter to the point, which is us being together. So, we're bargaining now. Your counter offer is the Mourn Watch — tell me what that is like. It could be ages before I was offered lichdom, isn't that right? You would wait a long time to stroke bones with your skeletal love.

I'm yours, actually,
Parisa

( she leaves it on his lap, looking back at him expectantly, before leaning in to press a kiss on his neck. )

[ Emmrich's gaze only turns to what Parisa's written when she gets out of bed. Until that point, he's only looking at her, watching the way concentration and thought manifest on her lovely features, as though he could read her intentions better this way than in seeing what she puts to paper. Letter-writing has a way of both diluting and intensifying feeling, and it's useful to remind himself of something more immediate, more instinctual — her, here, with him. There's nothing to doubt or speculate on in this moment, no hairline fault in the affection he feels for her in the here and now.

His response takes a little longer, on account of the new sketch that accompanies it: a great gate, not so unlike the Ishtar Gate, with two towering statues — skeletal figures adorned in robes — on either side of it. Underneath the drawing, in Emmrich's hand: The Grand Necropolis. A day after her last writing to him, a day before the answering sketch and letter arrive — on a tray, this time delivered to her in the bath — he tells her he's in the middle of writing, compelled, perhaps, by the knowledge they've begun treading into slightly less idle territory. ]

My love,

How strange, for us both to have been visited by the same spectre of misfortune. But how fortunate, now, that both sides of our bargain consider a future for us together, rather than apart.

The calling of the Mourn Watch, in the simplest terms, is to maintain the balance between life and death. In practice, there are any number of ways to honor that mission, from assisting in the funerary preparations and rites for those interred in the Grand Necropolis, to tending to the errant wisps and spirits that roam the halls, to devoting oneself to academia. I, as you know, fell more into that last category, both researching and teaching necromancy, as well as handling the occasional request to commune with the dead. Recent days had also plunged me into more action that I'd necessarily expected, dealing with rogue spirits outside of the bounds of the city.

(As a side note, I confess I occasionally feel the same frustration that drove Johanna to abandon our order entirely, but I do not believe change to be out of the question — merely that such things will happen at their own pace [or given a particularly persuasive argument] on account of the sheer age of the institution.)

And, yes — no two paths to lichdom are alike, and it could be some time before you were allowed to undertake the ritual, but in the meanwhile, I feel it necessary to note that there is very little extant literature on the nature of intimate relations between liches and humans. That potential avenue of exploration aside, what are a few years — or several — when we've eternity to look forward to?

Love, now and forever,
Emmrich

( it is, miraculously, possibly the best carrot he could've dangled in front of her. the first response comes in the shape of a post-it note pressed against his bathroom mirror, as if an immediate reaction was necessary. )

So I could make my life's mission the thorough research of lich and human lovemaking? Hmmm ...
♥

( an avenue of undiscovered experiments, crossing the points of her obsession with death and her possibly worse obsession with emmrich. getting to fuck him and call it science. publishing a book on all her discoveries hovering on top of emmrich, scandalizing all his students with tale of their professor's sexual prowess, bleached bones on tanned skin. the thought makes her toes twist.

later, a more thorough response comes, tucked between the folded shirts in his dresser. with the letter comes a framed picture of the dance of death by michael wolgemut. )

To my one day lich,

I don't think you're mistaken for being frustrated. Truth be told, I have absolutely no loyal ties to the Alexandrian Society, it just happens to be that their enemies try very hard to kill me, which tends to choose your side for you. It's not the pursuit of power that made me drop out of the world creation race, by the way — in that way, I might've agreed with Johanna's actions. It's just the cost, that has to give pause. Most things aren't worth the effort they take. You and me, however, are not one of those cases.

Let's say the idea of fucking you for science has compelled me to agree with you, follow you home, join the Mourn Watch and follow my natural calling towards academic pursuits. Are there any scorned lovers waiting for you at home that I should know about? Or expectant students, hungry for their professors? Or children from previous relationships? What I mean to ask — this life that you're returning to, that you'd bring me into. Are you sure there's a spot for me? Because once it's done, it's done. You'll have to make a Parisa-shaped space in your world, and let me occupy it. I don't need to remind you that I'm not a coat you can hang up at the door to pick up when you like. I'm high-maintenance. Do you like the maintenance? Not just now — forever.

A tentatively interested party in also becoming a lich one day,
Parisa

[ Truth told, though he mentions it practically in passing, the idea delights him in equal measure. To so truly entwine love and death, to devote himself to her. Already, he wonders of the mechanics — how one might manipulate a glamor, how the pulse of necromantic magic would factor into physical closeness. How it'd work once they've both undertaken the ritual, how much he treasures the idea of their life together, forever. Once, he might have been mortified at the thought of sharing any answers to the questions posed, but, somehow, it's just as much something to look forward to as any of the rest of it.

He only takes as long as is required to read the writing on the post-it before removing it from the mirror, cautious of the bathroom's humidity in his efforts to preserve their correspondence. The returning letter awaits with her clothing, a few mornings after, clipped onto the hanger on which he's hung her dress from the previous night. ]

To the one whose bones so complement mine (or is it the other way around),

I daresay a Parisa-shaped space is waiting for you; I simply lacked the knowledge, before, to know what belonged there.

The only other you ought to know about is Manfred. Not a former love, not a student, not a child (though he certainly behaves like on), but a wisp. Once I realized how persistent and curious he was — unlike any other wisp I'd encountered before — I placed him into a skeleton. He is both my ward and assistant, capable of understanding speech but not yet of speaking, himself. Having given him life — in a manner of speaking — he's my responsibility. I think you'd like him, and I know that he'd like you.

It isn't solely that I like that maintenance — of you, of us — but that I desire it. I would happily fill my days with you, if you'd allow it. And it seems a small price to pay, if one could even call it that, for the sacrifice you'd be making in forsaking your world for mine.

میبوسمت
Emmrich

P.S. Who are these charming fellows? It's relatively rare, I think, to see the dead in such revels.

( it really isn't surprising that emmrich takes to persian like a fish to water — she can tell he's a man who needs a project, and after their risky meddling with the boundaries of death in this place, he's a little trepidatious to push in that direction. arabic script, parisa imagines, would be the hardest thing about learning the new language — but emmrich is meticulous and focused and won't settle for a job half completed, so his handwriting goes from hesitant to confident, beautiful and flowery. they work on his pronunciation and vocabulary in the evenings, parisa donning her farsi accent with a little self-consciousness, but eventually falling into rhythm with him, exchanging words back and forth until he gets the sounds right. estekhan, bone. khon, blood. shortam khise, mikham kireto mazekonam, ehsas khoobi behem midi vaghti kardi dakhel, my panties are soaked, i want to suck your dick, you feel so good inside me. all the important stuff.

the next letter is left out on his bedside table after, possibly for the first time ever, parisa woke up before him. in fact there are two letters — the same letter, but one written in english, and one written in french, except for the dedicated line, which reads my starry sky on the french copy. )

Mon ciel étoilé,

I believe I've seen your skeleton friend in your dreams, actually. He's very lively. Am I understanding that you found some spirit and put him in a completely different skeleton from the one he controlled while alive? I find that fascinating. The rules seem very flexible, which I suppose is why your Mourn Watch is so rigid in response.

Anyway, there's no drug I find half as indulgent as your attention. It's not much of a sacrifice, to leave my home. In fact, it's entirely selfish — I'm considering it solely for the benefit of myself, rest assured.

As for the art, I suppose you could call it a Middle Aged Euro-centric piece of folklore called the Danse Macabre, this belief that Death dances you to the afterlife. It reminded me of you, since you're so cheerful. This particular art is taken from what was at the time a world history encyclopedia known as Liber Chronicarum (Latin, trust me you don't need to learn that one), and with most things of that time, is heavily focused and influenced by Christianity. That said, it's still a good thing to leaf through, for the pictures if nothing else. What would ordinarily be a rare find in my world, I found relatively easy in the Library. It was from the earliest stages of printing, predating the printing press, even — an incunabulum, we'd call it. Of course, the one here is first addition. Careful hands, my beloved, I know you have them.

There are a lot of other pieces of art associated with Danse Macabre. A few middling poems here or there, but there's a composition that is actually quite good. I'll play it for you tonight.

Save a dance for me?
Parisa

( she does manage to scrounge up a record player, and a rough press of camille saint-saëns'danse macabre, which she does use as an excuse to pull emmrich into a waltz, despite the morbid content. it's what they're good at, after all. )

Edited 2025-02-18 17:18 (UTC)

[ He's transparent in that respect — he's a man who appreciates a point of focus, whether it's her, or a new language (or two), or personal grooming, or some as-yet-undiscovered branch of necromancy, and he's content, for now, with their visits to the Sibling (who is at least a little less nervous around them that she was during their first encounter) as far as unraveling any further secrets about this place. And, if he's being honest with himself, he appreciates the excuse to center his efforts on her. There's nothing like embarrassment or doubt in his voice when he whispers the phrases she teaches him back to her, unbothered by the discrepancy in anatomy.

When he wakes to the two letters, he reads the one written in French, first — better practice — treating both just as carefully as the book that accompanies them, his fingers hovering over but never touching the script except to turn the pages. There's a sketch of Manfred, done in the style of the illustrations in the book, waiting for her along with his letter, placed on her dresser sometime during the middle of the day. ]

L’amour de ma vie,

That's quite right — I suppose the only difference is that he was never alive. Such is what separates spirits and souls, at least as we define them in my world; a soul is the core of a living being, whereas a spirit originates from the Fade, an energy or idea given form rather from what was once immaterial. It is what makes him remarkable to me; I've seen many spirits in my lifetime, but never once one with such a strong will to truly live.

Thank you, my dear, for the book - and for the dance. I'd say I find it surprising that such a legend would still allow for so much fear of death, and yet — what little I've learned of the nature of Christianity, at the risk of sounding simplistic, makes the reasoning somewhat more clear to me.

All that said, tt seems, then, that we've come to a mutually beneficial arrangement. And I must confess I feel quite spoiled, myself — you're quite the generous teacher. As strict as you told me you'd be, I find myself looking forward to our lessons.

De tout mon cœur,
Emmrich

( she's starting quite the collection of little trinkets from emmrich — the kind of box every girl keeps from a partner they're especially infatuated by. ticket stubs and old receipts, things that look like trash but that up the tangible form of memories, keepsakes. parisa is a little surprised by herself, when she realizes what she's doing. despite all outward appearances she isn't materialistic by nature — things, she finds, weigh you down when you're looking for a quick getaway. of course, she isn't looking for that opportunity to slink out in the night. her eyes are nowhere near the door. and when she looks at all the sketches emmrich has drawn her, she doesn't think about how she'd fit them all in her bag if she had to leave. she pins them to her vanity, tucked between the mirror and the wood paneling, where she can sigh and roll her eyes at them in between doing her makeup in the morning. like an idiot, or at least one who's in love. )

هنرمند من

I think this is the longest time I've dated an artist without receiving a portrait of myself. Do I not inspire? Or is your talent in plants and bones alone?

He's very cute, our Manfred, at least as far as skeletons go. Do you have any thoughts on what idea he manifests from? There must be theories — in fact, the theoretical could likely fill up books where I come from. You have to know the concept of an idea taking physical form is fascinating to me. We have this belief in the known world of magic and science, "Nothing comes from nothing" or conversely, "Everything comes from something." Energy isn't just created, it's borrowed, even recycled. Manfred would seem a counterpoint to that argument, born from a notion, whatever it is. Tenacity, perhaps?

It is a brain teaser, truly. Even adding something as jovial as a dance to the concept of dying, they didn't do it to soothe themselves when the Reaper comes knocking. More, it added to the morbidity of death, as if pagans couldn't just die, but needed to have the foundations of their very decency rocked to the core by Christian devils. Christianity generally finds a way to make you feel guilty for anything you might indulge in, so it's safely said, Christianity was not a faith I ever practiced growing up. I prefer things far more indecent than dancing, as you well know.

I think you just like sitting on the opposite side of the chalkboard for a change. Your Persian and French are coming along very nicely, although I'm not shocked to find you're a quick learner. Tomorrow, we'll speak only in Persian. It'll be good for vocabulary.

الهام بخش شما
Parisa

P.S. I really don't speak Persian to anyone but you. You should feel special.

Edited 2025-02-25 03:37 (UTC)

[ Writing and reading in Persian come more easily to him than speaking — the tangibility of the characters more easily parsed in his mind — even though it isn't as though he falters at all when he speaks with her, awkward sentences smoothing out under her hand. (It hasn't even been a month, after all; even a man of his dedication can only do so much.) So, as best he can, he asks her to sit for a portrait, tells her that she'll only be allowed to see the finished product upon the delivery of his next letter.

It's difficult and easy at the same time — the exercise of drawing forth and giving form to a thought always is. He knows how he sees her in his mind's eye — so clever that he think she wouldn't have to peer into his head to know every last part of him, so warm as to say our Manfred without having ever met him, so lovely, so brave — but how to put that onto paper?

Despite the agonizing nature of the process, the sketch that accompanies his next letter is surprisingly clean, free of any marks that would indicate lines being drawn and erased and drawn again, a work as confident as his love for her. ]

My darling muse,

Quite the contrary, as I expect you've now gathered — plants and bones may command my attention, but not my devotion. Any artist, I think, would balk at the idea of having to capture perfection; I can only hope my attempt, such as it is, doesn't displease you.

As for Manfred, his origin is curiosity. It persists, even now — I cannot even begin to guess at what will fascinate him next, though he's quite fond of anything that shines or glimmers. But he's as likely to find happiness with a gilded brooch as with a stick or a piece of string. I've had to learn to let go of any inclination to predict his behavior and simply accept that I've as much to learn from him as he does from me.

And I suppose you're right — I've had little occasion to play the student, in recent years. To teach oneself or to research alongside another, as we have, are entirely different endeavors. Well, that, and I quite enjoy getting to see another side of you. After all, a jewel cannot be fully appreciated by a single facet alone.

As for that last note, allow me to move it from a postscript to the main body of my letter: I do. Endlessly, I do.

The humble recipient of your patronage,
Emmrich

Have you a name for your deity?

She calls herself "the Sibling."

[ A beat. ]

But I've taken to calling her Daisy.

[ the sibling. all too worrying for aemond, whose relationships with siblings have been contentious, put lightly. ]

Daisy. As like the flower?

You are certain they are a woman, this spirit?

Indeed! Daisy, a flower typically associated with innocence — I thought it a suitable name given her demeanor.

And, frankly, no. She presents herself as a young girl, but appearances mean very little when it comes to such beings. Yet, on the other hand, she does not act as though she's limited by her physical form — in fact, she acts very much how I expect a young lady would, with the exception of her arcane knowledge and capabilities.

[ aemond is suddenly struck with the silly idea that perhaps this person is not entirely well, because —— innocence? for a spirit who oversees the dead and the resurrected? is there anything innocent about such a grievous thing?

he must ask dorian about this man's character later. ]

A spirit would know its dominion well, that is not so surprising. Can she be sought out for answers? If one wishes to know about a person's death forthcoming, would she entertain such a thing?

Edited 2025-03-03 21:43 (UTC)

I'm afraid any questions you may have for her will have to be asked through me; I've been expressly forbidden from revealing her whereabouts. Regardless, premonition — if that is what you mean — is not a part of her domain.

You are her intermediary in true, then.

[ he has no interest in pursuing this so-called spirit, god or otherwise, but it is curious that one should insist to not be disclosed. the implication hanging between the words to be that she can be found, and in that being found might lend to some weakness, or some danger. ]

What else is her domain, if one might ask? Is she one that we might pray to?

Considering the presence of the Mesial, I'm inclined to guess that Daisy's power extends only so far as she — and by proxy, I — have described. As for prayer, I feel certain in saying that she'd hardly shirk it, though whether or not she has any ability to affect any change in answer, I couldn't clearly say.

[ a god that listens, but acts only as sees worth her time. no different from the gods of his home, then, mercurial in their interventions and desires. the gods choose their favourites and play their games unfairly.

still, this is knowledge granted, and it is up to the common man to figure out an answer from what's been given. ]

'Tis a worthwhile endeavour to know what gods reside and rule over this here lands. Thank you for answering my questions. I'll not bother so soon about these matters, if we're lucky.

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.

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.

gosh, it's okay, I'm not mad or anything. although I've never once in my life said no to handsome older gentlemen, so I'll let you make it up to me with drinks or something 😘

You're much too kind in your assessment, but drinks it shall be — at your leisure.

cool! my schedule is pretty open tbh, I don't do much besides party and paint.

(and I'm not too kind)

Ah, you paint? A pursuit not too far removed from your abilities last month. I wonder if the two are related ...

But I shan't linger too long on the unpleasant past. Tomorrow evening, perhaps?

I do.
gosh, maybe? we should all other people if they might have noticed anything like that.

that would be lovely!

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. ]

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?

Oh, you know. No complaints, other than being sick of these endless renovations and sex magic and dreadful resurrection consequences.

So, suffering the full range of consequences of my hubris.

Well, apart from the [ is there a less crude word for this ... ] sex magic.

Perhaps you should add it to your repertoire, if you really want the full range.

[ It occurs to Emmrich only after he's sent his previous message that he realizes that his exploratory efforts with Parisa could easily be considered "sex magic," though he'd argue that sex had only been a part of the magic they'd been conducting as opposed to the backbone of it, but— ]

Having singed my hand upon that flame once already, I'm somewhat loathe to return to that particular study.

[ Which is the most he's alluded to what had happened at the beginning of the previous month. ]

[ Now isn't that interesting. ]

Professor. I'd say that I'm shocked and scandalized, but I always knew you had it in you.

[ hmmm ]

"Always" is a rather long ways to cast back the clock.

And here I thought time was quite flexible, in this place.

[ not as flexible as my ... wait, no ]

I don't suppose you've dabbled?

Are you asking whether I've played with fire in the bedroom, Emmrich?

There are certainly ways to bring heat without getting singed.

Yes, I'm well aware standard intercourse is hardly considered a cold pastime.

But I suppose that serves as an answer in and of itself.

I was speaking to actual fire. Bringing a spark to your fingertips, to warm rather than set aflame.

One of my lovers is quite heat-resistant. [ Well, two, but he hasn't done this with Daemon just yet. ] He likes my hands on the edge of burning.

[ doing the equivalent of saluting before he dives off of the prow of the ship: ]

Ah. Certainly easier to control than a candle.

I've mentioned to you that Parisa is a telepath, haven't I?

Is control what we're after with candles? I thought it was the startled gasp when hot wax meets skin.

You have, but do say more.

[ HM. ]

I don't suppose you're free for a spot of tea?

For you? Always.

In that case — meet me at Sol & Scroll, would you? We can find a corner for ourselves to sufficiently catch each other up.

[ NOT an innuendo!!! ]

[ Dorian admits to considerable curiosity, at the invitation. He is, at this point, accustomed to Emmrich's gentle rejection of his flirtations, and doesn't take it personally-- so it's a pleasant surprise that they're skirting around something, though Dorian couldn't say what exactly that something is.

Perhaps their tea date will be illuminating, or at the very least stimulating. He arrives fashionably late, after freshening up, still favoring oversized knits with taupe leather in the early spring chill.

Sliding into his seat across from Emmrich, and offering a congenial smile, ]

This is a quaint little spot, isn't it? [ His gaze sweeping the menu, and the jars of herbs covering the counter, ] I don't suppose they have anything harder than tea.

[ Emmrich is, similarly, dressed as he usually is, a crisp white shirt worn under a burgundy waistcoat, gold accents visible no matter the eye may wander. He's quick to smile back, nodding as Dorian sits.

Strange — he doesn't feel nervous at all. ]

We could always relocate to the pub, or one of the few bars, if that's more to your taste, [ he offers, as he casts a gaze around the shop. ] But I was considering the Earl Grey, myself.

[ Dorian waves a hand as he settles back in his chair, crossing an ankle over his knee. ]

No, this will do nicely. It just means I get to pick the venue for our second date.

( 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.

Edited 2025-03-12 03:32 (UTC)

[ 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.

( she smiles slips from blatant seduction into something more genuine the closer he gets — not that it isn't a genuine attempt at seduction, but that the mask of parisa kamali generally falls off her the closer he gets. effortlessly, she scooches the rest of the way in, sitting more upright so she can press a palm to the side of his face, stroking the freshly shaving skin. her thumb rubs over his lips, and waits for a kiss. )

Well, I am very generous.

( at least in the ways she wants to be, when it comes to bodies and sex and seduction. it's still not an adjective anyone who knows parisa would actually apply to her, which is all the same.

leaning in, she presses her mouth to his. parisa could lie, and say she means for it to be short, an applicably sweet early morning kiss, but at this point emmrich knows her well enough to know her hungers and tastes, and when he sat he knew what she wanted, so it's no real wonder. she's not particularly subtle, particularly not when she opens her mouth against his, flattening her hands on the rich material of his robe. flattening, and then pushing, until his back is against the bed and parisa is smiling queenly down at him, helping herself into a straddle of his hips. slowly, she tugs out the knot of his robe, a tease onto itself. )

I'm hoping to turn you rotten. ( the robe stays closed for now — naked on top of him, she arches down, nuzzling their noses together. ) Have I succeeded? Or do you need a little extra spoiling?

[ At every step, he meets her: she waits, he obliges; she pushes him back, he falls without complaint, providing only just enough resistance to ensure that they're not both simply tumbling to the mattress. It's another kind of dance, a dilution of the merry skeletons she'd shown him, seeking not damnation or salvation but each other's company, the fact of it encompassing all of those greater terms of philosophy. Love is a kind of life's work, after all. ]

The two questions might have the same answer, [ he hums, arching upward to steal another kiss from her lips. ]

Turned rotten, ever-desirous and eager for another lesson in indulgence.

[ His hands — a little chilly from his morning ablutions — travel, one settling at her chin, his thumb passing just under the moue of her lips, the other leading his arm around her waist as arousal pricks at his senses. ]

Or not spoilt enough, requiring the same sweet hand to correct course.

[ The words dissolve into breath as his mouth finds her cheek, hew jaw, her neck. ]

Which do you think it is, my dear?

( she hums, swept up and away by emmrich, largely from the cadence of his voice but also the ease of his affection, mouthy kisses as fleeting as butterfly wings. parisa smooths her hand up and down the velvet of his robe tilting her head this way and that to offer some room for more of his kisses, a dopey smiling curving up her lips. )

Either way, I'm in the position of your mentor.

( a very beneficial spot to be in. emmrich is a very dutiful student. he does the readings, does his homework, participates in class. still, she doesn't really have to think about it — evidence is as plain to see as the love in emmrich's eyes when she pulls back, fingers splaying out on each of his shaved cheeks, lazily dragging their mouths back together. )

The latter. Definitely.

( far too sweet to ever turn rotten, she says. too committed to his chivalry, his own circling goodness, to be anything but a generous partner.

luckily, that's exactly what parisa likes in one. she murmurs, ) Your lesson. ( against his mouth before kissing him harder, tongue in his mouth, teeth against his lips. parisa has had full access to his mind for awhile now — there was that deep darkness, his so called shame, but the clouds have all dispersed and left clarity in their wake. of course, there are still dark corners — everyone has their secrets. but she gives him an image, her fingerprints as evident as they ever are on the soft parts of his brain, and lets him feed into the fantasy she places there. parisa, thighs on either side of his head, lowering her cunt to his mouth. emmrich, talented as usual, proving what a teacher's pet he is. eventually, his cock inside her — details unimportant, he can fill them in himself, color the portrait she's left in him. the point is —

the point is — ) This is what I want.

[ The first few times she'd reached into his head, it had felt— not strange, necessarily, but certainly new. A flicker of light, of a timbre and color he'd never seen before. Exposure has made it more familiar, as has the experience of being brought into his own mind — not so far removed, ultimately, from getting used to cohabitation. He never asks if it makes a difference, but he does his best to be conscious of keeping his mind open, pliant, like a well-loved book rather than one with a stiff, cracking spine, for her to peruse as she pleases.

He laughs as the image of her blooms in his vision, the sound fizzling into a hum against her lips. The ways in which he wants her are increasingly transparent, visible in how eager he is to kneel for her, to devote himself to the lessons she sets for him, and most explicitly in the letters he writes to her, hard evidence of a seemingly endless love. He's thinking of her, always, compelled rather than burdened by the promises he's made to her of a life beyond this.

There are images, under fine silt rather than layers of sediment, of the Lighthouse in the Fade, of Nevarra, the Grand Necropolis, each place altered just so to accommodate the newness of her.

And now, simply, ] Yes, mistress.

[ His hands urge her upward as he pushes himself down the length of the bed, his mouth finding her knee, her thigh, the soft skin between her legs — halfway, already, to fulfilling the first fantasy she'd planted in his head. ]

( parisa has sat through a decent number of symphonies that barely hold a flicker of a flame to the pleasure found in emmrich's laugh, particularly when it's pressed up against her, like some secret etched in the threads of her skin. it makes her smile back, generously adoring. still, she goes as she's moved to, pressing her knees in the space beside his head, satisfaction curling up her spine when she sits, feeling the fresh shaven parts of his cheeks brush up against her inner thighs. the only time she has any height on emmrich is when he's horizontal, and she enjoys the view, trailing the tip of one finger down his dignified nose to end with a gesturing flick against her clit. )

My, aren't you sweet? ( such politeness from a man between her legs, what novelty. parisa can't help smiling at him, her unbrushed, static-y hair falling over her shoulders in loose waves as she arches over him, settling her cunt on his mouth with a breathy ) Oh.

( what is so lovely about older lovers — they don't need instruction. there's no mentor part parisa could play that could teach emmrich anything he doesn't already know, which is most of the fun of the role to begin with. she has a real substitute teacher vibe to encouraging him, arching her back and finding his hand at her hip, threading their fingers together. she loves to touch him, partly because she never has any doubt he wants her to. you don't have to be a telepath to see that emmrich is written in the old storybook way, one of arthur's most chivalrous, most romantic knights. gawain, she thinks. most definitely.

rocking down on him, a full body shiver courses through her, hand flexing in his. she's careful with her weight, keeping it on her knees instead of his chin, but it's clear she's still antsy, still hungry for it. ) Don't tease. ( parisa whines, because she knows what the most chivalrous, most righteous, most romantic thing to do is. give the knight a maiden who needs, let him be the hero of parisa's orgasms. he already is. )

[ That her natural inclination is to run — an instinct born from the dark nooks and crannies of her mind, impossible for him to navigate without her guidance — doesn't make her any more difficult to love. They're a perfect match, in that way; not the sun chasing the moon across the sky, but the loving pull of the moon and the tides. Ever reacting to each other, ever in sync.

As their fingers intertwine, he sighs, breath cool against the wet part of her legs, the ghost of sensation followed in the next moment by the press of his tongue, licking a slow stripe along the folds of her cunt. But he's never been one not to follow instruction. Don't tease, she says, and so he doesn't, his mouth chasing the taste of her, each twitch and shudder of her body. Below, his cock twitches, hard against the plane of his stomach, a clear sign of desire that would be difficult to ignore if not for the fact of her. His pleasure is in watching her, catching and filing away the way her sweet lips part, the way her face flushes — the proclivity of a former teacher's pet, aware of each point of sensation, from the silk of his robe caught between his arm and her back to the brush of his carefully combed mustache against her pink flesh.

The only shame is that his tongue is too occupied to tell her just how beautiful he finds her. Granted, the soft moan that echoes in his throat gets most of the point across, half-formed and pliant, undone to a degree only she's ever allowed to see. She's so lovely — she'll always be lovely to him. ]

[ 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.

[ 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.

[ The air of predatory control in Armand's body language is anything but benign, lacking only a tail to twitch in anticipation, but he remains where he is, amber eyes catching the light for a moment before he glances back at Emmrich. His fingers spread across the book in his hands, almost caressing the page. ]

Yes, well. As I recall, your recent adventures have sorely tested the adaptability of the population of this house. I thought it might be prudent to return the favor.

[ He snaps the book shut -- then is abruptly on the other side of the study, a sharp breeze briefly ruffling pages and loose paper the only indicator of movement. Showing off for Emmrich; as always a victim of his species' love of melodrama. Almost idly, he picks up another book and starts to leaf through it. ]

You mentioned in your message that you believe our souls are trapped in this place. For centuries, I have believed myself to be damned, my soul destined for the deepest pits of Hell to atone for the acts committed in life. Yet you claim it has been.. waylaid here. I'd like to know more.

[ The only comfort Emmrich can really find is in the fact that, were his guest's intention solely to kill him, he'd have attempted it already. Granted, there's still time — he hardly seems happy — but, as the line of Emmrich's jaw goes tense, his brow pinched as Armand flits from one side of the room to the other, he doesn't move in pursuit or in retaliation. Rather, he moves — slowly, slowly — to his desk, taking a seat in his chair as though this were any other visit or consultation. ]

You were ... adversely affected, [ he states rather than guesses, his expression betraying more sorrow than anything else. ] I'm sorry, despite how little that may be worth to you.

[ And though he draws in a breath to further explain himself, he stops short of actually doing so — intention hadn't prevented what had followed, nor will it ease the man's pain, such as it is. Instead, he folds his hands on top of his desk, allowing himself only the briefest consideration of his companion's invocation of Hell. ]

All I know is what the Sibling chose to divulge to me. She described a "ceiling" over this place, one that prevents souls from finding rest. Atonement, I'm afraid, hardly factors into it.

[ His hands lift, then, mimicking a barrier and an enterprising spirit. ]

My order believes that a soul, when separated from the body that had once housed it by death, will then pass into the Fade. Others believe in Heaven or, as you've alluded to, Hell. Such a system of belief might designate this place as Purgatory, but I'm inclined to think that's not quite the case. We're living, breathing, and moreover, our souls remain tethered to our bodies except for when the process of death begins.

[ It's a troubling idea, but nothing that Armand hasn't already considered. The power of the forces at work is unmistakable, having cowed devils and gods in their control -- he can't see any other explanation than being trapped somewhere beyond the veil.

He remains where he is, watching Emmrich from across the room, glass-sharp nails resting lightly on the pages of the book in his hand. After a moment, he nods, carefully closes the book, sets it on a nearby stack, making sure it aligns exactly with the book beneath it. ]

We're not all living and breathing. [ He spans his hand lightly on top of the stack of books, trailing his fingertips over the leather as he approaches Emmrich's desk. ] I am dead, yet my soul remains. A quandary for your order. When I was turned, I was already at the gates of death, poisoned and sickened. Because of you, as I lay dying once more, my mortal life was restored to me. Your mistake meant that I was able to taste mortal food for the first time in five hundred years. I felt my heart beat, my lungs fill with air. I was able to remember..

[ He pauses, glancing away from Emmrich, hands fidgeting closed and open again, clearly lingering over his words. When he looks back at him, there's a fragile resolve in his expression. ]

You killed me and you gave me life. I wanted to thank you.

[ As Armand speaks, Emmrich's expression doesn't fall, exactly, but grows more open, his brows knitting, his eyes round and searching. His face is a clear canvas for the surprise that thank you provokes, his breast filling with— guilt? Grief? Gladness? (He's never been the sort to really hide his feelings, especially not in a context like this.) It's enough emotion, regardless, to suppress his natural curiosity at Armand's claim at a living death, bypassing his usual inclination toward inquiry. ]

I don't believe I deserve your gratitude, [ he says carefully, passing a hand over his forehead. ] But I ... I'm glad that death — that life — brought you some measure of peace.

[ He stops short of saying more, uncharacteristically soft-spoken in the face of the consequences of his actions, so clearly and earnestly presented. He'd known people had died — had seen them bleed out and perish — but there's something uniquely painful about the idea of succumbing not because of the revenants, arguably not his doing, but because of an illness he'd allowed to finish its terrible work.

He hesitates before speaking next, aware that what he's asking is deeply personal, but they've arguably crossed that confiding line already. ]

—Do you wish it? To be mortal again?

[ The welling of surprise and bittersweet gratitude is as clear in Emmrich's mind and heart as it is in his face; Armand reads each with the same opaque expression, as if having made his confession, he's been forced to retreat back behind a necessary wall. Only his hands betray him; he brings them together to fiddle with the ring on his left hand, restlessly.

Does he wish to be mortal again? A question every vampire asks himself over and over down the advancing years. Armand has no easy answer. He'd begged for the Dark Gift before being turned, even before his illness, wanting to be as beautiful and eternal as the master he loved more than anything. Mortal life had only ever brought him pain and sorrow -- life as a vampire could surely not be worse.

How wrong he had been. ]

No. [ He says it softly, after a long moments of silence. ] No, I could not. Even if I could somehow survive the disease in my body -- the world I left behind as a mortal no longer exists. That boy no longer exists. I only know how to survive as I am now. The only reason I would seek mortality would be to seek a final end, the death that Amadeo survived. And I now know I cannot achieve that here.

[ He would enter the jaws of death only to be spat out again, perhaps growing worse and less himself with each attempt. ]

No, Professor. I am a vampire. I will always be a vampire. My kind are not meant to find absolution.

[ A shadow passes over Emmrich's brow — the shape of a skull flickering over the gaunt set of the necromancer's features. Perhaps inevitably, he thinks of the immortality that awaits him, of the latent promise of lichdom. For years, he has feared the cost of it, brought to a standstill that he might simply die before achieving it. He fears that less, now, but he'd be lying if he said he hasn't considered the fundamental shift the vampire describes to him. Who will he become, when the man Emmrich Volkarin no longer exists?

But this isn't the time nor the place for him to wallow. (And he has one point of certainty, besides: he has promised Parisa his eternal devotion, and in that, he knows, he'll never waver.) ]

You believe you are all damned?

[ He picks his words carefully, thinking not just of the teachings of the various faiths throughout Thedas but of the rather different natures of vampires as he understands them and as he's encountered here.

(He doesn't put much stock in the ideas of salvation or damnation, largely because of the proximity he's had to death for nearly his entire life, but— he understands the appeal of it, the reason for it. After all, forgiveness is one of those rare things that cannot be bought. Wouldn't it be a comfort, to be absolved by an all-knowing and merciful god?) ]

Or do you believe it solely of yourself?

[ Like fragments of rock falling through the upper atmosphere, Armand tracks the bright flare and fade of thoughts through Emmrich's mind. No tedious mortal considerations here -- he recognises the shape of the necromancer's worries from the edges of John Gaius' influence. A shame that the god of death hadn't lingered much longer; Armand wonders what Emmrich could have learned at that man's knee. How to cope with eternity, surely.

Also: Parisa. Interesting, but not unexpected. She is a collector of interesting subjects, after all. ]

Vampires are monsters. [ Armand offers his answer as he moves back across the study, back to the armchair he recently deserted. He folds himself into it as he continues: ]

Killers, defilers, abominations before God. If we are not damned, what hope is there for mortality? To become a vampire is the greatest sin, a rejection of God's plan, desire and hunger made flesh for -- what reason? To prey on the innocent and the weak, culling them like sickened animals? To provide a lesson to mortal men? I was once taught it was so. We exist as the shadow of evil, to prove God's goodness in reflection. Therefore we must be evil, we must be shadows. We must not know joy, or simple pleasures. We must be beautiful horrors. So I learned.

[ He drags himself back from reflection to look at Emmrich. ]

For what reason do you practise your magic, necromancer? For whose benefit do you profane the dead?

[ As Emmrich listens, his hand finds his temple, the point of one long finger going back and forth above his brow, visible evidence of an unsettled mind. He straightens only at that last question, a breath of laughter escaping him at the word profane. ]

You're hardly alone in thinking of a necromancer's work as blasphemy, [ he begins, his thoughts still caught on the edges of Armand's answer. ] But our work — my work — is not to disturb nor raise the dead but to ensure their peaceful rest. Much of the Mourn Watch is dedicated to funerary rites, to settling the affairs of wayward souls.

[ There's more to it — the spirits that death attracts, the distinction between spirits and souls — but that's not really what Armand has asked. Hesitation plays out in a pause, a fractured breath, the shape of his thoughts breaking and reforming as he changes his track. ]

There are ways to truly profane the dead — and the living. I would do all that is within my power to prevent it, to protect those who cannot protect themselves from the abuse of the occult.

[ His gaze falls, then levels in the vampire's direction. ]

If I may be so bold — what we are taught is not always the entire truth. Were you a servant of evil, truly, I expect I would already be dead.

[ The complexities aren't unexpected. Armand watches Emmrich with equal amounts of fascination, though a sullen brooding look remains on his face, as if he's still wondering if he shouldn't meet Emmrich's expectations after all. ]

Your actions last month lead to the deaths of innocents, yet you still attempt to protect them. More than anything, you wish to atone for what you have done. Even now, you would accept your fate at my hand, should I decide to take my vengeance. [ Armand lifts one of the hands in question, spreading his glass-tipped fingers before curling them back into his palm. ]

Do the dead ask you to speak for them? Or do you simply assume that you know best, that you are the one who must settle their soul's account? [ Armand tilts his head thoughtfully, finding unexpectedly that he's enjoying himself a little. He hasn't had a chance to engage in philosophy like this for a long time, not since leaving Paris and her crowded little cafes and salons, where he would spend long hours debating love, suffering, the nature of God. ]

We are all servants of evil, Professor, and therefore we must also be servants of good, for they cannot exist without one another. The vampire is cursed to take the lives of mortals in order to survive. Yet we are not soulless. Some choose to end themselves rather than continue such an existence. They are driven mad by horror at themselves. Should I do so as well, and save those who would suffer because of me? Perhaps. Should you take up your art against me, to save them instead? You claim to want to help those who cannot help themselves, yet you allow me to sit before you, unharmed. What does it say about you, that you have not attempted it? Would you commit to evil, in order to save the world from evil?

It is less that we are asked, [ Emmrich says, careful in his choice of words, ] than that we are the only ones capable of it. Who will listen, when the dead call.

[ His head cocks as he considers the next questions posed, Johanna's visage flashing before his eyes. He's more of a mess of contradictions than he appears: a necromancer with a fear of death, a soft heart matched with steely determination. ]

Must you kill? Can you not drink from another without draining them completely? To take blood is not to take a life.

[ His hand falls away from his face, curling into a fist atop his desk. ]

You have a soul. You are as touched by suffering as those you would claim to inflict it upon. Are you, too, not deserving of my time and my attention?

—I would, if it was what was demanded of me. Commit to evil, in order to save others from it. Is that not a small price to pay? One soul — mine, not that of another — exchanged for many. I fear it less than I fear the veil that separates us from the dead, and even that, I fear less than I once did.

A thin veil, these days.

[ Pensive words from the dead man in the chair, before he lapses into silence for a few moments, considering Emmrich with his tea-coloured gaze. Darker, when he's not exercising his power, closer to the shade they were as a human. ]

We can drink without killing. But it requires control, which can only be gained with experience. By the time a vampire reaches that point, they have already been killing, one or perhaps two a day, for many years. Hundreds of deaths. And even if we leave our victims alive, who can say if they will survive our attention? It requires care and time to recover. Some never do. Who can say that it is the better option, to fade slowly away?

[ He pauses again, considering his words. Glances away, then back again. ]

What is it you would do with me, given your time and attention?

[ It's so much — so much more than Emmrich had expected given the relative ease with which the vampires here seem to exist. Maybe he ought to have expected it; they're all, by his understanding, well into their years, no longer fledgings and used to controlling their hunger. But one or two a day, for years—

To have another question to ponder is a blessing, muscling past Emmrich's natural instinct to try to find a solution to the problem that's been posed to him. His gaze re-finds its focus, returning from the nebulous distance past the rise of Armand's shoulder. ]

What would you ask of me?

[ Simply put, in contrast with his usual penchant for spooling on. And he could go on, but they've suggested the shape of whatever words might follow already: unlike many of the souls and spirits that Emmrich deals with, Armand requires no interpreter. ]

[ A good question. Armand weighs it carefully for a few beats, holding the necromancer's inscrutable gaze. What does he want? Vengeance on such a man seems unnecessary, not to mention pointless. He's already got what he came for -- as close to an explanation as he's likely to get, as well as some interesting insight into Emmrich's personal philosophy. So, what's left?

After a moment, the air shivers where he used to be, pages ruffling in a sharp breeze. Armand is abruptly on the other side of the desk, standing beside Emmrich and looking down at him. He raises a hand, slowly, drawing his fingertips through the air close to the necromancer's jaw. His expression is pensive, a little distracted. ]

Honesty. Your order cares for the dead. Could you come to care for someone like me?

[ Armand's question seems to startle Emmrich more than the quickness with which he flits across the room, suddenly so close, his skin buzzing under the phantom of the vampire's touch. He blinks, but manages not to flinch or tense — his brow furrows as though he hasn't understood what's been said, lashes fluttering as he vies for clarity. But there's only a beat of silence that passes between them, instinct pulling two plaintive syllables forth from Emmrich's chest. ]

Of course.

[ As though he couldn't imagine why Armand would ask, despite the preceding conversation, all their talk of good and evil and monsters in the world. But— that's his nature, to be so in love with the world despite his place in the kingdom of death.

And then, suddenly, his expression breaks, a breath of laughter escaping his parted lips. ]

—We might begin by your sharing your name.

[ A temptation to sketch that firm jawline with the points of his fingernails, to draw him up and sink into the steady pulse. What would his blood taste like, full of death magic? Sweeter, or fouled by the touch of ghosts? Armand decides to find out. But not today.

He lowers his hand and allows himself a bashful smile of his own, a flutter of his eyelashes as he folds his fingers together, like a child caught reaching into the cookie jar. ]

Ah, well. Yes. [ He looks down at Emmrich. Tilts his head a little. ] Armand. My name is Armand.

[ It occurs to Emmrich, not for the first time, that Armand wields his beauty like a weapon. The principle is one he's familiar with, given his proximity to Parisa. (Would Armand consider it a curse, too?) ]

I'm glad you sought me out, Armand.

[ His tone is earnest, almost painfully so. There's no pretense, no disingenuity. No sense that there's a soul in this world he couldn't learn to care for, in time. ]

You needn't call me professor, unless you so prefer it. Emmrich would do.

Emmrich, then.

[ It's not entirely conscious, taught to him young and still a habit all through his years as grub in the shadows and Master of the Coven. Control, at the core, no more difficult than holding a pose for hours for an artist and his visiting patron. Always ready to serve, to please, to offer a beautiful object for the wandering eye or hand. He can no more stop himself from doing it than he can stop himself needing blood to drink. Useful for the hunting vampire and for the lonely boy who smiles softly at being allowed to call the necromancer by his name.

He glances around, taking in the room, as if just now becoming aware of his intrusion into a private space. ]

I should leave you to your evening. And I will look forward to calling on you again. Goodnight, Emmrich.

[ A bow, and a blink -- and, with shameless theatricality, he's gone, as if he was never there at all. ]

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? ]

[ 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.

Tis already their burden.

[ You fool of a maester. She rubs her temples. ]

I expect to hear you’ve made inroads with them in due course.

[ He's learned, already, the futility of clarifying — that he knows, that he means it in sum — the evidence of it plain to see in the last time he'd really engaged with the network, painting him as cold rather than caring. Still, he reads over her messages again, guilt sitting like a stone in his chest (which he supposes is the point). ]

Of course, Your Majesty.

Then we’ve an accord, for the moment.

[ a beat. ]

Tell me if I can assist you. I am no necromancer or maester, but I am well known in this place, and my son is deft with a blade, as you well know.

I cannot bear to see my fellows suffer any longer.

[ though she knows that she will. she always does. a woman marked for sorrow. ]

Edited 2025-04-01 21:44 (UTC)

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

[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.]

[ 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?

[emmrich is honest - people say they're glad to see someone and he's watchful of how genuine they truly are, but with this man it's impossible to see him as anything but that. he'd even been willing to throw himself to the wolves of saltburnt by admitting the truth of it all. he didn't have to do that. august is honest, too, and the only thing he's glad about is that he's alive and there aren't any lasting wounds on emmrich's body (that he knows of).

he doesn't want to answer. not because he's spiteful. whatever justice needs to be brought down isn't august's job, and it's possible emmrich has already suffered by someone else's hand. where does he start?]

Look, I don't want to lie to you. That entire month messed me up.

[weathered words breathed out over his glass before taking a sip, gaze locked on the man closer to stranger than friend across from him.]

Can I ask you about what happened?

Edited (idk wording dont @ me) 2025-04-12 21:12 (UTC)

[ Instantly, Emmrich's expression turns rueful, long lashes brushing the crest of his cheek as he glances down at his hands. It's hardly as though he isn't aware of what had happened, but the lingering question remains: how is one meant to atone for such a thing? What would satisfy those who think ill of him? He's aware of the appetites of the manor, having seen the mutilation of Matt Jamison posted to the network. A fate that's been spared him, thus far, though he expects it, like expecting rain when one sees a cloud on the distant horizon.

But, for now, without hesitation: ]

Of course.

[ To explain matters — or attempt to — is the very least he can do. ]

Though the boundaries of my own understanding may limit how useful — or clarifying — you find any of my answers.

[the way he looks away - and it isn't only guilt that august catches in emmrich's expression - tells him everything. it tells him he's not going to be satisfied with anything that emmrich says, that he'll have to let what happened go. the process of his logic takes space in the silence between them, each passing second that ticks by holding more weight as august's gaze remains sharp and analyzing. leaning back against the booth, straightening his posture:]

That's fine. [he doesn't care about the manor.] Why do you do practice?

[which, to him, falls under the 'what happened' category. it's what came before, what emmrich knows or should know. magic is in their blood, even if they were scraping by with the temp v in the catacombs. if he can't give august a satisfactory answer here, then - god, he doesn't know what he'll do. not one to show his cards, he keeps his tone neutral. on the inside, he's grasping for information that might explain what lead up to the events that took place. ]

[ Once again, the answer — or at least some facet of it — is clear in Emmrich's features before he even opens his mouth to speak. This is a question that he knows how to ford, that he has a concrete, unwavering answer to because it's been his calling for nearly as long as he can remember. ]

I practice for peace, [ he begins, holding August's gaze. ] I practice to protect the living — to ease the passing of the dead — as best I can. Such is the mandate of the Mourn Watch, and such is the north by which I align my personal compass.

[ A direction which had not steered him wrong, necessarily, but certainly into deeper waters than he'd expected, and at a much higher cost. ]

For better or worse, I still believe that learning more about the source of the magic in this place will bring us closer to being able to escape its hold, or at least give us some answers as to why — and how — we've all come to be here.

[ He leaves the rest unsaid, presuming August to be smart enough to pick up the threads of what he's spoken aloud and tie them to what he's already said on the network — that he knows he needs to reassess his approach, that he doesn't mean to dive so blindly into it all again. ]

[august lets his answer settle. he has no greater good when all he yearns for is 'more' and his moral compass points in odd directions for more information and power with risky outcomes. that's what he's good at finding. there might be room for more here if he allows it, for the story that emmrich paints for him so nicely.

the necromancer is better, with his practice and his tired guilt, because august can be sure just by looking at him he'll try to keep his word. nothing about february was peaceful, but the result - the true end, may very well be. time will tell.]

Do you really believe learning about their magic will give us answers?

[not mocking, august's youth shows through his expression, a flicker of hope beneath his hardened expression. there's purity in those answers and god forbid they have a little hope. the fantasy doesn't stick and it's snuffed out by his own version of their reality. words he can share with a stranger but never his friends, lest he ruin the hope in them, too.]

I don't.

[ Emmrich shrugs, knowing the answer to August's question is self-evident. Of course he believes it — he wouldn't be pursuing it otherwise. He's of that blissful, rare class of people with little to no doubt regarding their purpose, their art, to the point that he doesn't seem to take any offense at August's following remark. He can see that little glimmer in the boy's features, despite how briefly it shines — the kind of thing anyone else might call the folly of youth. ]

What path do you intend to walk, my friend?

[ Curiosity colors his voice rather than any sort of challenge. ]

There's certainly more than one way to skin a cat. The more of us that can devote our efforts toward ... [ a pause, as he chooses his words ] ... enlightenment, escape, or empowerment, the more likely we are to make some headway.

[ It doesn't occur to him that August might think their situation hopeless, in no small part because that simply doesn't register to him as an option. ]

If you've a plan, I'd like to hear it.

[it isn't what path august intends to walk - soon he'll realize that no matter how many forks appear in the road or which direction he chooses he has only one end. in saltburnt, he can play pretend. he can act like there are choices here that matter when deep down, he doesn't know at all.]

What I intend to walk doesn't matter.

[but he doesn't want people to get hurt. he'll withstand plenty to avoid spreading pain to others, that much is clear with how willing he'd been to go into the crypt with one friend and mostly strangers (aside from parisa who - belatedly, he thinks he should check on). a wash of disbelief as he stares at the older man. so emmrich isn't even considering the potential of certain doom.]

Look, I'll do my own research, but don't get your hopes up. I don't think we're here for anything.

[ It's less that Emmrich doesn't consider failure to be an option than that he accepts the possibility of it, the same way he accepts that death waits for all of them, in one way or another. He'd tortured himself about that inevitability, once, twisted himself into endless knots, but— he doesn't need to fear it, now. Doesn't fear it, when he wears proof of devotion around his ankle.

Gently (surely): ] Of course it matters, August.

[ But he lets that go for the moment. Purpose is better served by its own discussion, not as part of another whole. ]

There's always a reason. Perhaps not the kind of cosmic, all-important reason we'd like, but— it can be as simple as, "We are warm, because it's summer." "He bled out, because he was wounded." We are here because something brought us here. If we know what that something is, does that not leave us better off than we began?

[ Emmrich shrugs, as if to say he isn't trying to impress his own views upon August, but rather to explain his own path, why he's chosen to go through the metaphorical woods rather than around them. ]

All that to say, I shall hope my fool's hope that you'll find something in your research. And I'll be sure to share my own discoveries with you, in turn.

[he makes such simple explanations and august wants it to be complicated. the thought passes through him as quickly as it comes; the reality of it falling as gently as emmrich's certainty. if that's it, a painless conclusion to solve their reason of existing here, then it's something he'll have to accept. does accept. the workings of it all over his face like august has brought him an unsolvable equation he's dissected too many times and he's become blind.]

Yes.

[in agreement as much as he is stubborn to naturally resist in this moment, he can't deny truth: emmrich is seasoned and august is still a boy compared to him. they are both from knowledge vastly different and the same, but he expects worse things than 1+1=2. he wants to prove him wrong, which will fuel his search for information on his own.]

Thanks for meeting with me. [sliding out from the booth, ghostly quiet.] I'll let you know if I find anything.

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

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.

You're lucky to have her, you know. She deserves better than your theatrical martyrdom.

[ "Theatrical" is a descriptor he'd disagree with, when the point isn't the dramatics or even to really prove anything to anyone, but he swallows the thought down, aware that this isn't really the right forum for him to start being pedantic.

So, instead: ]

Or course I know. She deserves the world.

Then don't remove yourself from this world again, Emmrich. Or I'll kill you, and then we'll all be furious with one another.

[ With a long stretch of time between messages-- ]

Someone I cared for dearly is gone. Permanently, I think.

If you leave, at least have the decency to tell me to my face. Not through a letter. Even if you're confident you'll return.

Edited (word) 2025-04-17 23:39 (UTC)

I'm very sorry, my dear Dorian, both for your loss and my admittedly rather crude message to you. Had I known it would be inflicting one wound on top of another ...

But I believe the once will suffice, and if I'm to be proven a liar and push comes to shove, I think I'd hardly be in any position to be furious with you.

Who were they? Your dearly departed, I mean.

I assume you have returned to us as you left?

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.

That seems to be the case for many who had returned from whatever 'afterlife' exists here.

I cannot say how useful I was, but I am glad to have been able to help.

Indeed. Nothing works as it should.

Please, my friend. I called, you answered. I can ask for little else.

You could certainly ask for me. You and I both know that I have a particular experience that would have been beneficial.

I'd be glad to help again, if you require it.

Thank you, truly. And I hope you'll call upon me, should our roles ever be reversed.

I hope that it will never be so, but I would not take your help for granted.

SALTBURNT | inbox.

delivery 🧂

🎁

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

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

bold of me to assume i could know what would happen in 10 days tbh

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😇🎀?

Christmas Eve

delivery ❖ post-nye

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text — un: @aemond

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🎀

text; un: gingerailed

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text ❖ @orchid

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1/2

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➡️ 🎬

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cw: nsfw

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