Jarek's visitation to Quincy

Jarek's visitation to Quincy

Postby Zata » Tue Mar 25, 2003 1:07 pm

Session Start: Wed Mar 26 08:03:09 2003
(%) Now talking in #bd*gaol.
(%) Topic is 'Myrken Wood's reputable institution of diverse individuals. Closed to All Public. See Registrar for Visitation Information.'
(%) Set by Wendy on Tuesday, March 18th, 2003 at 6:48am


<Quincy> She was deep in the cellblock; long halls and stone walls - the light of the place was beyond lorn, and there was a certain madness in the timeless captivation of the gaol's purpose. There was a main gate - but since the murders of the day before, Jarek would doubtlessly have to hand over any weapons in his possession.. And as well, they would escort him. The guards were as grim as the darkness that they patrolled. The harridan’s barred door would be open regardless, as it had been since that early morning when the paperwork had been finished. The hall in front of her cell - the floor, the walls, stained with blood.

<Jarek> He could taste it, before he made his way inside, and he'd not carried any weapons at any rate, and although the guards had been somewhat nervous, verging on hostile, simply because he *looked* threatening at first, he'd won them over enough with a few bantering remarks here and there, not that he'd had anything to sneak in. In reality, he didn't need a blade. He canted his head to the side, crystalline gaze shifting over the blood-stained floor, and then made a slight gesture with his hand, just beyond the open door. Thanks boyos, I think I can find the way from here. And then he stepped through the congealed and dried blood, and into the doorway of the cell, eyes adjusting to the somewhat dimmer light, and scanning over the interior, searching for Quincy. Since, of course, that was who he'd come to see.

<Quincy> The space was small - some of the blood was within the cell, as well, though not much beyond the bars; luckily, they'd cleaned the brain matter off the metal. There was a high, square window above the low, flat wooden bench on the far wall. Two pieces of broken chain were on the floor, haphazardly, as well as an opened shackle.. and the barefooted youth, in her gray coveralls, lay on the flat with shallow breaths. A cracked rib would do that. Half her head was bandaged, flatting ink slick curls to her cheek and throat, the exposed portion of her face more lightly bruised. .. the gem of an eye peering from a nest of dark eyelashes swallowed Jarek's figure in the doorway, silently.

<Jarek> Shoulder to shoulder there wasn't even room for an inch of light to be realised, the silhouette effect highlighted his width, and the fact of how much.. Well, larger he'd grown in the past year, bulking up considerably. He took a step inwards, away from the sticky blood that clung to stone floor, and he stepped forwards, moving across the small expanse of the room, and lowering himself into a crouch beside her. He was well-dressed, these days, an obviously tailored silken blue shirt of fabric slightly darker than his eyes, black leather pants, soft gleaming leather boots which enfolded about his calves, and halted just below the knees, clean-shaven, dark curls, for once, not tossed awry by sleep. Comparatively, he was the picture of health, and where he went, lingering warmth trailed with him.

<Quincy> Just what she needed, she thought - her mind full of ill-restrained sarcasm; for him to come, to tsk, and point out her weakness. To speak in a low voice full of bitter truth, and crush her heart relentlessly. She darkened more under the approaching shadow, if it were possible.. curled on her side, a forearm braced up, across half her face, where it lay on the wood. She regarded his eyes more than the way that he dressed - a flick of a one-eyed gaze, smouldering without its dim gleam of gold in the cathedral night of her iris. She craned her high cheekbone to the bony loft of her shoulder, curling her fingertips into the air like a wounded thing. She had not the energy to recoil from his near warmth.

<Jarek> Impossibly bright, verging on crystalline in their depth, even within the shadowed confines of the small cell, and they regarded her evenly, curled as she was upon her side, and there was the slightest furrow upon his brow. Did he hate her? On occasion, though he hated himself more, than he ever had her, and at times like this - he did not wish to see her brought so low, curled against despair, without even the energy for righteous indignation that he'd dare to come here to hound her. Of course, that wasn't why he'd come, was it? Elbows rested against the top of his knees, and he simply regarded her silently, unbreaking of that eye contact, for the moment at least. There were plenty enough answers there, and words so often failed, in truth, always had where the pair of them were concerned.

<Quincy> Beneath that continued scrutiny - not so much judging, as gauging for answers; there was surely something fathomless in his living gaze. She regarded so many full of emptiness, of late, that she'd nearly forgotten what it was to see them. Her unbandaged eye hardened a little - the flesh about it, tightening determination, and her hand turned against the wood. She pushed herself slowly upright, and let her bare feet, one ankle bruised from the unlocked shackle she'd worn for days, light on the damp, stone floor. Only for a moment, did she glance away - and it was only to wither her lashes half-way shut, to feel the force of her pain and undermine it with her will. There was fever in her cheek when she leaned back against the wall - and tried not to breathe too hard…small shoulders settled back, with a quick rise and fall, albeit lopsided. And then, she tilted her perplexed face.

<Jarek> He remained hunkered as he was, and as her revealed eye closed briefly, his gaze flickered down her in a brief study, returning upwards once she was upright again, or at least, somewhat. His breathing was slow, steady and regulated - and they were quite the contrast, though they were matched in one thing, assuredly, their determination. Even if they did have entirely different focuses. His hand shifted upwards, and gaze slid away from hers for a moment as fingertips moved to push back through his own dark curls, and then his hand clasped at the back of his neck, holding there for a moment, an old gesture it was, one he'd always had, and it remained, even through everything else that had seemed to change, before that hand dropped down, and extended forwards. It was not a speedy motion, and it was slow enough that she could move out of the way if she so desired, which said something in itself, he could tell she was sore, rib, or ribs, most likely given how careful she was to breathe. He'd had them himself, and well, he'd cracked Davak's only two evenings previously. And it would hover near her shoulder, though not quite touching, close enough that the radiating warmth was certainly palpable. Not unnatural so, for he was not fevered, it was just easily noted a beacon of life within a place still shrouded in death. And his gaze would shift across to settle back against her own once more.

<Quincy> Gray cloth stuck to starved ribs that accentuated her life with breathing's near-silent monotony; she was not starved, in truth, for lack of food - she had always been a thin creature, a bird of a girl, regardless of what she consumed. Strong as wire, generally, until she was like this - until she was beaten within an inch of her capacity to survive. Some things never belonged in cages - beasts that should not be held, because kept apart, they could not fulfil their natural inclinations and instincts ... in her case, to protect. She had tried as mightily as a siren - and had failed, and now was silent. A sound in her throat, wholly small and unidentifiable, as her wild gaze jerked to slowly extending hands. She did not snatch away, although her shallow breaths became more rapid ... and she found his eyes with her own, which had, in its single contrariety of darkness and mirroring newness, turned full as a water-grave .. but unspilt. It was, perhaps, from her exertion. She hated its tremor.

<Jarek> His hand hovered there, near her shoulder, but did not quite touch, and for a moment, tongue emerged, the tip touching in the slight ridge at the centre of his top lip, and disappeared. He was aware of the thudding of his heart, dual-heartbeats, though one was still distanced, miles of separation, it was there, persistent, his and another, in sync. He could taste it, amidst the overwhelming scent of stale blood, further beyond, urine, vomit, stale sweat, and alcohol. All small details: tiny intricate things that he was aware of; nearly verging in a state of hypersensitivity to his environment. And fear, distrust: both with valid groundings, from past events, and for what, and who he was, and who he had been. And then, a question that might seem extremely odd, if it were not for certain things that had been plucked out amidst the rumours, gossip, and his own instincts, his own thoughts. His voice was low, slightly husky from over exertion the night previously. ‘May I?’
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Continued..

Postby Zata » Tue Mar 25, 2003 1:10 pm

<Quincy> She stared at him, frozen for a while - even the line of her mouth unmoving, her eye staring into his own as though she searched; her own light was lost in the darkness of her own gaze, unfound, leaving it black as the deepest fold of the devil's heart. The upper crest of her protrusive ear was reddened, and there was a dark ring beneath her eye - and a fading scar that followed the path of her imperious jaw. The neck of the gray coverall was open like a late winter flower about her throat, its base a tapestry of chain link burns. And still, his hands hovered there while he tasted the air - and she struggled for some motivation of his own, in being here. She did not even know what he was, to call her human with distaste upon his tongue - to call her human, as though it were something wholly inferior... but he was Jarek, she thought. He was just Jarek. And that was why, at long last, the small point of her chin tucked a giving nod ... and she shied a shallow, shaken sigh, easing her high-strung body.

<Jarek> And his hand lowered, touching against her shoulder, and too warm fingers curled slightly against the cloth, and the flesh, and ridge of bone beneath. It was not gentle, yet nor was it rough, it was simply firm, and persistent, and remained, even as those eyes, which were certainly not blank, or blackened for that fact, multi-faceted in the shading of colour, and brightness, expressive as ever as always, for all that he might not be just Jarek anymore. His other hand lowered and settled against the floor, fingertips splayed between his own bent legs, and the stone beneath. Silence for persistent and long moments, still, lingered, reigned once more, for all that he'd broken it with ease but heartbeats before.

<Quincy> Her torment channelled through his hand, for his senses to comprehend in their heightened sensitivity - her silent struggle to adjust to the firm weight, the way that bone flexed, relaxed, flexed again unwittingly, as though it knew not its own feeling, or how it should react. Fortunate, that he was not gentle or rough - for either might have had her worse, worse than the closing of her throat in a moment's rising panic. But she forced it down, forced a breath. Better this than the way she reacted to Tergor - regardless of his black mercy - the way that she barred her teeth, and was on the verge of attack. Although this, in and of itself, was far less heartening, far less hopeful to behold. Finally, that shoulder slumped its resignation like a battle forfeit. She closed her dark eye, a curtain of flesh being snatched over naked truth. – " .. 'm free."

<Jarek> ‘No, you're not. It was the quietest of murmurs, before his hand lowers from her shoulder, and forearm comes to rest against the top of his own thigh once again, near the knee. It was no accusation, no hostility, simply a statement of truth, in it's own fashion, and he quietly continues forestalling anymore interruptions. ‘But you're on the way Quincy.’ Had he come here to torment her further? To throw harsh words in her direction, to revile her quest, and her hope? No, he hadn't come here for that at all, he'd come here to thank her, for one. ‘You did well, and for that I thank you.’ Of course, the reasons he'd have to thank her were not revealed, for the moment at least, as he lapsed into silence once more, gaze persistent upon her face, for all that small barrier had been juxtaposed between them.

<Quincy> Perhaps she knew what he meant, and that was why it did not rile her; her chin lolled forward as he withdrew his hand, and her eye opened again - fixing somewhere on the stone floor, although peripherally, she took in far more. The pale slope of her brow, or at least, what half could be seen, marred to a slow furrow knit with plain confusion, with honesty. – "Did wha' well?" - .. for surely, why he thanked her would lie within that answer, as well. Or so she hoped. She was lost to both portions of the statement. She hoped it was because justice had been done, and simply that. That was all it was meant to be.

<Jarek> His voice was low, not simply because of what he was saying, and there would be no chance that his tone would carry to other cells, or to the guards who were further within the gaol, but also with somewhat driven intent. ‘Killing a Prince.’ And then, he continued, onwards, with further explanation. ‘Not only for your own freedom, but for that of another, for that I thank you.’ And he straightened slightly, drawing his other hand from the floor, and resting arm against his leg, in mimicry of what the other was already doing, and booted feet shifted slightly upon the floor to facilitate the movement, for all that he remained crouched before her.

<Quincy> Confusion took her; she lifted her chin, and her eye strayed up for his own to search for mockery in the gaze behind that intent tone.. and she found none. Not that she'd had any desire to find it there - it was simply what her instinct suspected. Then, one shoulder curled up from the wall to loft a half-shrug; her own forearms were draped at either side of her, face up, fingers dangling. One hand was bandaged much like her face, wrapped across the knuckles and fingers. – "I didn' know I was 'elpin' no one else, direc'ly," - she admitted, thinking perhaps some mistake of word had been made. Of course, it was entirely possible that she'd given someone freedom through freedom through Joryll's death. He had been a bad, bad man.

<Jarek> ‘You do now, then.’ She was battered, and bruised, but in more ways than one, though he did not say such things to provide comfort, perhaps simply because they needed to be said, and he continued to speak. ‘His days were numbered at best, and had I realised earlier, they would have been over sooner.’ Which was yet another cryptic remark, in and of itself, but not deliberately so, and he shifted suddenly, rising to his feet, right hand pushing through dark curls again, once, and then twice, before dropping to his side, and his gaze lifted, studying the portion of the cell wall before him. ‘Things have changed Quincy, and they're changing still, and I don't know if it's for the better or the worse, anymore, and I'm not even sure..’ And broad shoulder lifted in a shrug for a moment, and another careful breath was indrawn, and then pushed out slowly between his teeth. ‘Darker times are coming.’ There was, only momentary hesitation there, the faint pause between once sentence and the next, before he trailed off entirely.

<Quincy> She does now, then. It was comfort regardless of his intent - it made justice and revenge a little sweeter, even if she barely let her heart admit to vengeance. Even though it had been warranted, fully, utterly warranted, needed, justified, it was still painful to acknowledge .. that any facet of sin had accompanied her motive. The fact that several others had said much the same .. that Joryll's days would have been numbered, did not lessen the impact of truth. Perhaps a little pride for goodness swelled within her, and she even breathed a little easier .. colour taking its turn in her cheek, to drain and replace as she strained her rib. Her eye followed his rise, but not the path of his gaze. "Tha' must be why I'm still alive!" - she exclaimed breathily - a bit of incredulous drama; of course, it was only half-jest. She was convinced that she should have been dead by now - and perhaps the fates had even worse things in store for her, to endure.
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Finale.

Postby Zata » Tue Mar 25, 2003 1:13 pm

<Jarek> His gaze flickered downwards, and settled on her for a long moment, and then lips curved in a smile that was alternately wistful, and something else entirely, and he took a step closer than and bent downwards, and momentarily, lips would brush atop her bandaged brow, ‘Might very well be Quincy.’ And then he'd take a step back, and be turned, whether or not that brief touch occurred, and be facing the doorway, where light gleamed through in rectangular prism from wall-bound torches, and his throat worked in a silent swallow, shoulders were tense, as was back, a slight sign granted by the fact that with musculature so held, the darkened fabric of shirt, shadowed, was pulled taut, where before it had been slightly loose in fitting. He closed his eyes for a long moment, maintaining his composure.

<Quincy> It occurred, surely, for all that it startled her eye to a half-lid; her lips were gaped open, a familiarly comical slack-jaw ... though not so much in blatant surprise, as simply a gawk at his turned back. She watched him there - for she had always been attentive, not quite beyond normalcy, but she had a shrewd enough nature when it served her well. Watching the way he bulked in his shirt, the way that he was not the same as he had once been. So very much had changed, indeed, and her voice carried once again within the dim cell .. searching for his ears. – "Wha' are you, Jarek? Won' you tell me?" .. too thick for simplicity, her throat scarred from the inside, permanent damage.

<Jarek> He didn't turn back to face her, and his hands had settled against the outer edge of his own thighs, and his head was slightly bowed, eyes closed against that light, though he could feel it against his lids, and another shaken breath was indrawn, and exhaled with audible sound this time. She would ask, of course, and of all who did matter, surely she had as much of a right to know? ‘Not a man.’ No, not that, although, that as well, and he could not, and would not turn to face her, not yet, if ever again, his eyes had drunk their fill, and he would not taint that lingering remaining image of wry-self deprecating, but all too close to the bone truth of her humour with what he might see there again. ‘Promise me something first Quincy?’ Definitely husky now, though his throat bore no damage but the weight of his own emotion.

<Quincy> "Wha' shall I promise?" she asked, after a pause - watching him still, confused and affected by his intense changes; not that she could have faulted any degree of intensity - of heat and rage, for she bore as much as was humanly possibly. Still, she sat up in the half sprawl of her wounded posture.. inclined, but unwilling to rise. Her brow remained furrowed. Not a man - not a man? No, she had a right to be surprised - after all that time, he was *not*? What, then?

<Jarek> ‘That if it comes to it, you'll do as you did to him.’ Why he would ask such a thing, or why it would be necessary is a question in and of itself, and there's the urge to look back again, to show her within his gaze, where there had, over the years, been truth there for the taking, that it could very well be needed. He had a sense of foreboding, that transcended, and despite what had happened last night, or perhaps because of it, he was suddenly very aware of many things. ‘To me.’ Another pause then, and he's clearing his throat of that persistent huskiness that added depth to tone. ‘If it comes to it.

<Quincy> Horror skewed her eye shut - clenched her face into a grimace, a turn; she shook her head, as though she were shaking the image from her mind. Is this what she had become, then? The one who could make promises, and be trusted to carry out the greater good. .. or had many others made the very same promise? She knew not - asked not, but wondered much. Behind him where he'd yet to look was uncomfortable, looming silence.. and perhaps where he left a little bit of heat behind, with her small, cold body. – " .. if it comes teh it," - she barely whispered, ruminative and disbelieving. – " .. if it comes teh it." - She opened her eye again "I promise."

<Jarek> ‘Thank you. I knew I could trust you with that.’ If nothing else, the silence whispered, but did not utter. He'd not come here to rehash ground they'd covered time and time again. He had not come here with this in mind either, he'd come to thank her, and that alone. Or perhaps, he had come for this - for what, in it's own way, held that tangible essence of farewell, for all that such words had not been uttered, the miasma of sadness persisted despite. It was not, no doubt, what Aranthalas had intended, or wanted, but there was an essence of Jarek that had not been changed, throughout the trials and tribulations he had undergone, from the loss of one love - to the fierce intensity of another, with another, to the breaking of bonds of magic that had bound him always, only to find that he was in another prison. But that though it was one whose foundations had been set in place by others, its bars, restricting, confining and holding him within, those rigid, flaring heated spires of anger were entirely of his own making. And silence held for several long moments again, after his initial words, and he swallowed, his throat suddenly tight, and heat pricking against eyes that remained closed.

<Quincy> What a terrible thing - to know that destruction might well be the one thing, for someone who's known much of her heart, that she could be trusted with, invariably. She may not be skilled in the ways of communication, in the ways of love and treatment of friends, but when an execution was necessary .. her passion for good would oversee her terror, and guide her hand until the task was done. She did not push him with words or flesh, for all that she remained .. and the distance between them was greater and greater, although there was no forthwith movement. It all felt like some, sick good-bye - like realization would change, would turn him into whatever secret had been kept from her .. regardless of being catalyst to its exposure…that he would be changed forever, and his eyes would never be the same. Her promise hung heavily between them, and she waited, still, with remorse in her eye.

<Jarek> He took another step forwards then, eyes opening, and blinking against the sudden intrusion of the light against pupils that dilated appropriately. ‘A dragon.’ One word, one utterance, one truth which others were aware of, the numbers were growing day by day. And in their desire, their protection, their misunderstanding and their truth...they would hunt him. They would turn against him, and they would work to tear asunder promises that had been made, claims that had been staked, and vows that could not be broken, for all that magic might be unwoven. He knew it in himself, and he knew it from Aranthalas' words, from the truths she had spoken when her hands had coiled across his skin, when the tips of her fingers had traced over the myriad of inked designs inked upon his flesh. Beautiful, they'd called them, beautiful so many had remarked of his prison, of his very flesh itself. And lashes which lifted were moist with tears that remained unshed, consumed by the heat that was a part of him, always had been, but that now, had grown to the point where it could be felt by those about him. And it could be words in jest, those two that he uttered, but his tone bespoke that of truth, of acceptance without the ride of the burgeoning instinct within him. A dragon. And look at what he had wrought.

<Quincy> This girl had seen dragon twice - on two, unfavourable occasions; the first had been in the stables, where it had been rending the flesh of horses, and she'd stabbed out the beast's eye and sent it fleeing. The other time, had been more humorous, for all that the beast had been stuck in the tavern's door.. and she'd met some crazed woman, who wanted to collect its scales for experimentation. Truly, a foreign beast – those -- those had been wholly witless, and full of chaos. But she favoured nature over man.. deeply, for all that she ran with the Garou, for all that she could be spiritual in the forest as a human, longing to touch the unseen. ... but this, *this*, was vastly difficult for her to comprehend, and the silence which followed his statement was one that waited for him to conclude that he was jesting...although she heard the simple, terrible truth in his voice, in his tone. She was too shocked and wounded of body to express the wild disbelief that she felt in the marrow of her bones. – "A dragon?" - .. oh, incredulous. She sat up with a flinch.

<Jarek> ‘Yes.’ Repeated then, her words, and his own, once again. ‘A dragon. I did not know, before. It was not something I kept from you, it was something kept from me.’ And he moved forwards another step, and broad-shoulders almost brushed against the frame of entry into the cell, and once more he was silhouetted against it, in stark relief, and it seemed as though, for a moment as though he might turn to face her. But he did not. ‘We have enough prisons of our own making Quincy, you are free to go from this one, they say, so do not stay here any longer than you must.’ And he stepped then, beyond the confines of this cell, of it's simple construction of stone, and bars, and metal, crafted by man's hand - and moved into the hall, and beyond.


Session Close: Wed Mar 26 10:21:59 2003
"Everything
Is catching up with me
I awake
To find I'm not at all where I
Should be
And it feels
I'm getting to the end
And it's hard
To figure out what's real
And what's
Pretend..."


- Nine Inch Nails, Home
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Location: Underneath your skin


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