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?’