An edit, of OOC: These three posts were roleplayed last night between me, Rance, and Matt. I didn't write this whole mess, I just edited it for your reading pleasure!
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Red. The red of his doublet.. the red of blood. They were similar hues, brilliant crimson. His gleamed in the moonlight, the torches to the small building's entrance catching the gold shot through the crimson brocade, and the gold in his hair. His breeches were sable suede, his boots shined black. His sabre's handle was real gold where most of the guardsmen's were not, and the ribbon that held the tail of honey-gold from his twisted features was the same blood hue as his doublet. His shirt was the softest linen. The door guards said nothing, when they saw him. There was no hesitation in letting him pass. No one even asked him what he was doing there. It was almost as if he'd been expected, all along, and they'd just been waiting for him to have a moment to drop by. He might have smiled, if these were better times. He was cautious as he entered the little house. He felt it better to overestimate, rather than underestimate.
Lieutenant Kilborn had followed him, dressed in his uniform - indigo tunic with a silver stripe down one sleeve and black pants, and a crisp black cloak trailing along behind him. Kilborn paused for a moment at the doorway to share a few words with the guardsmen at the door. It was friendly chatter, favoured with a bit of a smile and a nod. Kilborn turned and stepped inside to flank Taliaferro once more.
There was a candle lit, to augment the ambience of the little edifice. It was a taper that refused to keep the child lonely, that was as close to the bed as the nightstand would allow it to be. There, curled upon the narrow bunk, slept the boy, one of Myrken's most controversial celebrities, given the recent week. .. Moonlight spilled across the floorboards, crept down in between and disappeared. Shadows danced like jesters on the far wall, projected by faint, orange candlelight, and swallowed up by their brethern shadows should they near the far corners. At the click of the lock, the squeal of the door, the little boy murmured. A slender, tapered hand nudged pointlessly in the air before it fell back to grasp the pillow beside his cheek.
For a moment, Rayin's scars rested in shadow, and he looked... Like a prince. It lasted all of five seconds, those seconds before he stepped into the glow of the single candle. His footsteps were audible, a testament to the fact that he had not come to sneak up upon the sleeping child. He watched the child sleep, for a few moments, and finally, quietly said, "Phlynn.."
The boy's weary head was lifted from the pillows, where they'd been mashed against the wall by what, more than likely, had been the boy's curled hands. .. A single sapphire eye stared over the shoulder-folds of his nightgown, peered sleepily towards Rayin's silhouette - made black by the moonlight spilling in from outside. .. "Wh-.. what?" The child inquired, nuzzling at his eyes with the bulge of a deformed knuckle. .. It was after that moment of confusion that he gasped, and sat up straight, pinning his spine against the wall. .. Crouched there on the bed, he fearfully looked towards the man. He had no idea who he was - perhaps, even, it was someone sent by Fury? .. Frantic eyes looked to the candle. Splendid. It was still lit. A sharp digit went to adjust his spectacles.
"I just wanted to speak with you," Rayin replied. His voice was quiet, even kind. There was no malice in it, although his shadow looked quite malicious. Candlelight caught the scars that twisted his features. He felt like a giant, in this small room, towering over the little boy. He set his jaw.
"My name is Rayin Taliaferro." Gareth. Gareth.. "Gareth Rayin Taliaferro," he corrected himself, after a moment. He had no idea if the boy would recognize his name. It didn't matter. He looked, carefully, at the boy's face... And for once, he did not avoid the eyes of the other.
Kilborn coughed lightly, for a moment, and muttered under his breath to Taliaferro, before he stepped off behind them once again. It was somewhat less than a minute, before he returned. The solitary candle was soon blessed with a number of companions as the Lieutenant busied himself with finding places for half a dozen more candles, and silently listening.
"Y-.. you're not going to hurt me, are you?" ..It was an honest question, one whispered by a boy's unsure voice. .. The lump in his throat rose, but neglected to fall, holding in a breath until he was certain it was safe to exhale. In contradiction to the child's frightful elation, there was calmness in the air of the room, carried about by the sweet scent of vanilla as it was burned from the stalks of the tapers. "F-.. Fury-of-the-Winds--" Oh, it was a name to loathe, one that sent winter down his spine. "--didn't.. send you, did he?" The lump finally fell.
"No," Rayin answered, easily. He glanced at Kilborn, and nodded. "Thank you, Lieutenant." His eyes adjusted to the greater light, and soon both he and the boy no longer cast in such eerie shadows. It did not make his face any more appealing. But his eyes, wet earth brown, were warm. He smiled faintly, one corner of his lips tugging upwards. "I don't know who Fury-of-the-Winds is. But I can guess." Phuri. Fury. He almost laughed. "No one sent me. I came of my own accord, to ask you questions that a dozen people must have asked you already. I am sorry to have woken you." He apologized as if he were speaking to an equal, rather than a child. He breathed, but not deeply. He tried to keep the cloying scent of vanilla from his nostrils.
"Nor am I to hurt you lad," Kilborn chimed in with a bit of a smile. His eyes turned over to gaze at the child for a moment, but eventually he moved to lean against the doorway, keeping it open after his foray with the candles, and a minor eye out on the rest of the room. A guardsman, doing his duty.. And yet, that open doorway was a flagrant invitation.
The boy let out a breath. .. So easily swayed, yet still conspicuous. Blankets were wrinkled under the vicegrip of his toes, and with his knees drawn to his chest, he placed his elbows across them, watching the two of them from his station on the bed. "I'm not going to tell you where the faeries are at," The boy said, in answer to one of the questions he assumed he would have been asked, and he did so with a stern, unaccomodating stare.
From over Taliaferro's shoulder, a pair of emerald eyes were watching the boy. They were disembodied, but he could *feel* their smile tickling at him, running its hands up his arms. "You'll.. tell them one of these days," She whispered. The boy flinched, turning his eyes away. "Th-.. they're my friends. .. I protect them."
"I don't want to know," Rayin answered, quietly, "Where the faeries are." Of course, whether or not Rayin believed in faeries was debatable. He did sound quite solemn, however - as if he trusted Phlynn enough not to need the location of the faeries to believe that the faeries were real. "I just want you to tell me what happened. That's all." He crossed his arms, calmly, over his chest, and gazed down at the boy while he waited for the story. ...And for the visions that had not come. He found it interesting that his sight had not leapt to life at the merest glimpse of the boy. Phlynn was obviously troubled. Trouble usually -wanted- to share itself. Perhaps, for once, Fate was sparing him. He prayed that it would continue.
Another relived sigh. ..The child offered a slightly stiff nod. Snaking his arm around the dribbling taper, he extracted a small, withered flower from the basket of blossoms on the simple bedside table and offered it forward towards Taliaferro. Over the meager, sad looking flower, the child began to whisper. "There.. were two boys. And they forced my faerie friend to make him flowers. ..But Jaeval, he's ..he was my faery friend, was barely older than a baby, so he didn't know. ..So when they made him make flowers, th-.." He paused, looking at the candleflame, as though it was more fuel for his words. "They.. stabbed him with a knife. And they laughed about it when they kept jabbing him over and over." ..Hands were lowered to rest in the lap of his nightshirt. ..Were those the hands that had done the rumored deed? ..Those were hands covered in blood. They left streaks of the old, clotting stuff along the kness of his nightgown. "B-.. but I was supposed to protect the faeries. And I ran and I .. ran, and I kept running, but I didn't get there until after. ..And then?" He watched Taliaferro, as if searching for answers in the man's eyes. "They tried to take my flowers. They didn't deserve my flowers. So I.. hurt them." He could still remembered how it felt to sink his knifelike fingers through the spine of the one child, until they burst messily out of his chest. ..The boy had no time to scream. He shrugged slightly round shoulders. "That's.. what they get."