2nd of Ymiden, 718
Late Evening | The Devil's Advocate
Atmosphere
T
he bottom of his empty mug stared back at him blankly and without comfort while chatter and laughter filled the tight quarters of The Devil's Advocate. Full of the familiar air of academia, students drank and talked around the Lord Arbiter Caius Gawyne while the two other chairs at his small, sticky table were as empty as his second mug of lukewarm ale. At least some things hadn't changed, and no matter how refreshing the Ymiden chill of Viden had been upon his arrival that morning, he probably should have crawled right back onto that sarding boat and sailed home.He didn't.
Instead, the northern noble from Rynmere hefted his small bag of belongings, took in every icy spire and blue-skinned face, and trudged his way through the streets toward the White Fox Inn. After procuring a room for a tentrial and stowing his things, Caius had the sarding nerve to go for a silent, almost leisurely walk around all the familiar places of the Viden Academy's campus without even wearing a cloak, the chill that he had once lamented as it lingered into the Hot Cycle now having no affect on him. Aware of it, sure, but his bones did not find it offensive anymore, instead longing for the cold touch of Viden's near-eternal winter just like he'd once longed for the peaceful touch of Ziell himself.
Peace felt an ocean away.
And, truthfully, perhaps it was, but it wasn't in the direction he'd come from, no, it must have been elsewhere. Over another ocean entirely, for there was no place of solace for the young Gawyne in the Kingdom of Rynmere in this strange time of his life.
His travel fatigue and sea-worn weariness were hidden by the strange renewal the Immortal of Transformation had so deviously deemed her business to bestow upon his unwilling self, but Syroa's mask was only superficial, after all. Caius would never have admitted he wandered campus in search of familiar faces, no, for he was here in Viden not for any memory of pleasure, however tarnished those memories now felt, but for business. The King's business? Perhaps. The Lord Inquisitor's? More likely. His own? Well, the northern noble didn't know anymore. In fact, he was quite sure, wandering the halls of the Art Institute and running fingers over walls he knew well, inhaling the pungent scents of paint, of ink, of creativity, of a life he felt so disconnected from now that his nostrils had been filled instead with the acrid scent of burnt flesh and so much ash.
As much as everything felt familiar, it didn't. As much as he knew this place, he didn't. As much as he wanted to hear the voice of a friend or catch the smile of someone he'd once studied and drank beside, he couldn't. He shouldn't. No one needed to ask after the ash-colored cloak that had become his uniform, no one needed to question the reason for his visit.
Sharp blue eyes faded into silver hues as he brought himself back into focus, desperate to drown out the din of camaraderie that rang off of the ramshackle walls of the Devil's Advocate while he finished mentally recounting his trial. His walk had reminded him of the layout of the Academy he'd once been a student at, and while he hadn't forgotten a single hallway, it was a refresher he needed to bring everything back into the forefront of his mind. The last time he'd been in Viden—well, just two seasons ago for a hiccup in time that had forever changed him and the trajectory of his life that should have ended—he'd been far in the Tundra. Now, back in the comfortable warmth of the halls of study carved by minds tuned by Yvithia herself, the favored of Ziell felt sweat pool at the base of his spine while he took in every face, every stranger, he passed within the Academy proper. Instead of looking for someone he knew, instead of longing to see Rylan's grin or catch Mateo off guard, he searched for someone else, anyone else.
He was here for a thief, after all.
A thief and a murderer.
Nothing of his had been stolen, not since Cylus. And while much of him felt broken, all of his bleeding was so metaphorical and internal in nature, especially when he already knew the day of his death. No, not only had one under his own oversight as Lord Arbiter of the Order of the Mantis—a Second Sword at that—been cut down in the streets just a season ago, but their traitorstone had been stolen. Obviously, that was the motive as far as the young Gawyne was concerned, for he didn't even hold one himself. Not that he needed it. But, rare and necessary for destroying the parasite of magic in the Kingdom of Rynmere, neither Kayled Wine nor the King had taken kindly to the loss of such a stone. Worse still had been the rumor of the thief escaping, and all leads had led here, to Viden.
Caius willingly volunteered, perhaps too willingly given the season—wedding season was just around the corner, was it not?—and quickly offered to lead the investigation somewhere he was both familiar with and had contacts in.
A fool's errand.
But the northern noble was nobody if not a fool.
He didn't even sarding know who or what he was looking for—whispers said a woman, blood had said a child—but surely neither of those things were true. Perhaps they'd just been falsities meant to throw the Ashcloaks off the trail. Perhaps he didn't sarding care if he failed. Perhaps he just needed an out, broken and tired. Perhaps even Kayled had seen the desperation in his Sesser-charmed face. Or perhaps he'd just made himself so useful, so integral into how the Order ran, that he had no choice.
Whatever the case, the ocean had brought no solace. Alone, the dark, brined waters had not quenched the flame that threatened to consume every bright refuge in the blackened cavity of his chest. Alone, the sea had not brought peace. The walk through the Academy halls had not given him a suspect and had not tamed his thoughts or calmed the fires that sputtered so furiously in his heart, either. Restless and angry, the Lord Arbiter had decided next to walk through familiar streets and let the bitter Viden cold wash over him while he let his feet trace their muscle memory'd steps to the Devil's Advocate, to order more drinks than he needed for the evening, and to flirt with the most evasive creature in his life—sleep.
She refused.
He deserved it. Sard it all, how he deserved it.
Even sleep knew him an ass and treated him according to the offenses he knew he'd committed just by so eagerly taking this assignment—
And here he was, wide eyes suddenly full of a vision of his third full mug as the chuckling, gap-toothed waitress who seemed to match far too well the dilapidated interior of The Devil's Advocate set it before him, barely managing not to slosh warm ale all over his fresh writing. Hissing as he moved to protect his work, the woman only rolled her eyes and sauntered off, leaving Caius back to his slow, meandering thoughts.
Pieces of parchment and a notebook were scattered on the rickety excuse for a table, but the quill in his hand had fallen still after only a few slow, struggled-through sentences. He'd attempted a letter first, but he had no words of comfort for those he'd so willingly left behind with pieces of the burned, twisted flesh in his narrow chest. His first mug of ale had solved none of the ache. He'd then attempted to re-read his notes on his assignment—accounts of suspicious behavior that trial, everyone Detectives had managed to interview about the scene of the attack that left one Order member dead and three injured. The second mug of ale had not made anything clearer.
Now, what to do with the third?
Fuck it.
Shoving papers back into a pile with a sigh through grit teeth, the Lord Arbiter began to hastily pack away his things—his journal, his notes, the notes from his cadre—only to knock over the small vial of ink with a careless sweep of the back of his hand. A string of curses dribbled from his lips slowly, but his pale gaze was drawn to the way the black liquid flowed and stretched, seeping into the scuffs and cuts and washing into divots along the sticky, disgusting tabletop. He stared at it as if hoping for a sign, as if reading the entrails of some dead pigeon, as if Ziell himself would prophesy something—anything!
Ink dripped through to the floor, staining his shoes.
But, like everything else he touched lately, there was only a dark silence.
Without picking up the small vial, letting more of the liquid seeth and spread over his table, Caius simply finished shoving his work into his satchel and tossing the worn leather bag back on the floor, suddenly no different from any of the other students laughing and drinking around him, no matter how far away he felt from them, no matter how empty his table was.
Staring into the deep amber, frothy liquid as if tempting the Fates themselves for one last chance to speak with him, he sneered at the distorted reflection of his own face in the ruddy glow of the oil lantern on the ale's surface, his well-bred, handsome features made not into something comical so much as monstrous.
As they should be. As he was.
For what a disgusting creature he'd surely become in such a short amount of time. Handed new life only to waste it. In the light of love only to snuff it out. Able to be the voice of reason only to grow silent.
Blinking slowly and raising the mug to his lips, Caius drank the monster in.
Ledger
Waiting on my Cylus wages to be approved before I balance my ledger and catch up on my CS. Sorry. Anyway:
10 trials at the White Fox Inn: -70sn
Too many ales at the Devil's Advocate (probably 4) = -4sn
10 trials at the White Fox Inn: -70sn
Too many ales at the Devil's Advocate (probably 4) = -4sn
True knowledge exists in knowing you know nothing.
- Socrates
