67 Ashan 719
Negotiations could have gone better.
Lord Zarik - the apparent lord of absolutely nothing - had not been nearly as forthcoming with Fiona as he had when they’d met, and Fiona, per expectations, had been entirely unamused by the entire thing. Both seemed to have seen some sort of potential in the other, from he understood of their exchange, but what had mostly transpired was wasted time and a testing of egos, with Lord Zarik at a vague disadvantage due to his lack of information.
Mathias supposed that fairly clearly illustrated Fiona’s point of knowledge being far more powerful a resource than any other. Even simple conversations could be pushed and manipulated to the point of being considered “one-sided”, though Lord Zarik had held his tongue enough to aggravate the both of them - an aggravation of very distinctly different sources, but aggravation all the same.
He had never understood the concept of “pride”. “Honor”, “respect”, “dignity”... such terms were simply abstractions of nothing, petty trivialities to give meaning to people’s meaningless actions. Both Fiona and Lord Zarik had enough of “pride”, especially, to compensate for his own lack of it. He simply couldn’t comprehend why it wouldn’t be easier to ask questions, give answers, and rationally compromise where conflict might rise up. Even attempting to do so was more productive than their… posturing.
Ultimately, however, it was not his place to make comment on it. Their burgeoning network was Fiona’s project, whereas Fiona herself was his. He, as much as he could, wanted Fiona to succeed not for the success itself, but to see what she would do with it. She was fascinating in that he never knew exactly what to expect - aside from acrid bile being spewed forth whenever she was uncomfortable, bored, or otherwise so inclined.
Lord Zarik, too, was of interest in much the same way, though he was more so a specimen of absurdity than anything else. Fifty-five trials and already his spark had ingrained itself so deeply within him that his body not only developed tell-tale signs but proudly and blatantly displayed his connection to his spark so that all the world might see. His tales of revealed and lordship and pain and loss were all parts of the greater puzzle of his identity and purpose, and while he had no plans to forsake Fiona, Lord Zarik was a welcome and considerable diversion.
Fiona had been pushing him to get a “hobby” of late, after all.
He had intentionally arrived in Lord Zarik’s dreamscape ahead of whatever loose and susceptible to change schedule he and Fiona had agreed upon. Part of him had done so in an attempt to speak with the young man again and, ideally, dull the man’s tongue so that something might get accomplished before an arc’s time passed. Another part of him, the larger part, had done so out of curiosity. He wanted to know what Lord Zarik thought of Fiona.
This time, the dreamscape was colorless, desaturated like the stones that made Quacia the city it was. It wasn’t vast like the sea had been in their last meeting, but closed in by walls and the dark interior of a windowless room. A room unmistakably Quacian, entirely fashioned from stone, and a work table that was stained with old and fresh blood alike.
Lord Zarik stood at this table, staring at a row of bloodied torture implements: twisted screws and iron claws caked with fresh gore. He wore darkness, encased tightly in shadowy clothing, and with black leather gloves over his hands, he picked up each item, observed it, then neatly set it in place with the others. The cuffs of his trenchcoat were slick with blood that dripped a dull crimson to the floor.
The man followed the motions of the dream, without question and without pause. He examined the dirty torture tools, set them in place, then turned from the work table to face a wall that was lined with metal racks that hosted various larger tools of the gruesome trade. He placed a bloody hand against his cheek, then looked over… not at Mathias, but at a nobleman on a chair that seemed to flicker in and out of the dream.
The man was oddly bound, with both ropes and chains as if his captor had been uncertain which might hold him better. Lord Zarik certainly seemed a bit doubtful as he walked over to test the shackles before nodding. He retrieved something from the pocket of his trenchcoat, then placed it against the captive’s temple. His hand twisted, then released to reveal it to be a corkscrew. It stuck in the spot where he’d dug it through the skin, but no blood arose from the wound. Zarik audibly sighed, crossed his arms, then-
“Good evening, lord.” Mathias murmured, an unassuming figure in a murky corner of the dismal chamber. “I see you are hard at work.”
The Biqaj’s eyes closed. He seemed to wish to ignore the voice. After a moment’s pause, however, he opened his eyes again - the irises, a gray color as dull as the room around them - and glanced at the corner where Mathias lingered. He didn’t respond with words, but merely the look and then he turned to return to the work table.
Lord Zarik picked up a pail from under the table. Water sloshed inside of it. He set it on the surface, then started to place the torture implements in the water. After three or so, though he didn’t stop in his work, he asked, “Is it evening?”
“It may be,” Mathias replied, remaining in his corner, bright eyes scanning the scene. The nobleman, for it was as clear a fact in the dream as it might have been had the hukling, mountain of a man, worn a nameplate around his neck, looked… peculiar. More so than Lord Zarik usually did. “Perhaps it is time to let your… guest rest.” The swirling eyes may very well have been a character trait personified, but they looked very much like a rupturer’s portals.
Curious.
A scoff mixed with a laugh sounded from Lord Zarik. He looked over, then said, “He doesn’t require rest. He’s nothing but a ghost of a figment of a vision.” He paused, then said, “But I realize this might not suit you. Shall I return us to a void of your liking?”
Mathias blinked. “You are… awake?” He rarely ever continued his own dreams after waking. They were, almost always, purely a waste of time. Lord Zarik seemed… invested. Revenge? Hatred? Some strange, warped nostalgia? “If it is a matter of what suits me, I find nothing offensive here. Do not stop on my account,” he offered, bright eyes stoically appraising the awakened dreamer. “I have heard such things can be quite cathartic.”
“No, I am asleep,” answered Lord Zarik plainly without a hint of sarcasm or annoyance. He nodded simply to Mathias’ acceptance of the dreamscape as it was. He returned to the man on the chair, ran his gloved hand over to close the eyes so the portals weren’t so obvious, then he twisted the screw a bit deeper into the temple until a viscous amber sap trickled out from it like squished jelly. He smiled slightly, then shook his head. “I wish that were so. Cathartic, that is. No… this is merely… something else.”
He turned toward Mathias, shoulders held back and posture straight. Lord Zarik’s hands folded behind his back, prim and proper. His blond hair had been slicked back, but no Mark of Faith adorned his forehead. Despite the morose torture chamber they were in, he looked healthier in the dreamscape than in the waking world; something Mathias found consistent across the several times he’d met him. “I suppose I should let go of this one, it likely does not accomplish much other than encourage my… fixations on what is now the past.”
“Is he a…” Mathias paused, brow knitting momentarily, “A figure from your time as a lord?”
“Yes,” answered Lord Zarik simply. He gave no indication that there would be further explanation, but, though Mathias had come for questions about their mutual acquaintance, he was no stranger to adaptations of plans.
“An enemy?”
The suggestion seemed to cause a moment’s surprise in the Biqaj. His eyes widened and the irises flashed crimson. He looked at the man in the chair, placed a hand against the top of the dark-blond locks, then said in a low voice that held a laugh to it only for a sense of nervousness, “Gods, I hope not.”
“He is-” Mathias paused, considering, “Was one of your revealed companions?” Such a creature would make a poor enemy indeed. “What transpired to lead your dreams to… this?” He swept a pale hand in vague gesture to the room at large, chair and captive and table and tools and all.
“Keen eye, you’ve got,” replied Lord Zarik. He hesitated when the man in the chair opened his eyes, seemingly without consent from the dreamwalker, and glanced up at him. Lord Zarik frowned, then snapped his fingers once. The man disappeared entirely in a rush of mist that left the chair empty. He looked over to Mathias and answered, “Hm… This is familiar to me. In a way, I suppose, it is comfortable then. I am aware of the… oddity of this, yes.”
“It is, however, larger than the actual room in Idalos,” he added with a surveying glance of the torture chamber. “And these tools, they are my own, rather than otherwise. It is simply a mockery of what is known to me from the other world. As if a priest dreaming of their church. Nothing more, nothing less.”
A touchy subject it seemed, and one of the many things Lord Zarik had refused to answer before. Unlike Fiona, Mathias didn’t charge head first into wall clearly constructed to keep people out. He didn’t have the fortitude for it. “I see.”
“Now, tell me,” Lord Zarik continued, “Did you not have a reason for visiting? Did you have more questions?”
Mathias had never been exceptional when it came to conversation, but he was usually quite willing to participate in - and facilitate - a shift of topic. “What do you think of Miss Humming?”
