Why do they look so shocked when she actually answers?

Maybe they hadn’t expected Rois’s remark that the woman 'talked funny' to have any amount of good weight behind it, an exaggeration by someone prone to exaggerating, but nope! Something about Ken, whoever that was, they take in the little moment spared for Osytha’s smiles like frightened kittens all puffed up and ready to scurry at a moments notice: roaming eyes. They are not subtle in their staring about… looking for a sword, but when one isn’t wrapped within the clutches of the not so she-devils claws Feliene immediately curtsies with a surprising amount of practised ease.

“Morning, syr Osy-tha!” The way this is pronounced tells the knight that they grabbed her name from Safya, who could not quite pronounce it properly-- and in the wake of her sisters bravery Alaera mimicks the movement fluidly with the tails of her white night-dress lifted,

“S-Syr Osy-tha…”

Oh, they are addressing her in a manner befitting her title, composed of the neutralness that came with any lady meeting another of tangible status. Their status? A mystery amongst many mysteries surrounding the damned company, if Feliene had her way she would have quite loved to address the other by the title of ‘not-my-enemy’, but, well… it was yet to be discovered whether this was true or not. Alaera is a ghost haunting the very edge of the doorframe, peering about with downsloped eyes with worry as her sister once again has to champion the lead,

“We wanted… to say hello! Our restrictions have been lifted, and we don’t have to hide any more; so before Crocodile wakes up and gets mad about it… hi, hello! I’m Feliene! I know you saw me before, but it’s nice to actually be properly introduced, isn’t it?”

… And then immediately failing to continue on with the same dignified energy as before, Alaera looks at her sister like she had just set Osytha aflame with the little erratic wave she was doing, addressing a knight so informally-- but… they had been greeted, not beheaded. Maybe it was better to just treat her as a… what was the word Rois had used, a ‘normal’ person? Did knights work in shifts, was Osytha on shift or had it not started yet…? At that moment the twins are very easy to tell apart, Feliene has lost her cat-like fluffing up but Alaera still looks a touched alarmed, she knows she has to say hello too, but scary, so scary,

“U-Um! I’m Alaera… it is nice to meet you.” She mewls from her position half-hidden by frame, hands curled against the wall as if bracing for impact; the wall would be good to push off of in case there was any need to run. “I did not… get the chance to meet you before, so--”

“Aaahh, are you an artist?!”

Abruptly cut off by a starry eyed, yowling fiend who had spotted the others scrawling against parchment, the lines meant very little to her but the idea that the knight could draw something, oh it’s all terribly exciting, without a single care in the world Fel wanders into Osytha’s room and scurries over to the bits and bobs against the table with a brief moment to study-- maps, maps, not an artist, what were they called,

“Calligrapher…?”

“... Cartographer.”

Alaera corrects, she’s moved a little closer. Just a little, just to see what had her sister so eager to smuggle herself into the room without single thought towards the whole 'lets not talk to strangers so openly' thing their caretaker had hammered into them; absolutely no danger sense, that one. The tragic irony of Fel being weaker than her sister in the art of Shroud-weaving was not lost on the cooler head, a pale hand reaches out,

“Fel, stop…”

“Huh? Is this rude?” Round eyes turn to Osytha from the table, mouth slightly ajar, “Sorry, I didn’t mean to be rude! I wanted to see your drawings!”

“Maps…”

“Maps! Is that how you make money? Does being a knight not pay well?”

… So terribly blunt, so terribly vulnerable but also so excited, it was probably a good thing Filly had not been slumbering or maybe the sudden wave of childish energy that is willingly swept into her room might cause her to suffer slightly beneath its crushing weight.


A wittle ref; 😊

maybetwinrefs.png
 
“Maps! Is that how you make money? Does being a knight not pay well?”​

It takes Osytha a second to stop reeling from the onslaught and gather herself. As she stares, mildly stunned, at Feliene, the knight’s face twitches — and then she throws her head back and cackles with delight.

“Sure don’t pay as well as Rois’ line of work,” she confesses, stepping back a bit to give both girls space to move and fossick about as they please. “Happen I ought start chargin’ him for my services. But, nay — I’m makin’ these up for you folks anyway, so you’re welcome to have a gander.”

While Feliene is occupied (however briefly) with those cartographic endeavours, Osytha spares a welcoming little nod toward the younger sister.

“’Ow do, Alaera,” she greets back. “Nice to meet you, and all.”

Then, the badger steps over to the desk. She stands at its side without turning her back to the doorway — not excluding the much shyer twin from her vantage point there. Osytha sets the rag down, and leans against the wall, with her arms folded casually.

“I copy the odd map and diagram,” she explains, looking down at the paper. “A magic sigil here and there. But nay, can’t claim to be an artist, as such. Hector’s much better at that sort of thing…”

Osytha is smiling, softly, distantly. In a way that slowly becomes something sad… before she abruptly faces away, turning her head to the window for a second. When she looks back at the twins, her warm little grin has returned.

“Heard you lot are goin’ north,” says Osytha, steering things back on track, “but you en’t all that familiar with Altalusia. So I thought I’d try and fill in a few gaps, make it a bit easier to find your way about. Especially what with backend — er, autumn — on its way.”

She blinks, as a thought occurs to her.

“Speakin’ of… did either of you have anythin’ you wanted to know about the place?”
 
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“Oh… I see now!”

That is why her fashion sense is bad, because she’s poor! Feliene gives a little breathy ‘hmmm!’ in contentment of an unsaid question answered and tries not to blatantly look at the others clothing, thankfully old enough to have the class not to say such a thing out loud as ice-fringed blue eyes turn back to examine the dashes and waves of lines that make little sense to her, but no doubt would be admired by someone who knew a lick of anything about maps. A little bounce in her forward step,

“Thank you! I do hope Crocodile will pay you for your efforts, that miser.” And when the youth turns back Osytha’s little look is caught, a beat of confusion at the introduction at the new name and then a soft intake of breath, oh--

“Is Hector your husband? Damn.” … No tact at all, the sadness of the statement is lost upon her, the little 'damn' is accented by the click of a finger, teenagers gossiping at night (who had an affinity for paring their tired, blatantly askew caretaker with anyone and everyone he is seen with) had been quite devious in their discussions-- “It makes sense, though. ‘Cus you’re pretty, so!”

… There is a noticeable absence in the room.

Feliene, fully engaged and regarding the women with a tone filled with a positive upbeat-ness and a grin that runs from cheek to flushed cheek is heavily contrasted by her sister, who… has entered the room but lingers by that door as if it were a comfort blanket. Her voice no longer tails the others. The elf had been thinking about what to say and was waiting for the chance to do as such, taking the opportunity when her slightly older sister pauses in her giddy mannerisms to spare the younger a glance with a tilted head and questions flickering about the gentle stare. A hushed silence… broken by cotton-soft speech, careful in tone.

‘Did either of you have anythin’ you wanted to know about the place?’​

“Are… people kind, in the north… ?”

Alaera trills wearily from the half open door with thin fingers tangled before her in an ever shifting knot and saucer-plate eyes capturing Osytha like a camera lens intent on tracking, the sea-blue gaze never meets the knights easy glance for long… but it is enough, she thinks, that it could be met with some meager amount of stifled bravery. ‘Era continues with a voice soft as snow but rife with uneasy feeling,

“... Are you and your friends… kind?” Memories flicker about large pupils, two people that spend their entire lives together impacted differently by the exact same event, the rush of steel and horses and men with loud voices like thunder… fire and blood and a tactile sadness that stuck to the soul like glue. There is a slow glance over to Osytha’s hard work in the way of ink and splayed documents, physical evidence of what would appear to be an act good-naturedness, so it should be taken as such, Alaera knows Feliene wholeheartedly has, yet doubts still linger. There cannot be mind-games from the youth, so there could only be the telltale straight forwardness of a girl caught up in complex thoughts that could not be easily parsed--

“... You’re not a spy, are you, syr?”

A dwindling confidence drives the young ladies eyes downwards to bare toes curled against aged wood. Those fingers once tumbled about themselves meet in an orderly fashion, one hand against another to be held a little higher, the unconsciously conjured universal posture for prayer. Fel watches on with widening eyes and her mouth a touch hung, stealing her own hands against her chest, for once wordless at her sisters frailness in the warmth of the mornings light…

A frightened child begging.

“Please… do not hurt Mr. Crocodile, syr Osy-tha. He’s-- he’s really different from before, he’s changed a lot and keeps changing for the better. I know you are a knight and m-must do knightly duties, but, um, I am making a plea for your grace… and your mercy.”

 
“Is Hector your husband? Damn. It makes sense, though. ’Cus you’re pretty, so!”​

“He’s—”

Spoken before Osytha even knows what she’s trying to say, and she stumbles on that clumsy word. Averts her eyes, but keeps her head up, not letting the strange feeling cow her like some shrinking violet. Husband? And suddenly, she has to picture it: maybe with their lives still bound to the order, their home yet in the monastery, only, sharing what they have of it together. Probably to end all too soon, just as it had for Hector’s own parents; Syrs Hilda of Dawn, and Dantilion of Dusk. Since claimed by their oaths.

Or… would it be something else?

A home by the old watermill. Simple and cosy, and every day with some new mark of a life they’re building together. A tin of chamomile tea in amongst the real stuff. Books about a south she’ll never visit. Too many owl ornaments. Kitchenware scarred by someone’s attempts at the culinary arts. Silly little doodles tucked in odd hiding spots, just so the other laughs to discover Syr Steven winking up from the salt cellar.

A place where the worst thing that could break is a dropped plate or two. And then they’ll fuss over one another — “Did you step on any shards?” “Are you hurt?” — soothing all the small hurts, until even those become a thing to treasure. No more big, unspeakable hurts. No more swords, no more threads cut far too short. Could it be? Just Hector. Hector, filling up all her space, and she, his. Guffy in a basket by the fire. Maybe even Forbítter and Ronja, too, so they could go riding out just to spend the day together. And… and…

And maybe… someone to give all the haddock from her soup, if they’re like her. Or to fish those icky pieces out, if they’re like him. Someone they can both sing to when the dark sets in, when the Wyld’s tune outside looms too large for a small and frightful heart…

“—he’s my… something,” Osytha finishes, lamely. She’s putting on a brave face, but the touch of pinkness in her cheeks is telling.

Daft, she admonishes herself. Thou’rt being daft. Just put those fancies from thy mind.

Yet that can’t stop the other, simpler, daft little voice in the back of her head;

Does Hector think… I’m pretty…?

She’s granted little time for further daydreams. However, when it comes, the interruption isn’t from that feistier twin pressing the point on her ‘something’ Hector — but pipes up from the doorway, changing tack altogether.

“Are… people kind, in the north… ?”​

Those words. For all their frailty, for all of Alaera’s timidity — they drag Osytha’s eyes toward her like a ship pulled into the vortex.

“… Are you and your friends… kind?”​

Alaera’s gaze finds the maps, those gifts of Osytha’s in the making.

“… You’re not a spy, are you, syr?”​

Lingering briefly there, before her eyes fall, downcast. Hands clutched in stillness to the pale cloth of her bodice.

“Please… do not hurt Mr. Crocodile, syr Osy-tha. He’s— he’s really different from before, he’s changed a lot and keeps changing for the better. I know you are a knight and m-must do knightly duties, but, um, I am making a plea for your grace… and your mercy.”​

A grave silence weighs the air. Even Feliene is left speechless, and in the tense moment which follows, the only noises are distant, muffled shouts of foremen, forges beating into life. And a closer, calmer symphony of Safya busying herself in the kitchen downstairs.

“Some folk are nice. Nicer than you can imagine.” Osytha’s voice eases through the quietude. Soft, though not the way Alaera’s was, with uncertainty. This softness tempers, dulls the hard and jagged edges of what it wraps around. “Some folk are terribly cruel. Part of what I’m workin’ on, it should help you steer clear of those ones.

“My friends, I think by and large, are kind. But if you meant: are the other Knights of Anathaeum all kind people…?” Her shoulders rustle against the wall as she shrugs. “Many are. Some others, not so much. The order as a whole, we always try to leave room for kindness. It’s one of the reasons I still believe in them— er, us. Yet I’d be lyin’ if I told you that we put kindness above our duty. So, whether that makes me a spy…”

Osytha turns to look outside. The early morning light still has that touch of rose-gold to it, and for this tiny window of dawn, Munas Kuvak could almost be… pretty. The high-gabled roofs are either burnished copper or cool blue shadows, and either one hides their myriad uglinesses. Before the sky is choked with black smog, before the air is completely filled with clamouring workshops and brutal livelihoods, before you look too closely at the streets below — this could almost be a nice place.

“… in a way, aye, I am. Sorry.” Osytha turns back, meeting Feliene’s eye for a deliberate second, then sweeping her gaze onward to Alaera. “I’ll keep whatever I can in confidence, but truth is, I may learn somethin’ I simply cannot withhold from the order, even if you want me to. Which’ll be interestin’ if that does happen, ’cause I also promised Rois I’d let him see what I’ll be reportin’ back.” She smiles at that, though there’s not much humour to it. “Cross that bridge if we come to it. But if you want to be absolutely sure a secret stays a secret, best not mention it at all — even if you think you’re alone. Like I said: the walls here en’t as thick as all that.”

She wonders if they’ll put two and two together. And if they do, she wonders if it’ll go on to reach Rois. “Love you.” What might his reaction be, knowing that she knows? Every single word of it, and all. The normal bet would probably be simple awkwardness. With Mr Crocodile, though, there’s no telling.

Probably, Osytha just did something stupid again. Oh well.

“Alaera.” Now the knight speaks a little more firmly. She lowers her head slightly, trying to catch the girl’s eye. “I do promise this: I don’t want to hurt Rois, nor any of you. I’m workin’ to ensure we can avoid comin’ to blows while you’re up our neck of the woods. ‘Innocent’ and ‘guilty’ don’t have as much to do with it as you might think. And it’s in our founding tenet not to condemn others for their nature, dangerous or no. Rois is dangerous, he has blood on his hands… same as us Knights, really. But I know he’s makin’ an effort, just as you say he is. The least we can do is try meetin’ him halfway — and I’m set on findin’ out how to do exactly that.”
 
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The north… sounds like everywhere else. It does not sound like freedom from pursuit-- it sounds like the corral of hoofbeats and eyes everywhere and the unending cruelty of man, never slowing in its yawning desire to bite, always present like a spectre haunting the narrative but a moment away--

“... If knights do not put kindness above duty… then what is the point?”

Feliene finally speaks up with a slightly softer voice than usual from Osytha’s side, wanting very much to unravel the thread of ‘he’s my something’ but not finding it fitting in the moment to follow along that path of feeling, not when the knight speaks with such resounding clarity upon the subject. Instead comes forth a simple argument, a contest to the older woman’s resolute speech--

“I’ve… I’ve read the stories!" Comes the soft mewl, lithe fingers curl about the fabric at Osy’s arm, a little tug that does little to shift the cotton but exists to exhibit a desire for attention, for clarification, “But in stories and legends, the knights are always so good… so why does duty come before kindness? Should kindness not be the duty… ?”

A release tied to a step back with eyes like her sisters swept low, the seas of Fel’s sapphire eyes are fringed by the storminess of emotion however; rampant is the feeling of dogs upon their heels, the notion that they were a breath away from revealing something that would be twisted against them. So too would the Knights of Anathaeum come shiny-backed in the sun to run rings about them with flashing eyes, no it is not the kind thing to do, but it is the right thing to do… lanceheads down, parchments, rows of data scraped up from every patch of land they have trodden on, declarations in booming voices. I still believe in them, the knight echoes out, this place of mostly kind people, she does not feel the same.

“If, if people were kinder… Crocodile wouldn’t be dangerous…”

The promises of a spy.

Secrets and secrets and secrets, the remark about the walls and their ability to bleed information are washed away by the erratic lapping of emotional waves, Feline raises a hand and begins to toy with the tails of soft hair as an attempt is made to try and figure out what it all meant for them, there, in that room, it was safe physically. The young lass does not believe that this woman would raise a hand to strike at them or as wickedly as the other knights possibly would have done, but it is not a safe space… mentally. Like a shawl has been dragged about the holy square of sunlight to dampen it all, splay shadows across the walls, strange shapes. Fel does not want to get upset. She does not want the rims of her eyes to collect the glistening beginning of tears, hanging from downcurled lashes, and manages to stop them before their presence is largely made; the situation is complicated and it has to be thought about, why had they expected anything different…?

A different plea for help. Possibly the gravest secret of all. They had wanted help.

… Naivity.

Stories of glory-seekers being etched into history, tales of old held up by fable and myth, good people doing good things for no reward whilst a crowd cheers about them in undiluted and heart-felt thanks; Osytha’s trying to help. A new mantra repeated over and over, she’s trying to help, innocent and guilty, two black and white constructs one could be stranded bang in the middle of, as if occupying the neutral space of a seesaw ever slipping forward and back, and she’s trying to help. Another step back, once again the kittens are static puffs, little creatures with elevated pulses and little leans backwards, Alaera backs herself silently into the crux of the door and the wall in absolute silence. The threat of ruining everything by simply talking has gagged her entirely, now they had to be careful, now it was better to say nothing at all, like a stressed animal her eyes fixate upon the doorknob and dare not go anywhere else.

“U-Um, well,” Feliene attempts to rescue the situation but her form has noticeably drifted from the woman’s table to the far side, a few paces away, everything in the room suddenly seeming to catch her attention-- “I had... wanted to ask... um… sorry… if-- … we didn’t mean…”

Fleeting thoughts about books and knowledge and a secret the rooms occupants would have shared turned to ash-- ‘Some folks are nice.’ Look on the bright side, it was not all misery and torture, it had to be believed that it would not happen again, it couldn’t, her friends were nice, maybe they’d still be nice after they knew-- but they shouldn’t know-- they could not know. ‘I’ll keep whatever I can in confidence’, surely coming into her room would not be reported, Osytha was trying to help. Cautiously, so carefully, suddenly walking on eggshells comes the squeaky voice filled with such mirth before-- as if anything could be spun against them--

And maybe she could be trusted as a person.

But she could not be trusted as a knight.

“I’m… I’m scared to speak all of a sudden,” A breathy laugh, completely false in its utterance but none-the-less brought about by the same bluntness that ushered her to tell the truth, “I-I’m sorry.”

A harsh swallow and a scuttle to join her timid sister in the corner, snatching up the younger’s hand with a thumb ran against knuckles. Her voice alone rises again in a whisper that is composed of fright, emotion-dappled mewling,

“We didn’t m-mean to ask questions. Please, syr… please don’t, don’t tell the order. We didn’t mean to come in your room-- I-I promise, we were just being friendly, we, that’s all we wanted, we just wanted to be friendly.”

 
Osytha simply looks confused for a moment. “… please don’t, don’t tell the order.” “The order? Why would I tell them about—?”

Watching Feliene and Alaera cowering in the corner of her room, it all really starts coming together. This is Sinclair’s travelling meat emporium. His tight-knit little band of odds and sods, always on the move, always keeping their guard up… and these girls, might be they’re at a formative age. When other kids are building up their social circles in nice, stable environments, these two have… this. Never mind what sort of life they had before Rois picked them up, though, Osytha suspects that one hadn’t been especially blessed either.

They are probably, in other words, a teensy bit sheltered. From concepts like ‘normal’ and, say, ‘other people’.

Gods. Where should she even begin?

“Hey. It’s alreight. I won’t mention any of this if you don’t want me to. And it’s not like you’ve done somethin’ wrong, anyway. Either of you.”

Osytha goes over to the bed and sits down on it, facing the twins. She relaxes backwards, propped up on her arms; makes herself smaller, less threatening, gives them more space. Hopefully.

“You are bein’ nice. Honestly, I’m very happy you both popped by to say hello — I’ve been lookin’ forward to meetin’ everyone properly. And I was flattered you took an interest in what I was workin’ on. But, importantly…”

Blue eyes sweep down at those clasped hands. Thumb soft over joints. Soothing. When even bubbly, bulldozing Feliene is reduced to an anxious wreck, how must poor Alaera be faring?

“… you’re allowed to ask difficult questions. You’re allowed to get upset, or angry, and to speak up about it. These things matter to you, and reightly so.” Osytha looks up to their faces, and tries to put on an encouraging smile. “As for my answers… sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you with them, I just — I want to be honest with you, aye? For what it’s worth, though, when I say there might be things I have to report on no matter what, I mean like… very real matters of life and death. Not abstract debates over the order’s ethical conduct.”

“… If knights do not put kindness above duty… then what is the point?” When Feliene had asked that, Osytha was surprised at how hard it was to open her mouth and answer that. Oh, she knows kindness can’t solve everything. Kindness doesn’t stop the most zealous Sightless from plunging their daggers in your guts to help enact the Everwatcher’s unspeakably vile machinations, even if those cultists are victims themselves in a way. Many duties held by the Knights of Anathaeum are a bloody arithmetic, actively choosing the lesser of two evils when the world is naturally inclined towards the greater.

Yes, the girls seem naive. “I’ve… I’ve read the stories!” Seriously, woof. So has Osytha; been there, done that, bought the emblazoned surcoat. Won the bonus existential crisis. Real life is a lot more complicated than stories. But at what point do the justifications become excuses? Conveniences?

“I could get into the weeds concernin’ duty and kindness if you really want, but the truth is… you ask a good question.” Osytha’s expression turns sombre with the admission. “One that many of us Knights ask ourselves each day. I believe you — about Rois. There’s still so much I don’t know about him, and probably there always will be. But I believe he’s worth makin’ patience and kindness my duty to him… even if he sometimes tests its limits. Especially then, in fact.”

Osytha’s countenance softens, and she tilts her head slightly to the side. “Does that help clear things up a bit…?”
 
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The moment Osytha’s stance changes and she is seated, the atmosphere immediately lessens in the room.

Strongly built Osytha, trained-to-kill Osytha, adult Osytha with unflinching tones and shifts coming small in her facial expression; to them, she wielded unknown authority and could mete out justice as she saw fit. Standing there speaking with un-doctered honestly in their little heads she was something akin to a modern day police woman, ever-ready to drag out a book to take statements upon suspicious (and unintentional) acts so that the chief would swing down with a couple more folks to drag them away in chains… but when the good knight placates their fear, the corner cowering lessens. When arms are leant against the plush beds surface in a casual manner, Feliene makes a little movement forward, just a tiny one in response to the lack of pressure radiating from the woman’s overall everything. The distance lets them breathe.

And they listen.

These poor, naive little bundles of hope know logically that she could be lying, she is a spy, but at the same time she’d been happy to see them, and that counts for perhaps a lot more than the idea that all of those words were maybe lacking in honesty. And she’d been so open about being it, the girls were not strangers to truth-tellers, their caretaker was abysmal at lying and so always deferred to sincerity, surely a spy who wanted to harm them would not tell them that they were as such…? Would have taken them the moment they stepped in the room and were close, kidnapped, harmed, suppressed, advanced upon in their little corner with outstretched hands of dubious intent. No threats. No violence. Just words and promises yet to be seen as truths, but somehow the gamble of existing in such a position became lesser and lesser…

… And the ease in which they turn from wholly untrusting is the reason Rois does not like them talking to people.

Blue eyes meet blue eyes, the two turn their backs to Osy and begin to whisper to each other erratically in their little door-corner with childishly cupped hands to ears and dramatic hand movements, like the twittering of little birds against the background noise of workers afar. Questions unheard arise, difficult questions? Life and death? Ethical conduct, what did that mean? The threat of the looming ‘report’,


‘Cause I also promised Rois I’d let him see what I’ll be reportin’ back.’
‘I won’t mention any of this if you don’t want me to.’
‘And it’s in our founding tenet not to condemn others for their nature, dangerous or no.’
‘But I believe he’s worth makin’ patience and kindness my duty to him.’
‘Some folk are nice. Nicer than you can imagine.’​

It ultimately comes down to a single thing, at the end of it all.

“... If Crocodile likes her, then… it’ll be ok.”

A whisper slightly louder, hushed but able to be parsed from afar, resolution; adults knew best, especially their adult, whom they held in a regard so high it was almost laughable if it was not so innocently cute. If Osytha was devious she would not be there, no doubt Crocodile knew all of the information she had passed along to them both and still trusted the woman enough to let her stay-- Feline keeps a touch of the shyness gained from the knights admittance as she slinks over to the bed with a measure of caution to sit upon its edge, the bed barely dips beneath her weight--

“It’s… okay, then. I think. Sorry for being scared… I-I, um, do want to ask you a question…” A weak smile overtakes her doll-like features… “If… that’s alright. Because, we’ve been waiting for someone like you to come along, so…”

Alaera skitters in the background with minute shuffling noises to bravely press a hand against the door; its clicking shut is soft, its movement marks a turning point, both sisters are courageous enough to exist within her space without needing the thin rectangle of safety that the hallway represents. Poor little thing is still not brave enough to get too close to Osy, but decides where her sister is safe she too is safe also, and the silent demand for bed spot beside Fel causes the older sibling to shift a little more-- closer still. Close enough for bare, thin legs to brush the knights far thicker ones, close enough for a small hand to raise, stagger, think, and then with that ocean gaze turned upon the womans hand gently take up the limb with the carefulness and consideration of handling some precious prize. Soft skin untouched by the labour of market-folk and knights alike embrace rougher pads, an innocent clinging of the strangers fingers guided forwards to settle against the youths lap… it is an action birthed of babyish comfort. Alaera in turn has her sisters other hand, feeling the same unspoken want for soothing in such frightening times, holding the olders hand against her chest with uneasy eyes sometimes daring to capture Osy for moments at a time.

“If Crocodile trusts you… then we should, too.” Spoken as if Feliene had no idea that the previous, similar statement could be heard, waggling the woman’s fingers a touch in a little, fidgeted bounce against laced white. “He’s always right when it comes to people… h-he can sniff out a rat from a mile away!”

Ah, there, fractions of her spark returns to a louder voice filled with simple happiness as the girl raises the knights hand a touch in triumph, ‘Era nodding frantically in the background with fluffy curls like waves.

“Y-Yes, if you want to be kind to Mr. Crocodile… then you’re our friend, too.” Alaera’s voice does not share the same elation, but then again, it never really does as owlish eyes steal a glance of Osy from afar before nervously turning away with a squeeze against her sisters hand, trapped between a come again prayer-like hold. “We… we want to believe people a-are good. Despite everything.”

Even if they were a little scary.

“... And you’re a pretty lady, and Crocodile always says, never ever trust men you don’t know.”
“He says, men are capable of evils far more easily than women…”
“So, if what I say next is, if it’s something the order will want to know, or, or it'll get him or us in trouble, please tell me to be quiet.”
“We do not want anyone to know… only you.”

Filly’s claimed hand dragged in turn to the youths own chest, hummingbird heart-beat, frail ribs, unashamed warmth, just a little one acting out a plea with pretty eyes framed by heavy lashes meeting Osytha’s dusty blues.

“... Would… would you maybe… help us save Crocodile’s life…?”

 
A small, slender hand slips around Osytha’s. She lets Fel guide it, staring on while digits even paler than her own touch, and explore, the older woman’s contours. Os’ palm is larger and tougher for sure — still obviously not a man’s blocky paw, and cared for, as a tradesperson cares for her well-used tools. But gloves and cold creams can only do so much, and the hardships reveal themselves under Feliene’s fingers.

Mild freckling wrought by the sun, the start of elephant-skin wrinkling about the creases of her palms, and of course, callouses. Thick, tough pads burgeoning against the dig of sword-grips, where she’s fought by rope and rein to break in beasts, climbed the Monastery’s obstacle courses and through places where her feet alone were not enough to traverse the Wylds, or simply from the illimitable chores one can never quite escape, even once you graduate out of being a squire.

Those slight little fingers hold her transfixed. So, too, the way Alaera holds on to her sister's in turn. The three of them in this rosy patch of morning light through the window. Little hands reaching out to her despite all their fear. While Osytha is utterly blindsided by how quickly this tender, fragile moment has come on.

She feels… reverence, here, before these two. Something so terribly precious in the way Feliene’s hand nests itself in hers, that it stirs an ache in Osytha’s chest.

“We do not want anyone to know… only you.”​

“… Would… would you maybe… help us save Crocodile’s life…?”​

A bold, aquamarine gaze is awaiting Osytha when she looks up, while the sky-blue one behind it darts skittishly away.

“Save his life?” she repeats.

Osytha feels she’s already trying to do just that. Rois’ life, and by extension, the lives of those under him, from whatever dangers await them all the north — including those posed by her own order. Unless, perhaps, the twins are talking about something else entirely…?

“It cannot be seen on the outside… but it is unfortunately rather… severe.”

Oh.

Oh no.

Because if it’s that, Osytha knows she’s suddenly skirting around a very, very hot-button topic for the man. She would prefer to keep her scalp right where it is, thank you very much, especially as she’s bereft of the healing magic which saw Syr Lucero through her own ordeal. Best Osytha could do is suture it back on, and that’s supposing she’s can avoid passing out altogether. Knowing her, she’ll probably end up attaching it back-to-front, and all.

But — nor dare she say ‘but’ just yet, either. Alaera and Feliene are proving to be flighty little finches, whom Osytha fears understand things in qualitative degrees over quantitative, i.e. showing caution now might be indistinguishable from complete and utter rejection of the twins’ cause. After which, they could fly away from her for good.

Osytha doesn’t want that. Not because the girls could be useful assets; filled with information she might never get out of Rois, and exploitable, oh so exploitable. But because they seem kind of… lonely. Because she genuinely enjoys their company. Because they’re right about the world needing a bit more kindness in it, and Osytha wants to give them that.

If only her mum were here. Merifrith would give these girls all the kindness and care their hearts crave for, and then some. Though on second thought… maybe Osytha’s not so red hot on the idea of having the old girl anywhere near Munas Kuvak.

Fully aware that she’s about to walk a knife’s edge, the badger decides to press on ahead.

“… is this about his, er, medical condition?” Osytha asks, carefully. “He mentioned it last night. Not what it is, mind you, just that it’s fairly serious…”
 

As Osytha thinks, her hand is toyed with as if it really was a tool of its own; adults always had such rough hands, would theirs be as harsh soon enough? Feliene is inspecting her nails in a manner most casual despite the dread coming to spear at the knights chest, the topic is serious, yes, but not so serious surely that she could not ponder what sort of nail polish would match the pretty grey accents of Osy’s eyes…? Whatever carefulness the subject of tender examination speaks with is lost, dashed way by rushed attempts to drag the ladies courage back to her--

“We can tell you… but you cannot let him know. Not at all. He’ll lose his mind.”
“Because… he’s afraid of something. Something like harm…”
“Something like… an attack, maybe?”
“But you wouldn’t hurt him… you said you wouldn’t… so…”

Their gentle words come with the lightning strike of unspoken realization; they did not know why he kept it a secret.

The crew all knew because it could not be hidden, but to give this away to strangers was to expose a severe weakness; how easy it would be to 'stop' him… with just a single, sudden jolt to the head. Enemies could just wait for him to fall to strangle him whilst his body quaked and eyes unseeing rolled backwards-- or maybe he’d be persecuted, ‘othered’, mocked, shamed. The afflictions violent and horrid history is hidden from their pretty little heads, such exposure would never come, if they knew the breadth of how the ‘normal world’ treated him they would no doubt change as people. Rois did not want that burden upon such young shoulders. They already had enough stress, as every loved one of an afflicted person did, but their innocent souls had been kept away from society and its imagined perception of what the sickness plaguing him really was; and this is why they relay the information so readily.

If they weren’t so sheltered, they would not be whispering his most confidential aspect to a somewhat stranger, entirely captivated by Osytha’s agreeable demeanor and acceptance of their dove-like ways. Feliene leans slightly against her arm, to murmur as if the walls has ears…

“Crocodile has… the Falling sickness…”

Ah yes, she would have heard of that. Everyone has. The treatment of these people is universally abhorrent, but nothing ever changed…

… The ancient cancer which could not be cut out.

Communes of toppling bodies waking to find each other dead in the mud, babies strangled in their cribs to spare them the life ahead, burnt bodies at pyres surrounded by hushed whispers, the Falling sickness is as old as leprosy and as dastardly as the plague. Despite texts saying otherwise, to the close-minded (and those unable to read) who oft sully their minds with the echoes of beliefs from ages past, it is a miasma spread through breath and blood and bile, taints the flesh and grinds away the body till death is a mercy. They needed to stay away, far away, pursued by dogs or mobs with eyes flashing with violent intent till they got the message clearly. To religious fanatics it is a sign from whatever lowly beast resides in their own imagined version of Hell, crept up through the fires to bury itself in one’s heart… sin manifest, mortal-folk struck down by their evils. Divine punishment. A curse upon thy soul set about by sagging mouths in woods, hand in hand with pinned-dolls and hexes composed of spices, an inescapable remnant of hatred burned deep against their souls; you are not meant to stay in this world.

To the law, these are people oft found living in lunatic asylums, chained to walls and kept in the darkness of stony holes, ‘greater’ minds perceived their erratic movements to cease should they be denied the ability to move freely; some retained a sensitivity to light, and so must they all be hoarded in the darkness. They could not work, could not aid society, and did nothing but stoke stress in everyone that cared for them; and so some sufferers came willingly to ease their families woes… and some were forced, they awoke from their seizures there to never leave. Test subjects to strange medicines found throughout the world, force fed through mouth-clamps or willingly taken through desperation, no matter what side effects would come. Little lab-rats spearheading the way for medical advancements… or newly found procedures that came with little to no success. To science itself is a physical abnormality of the brain, the practise of trepanation-- drilling crumbling holes onto the skull to ‘relieve pressure’-- more often than not killed the patient as infection like a starved snake slithered to eat away at rotten flesh, though some scholars preferred cauterization, hot irons and stakes blistering ones crown, the shock of the action thought to displace the 'shock' the body went through during seizure… this, too, caused death.

The illness itself caused death.

So much so that society had wholeheartedly decided to simply shun them entirely, feeling their presence as either ill omen or burdensome to normality. Communes existed upon the fringes of existence whose only inhabitants were the falling, poor, isolated and lonely, living on whatever they found till their last member eventually withered into nothingness amongst the wildes. They came, they went. They lived, they died. Fell from heights, tumbled down into shallow pools and drowned, cracked skull upon rocks, choked to death on their own spittle. Sometimes there needn’t be an external reason for their timely demise, sometimes it was really as simple as their heart staggering during seizure and forgetting entirely how to beat, long enough for everything else to simply shut down…

… But the most common cause of death for those blighted by the Falling sickness was suicide.

Trees creak and bend. Rivers bare pale forms beneath a glistening surface. A leap to freedom.

Feliene and Alaera are looking at her with eyes that do not understand the weight of the admission; yes, they know it will kill him one day. Maybe that very day, maybe the next year, maybe in the next ten… but if, if Osytha had the right knowledge, then they needn’t worry--

“You are learned, syr.” Alaera coo’s with a little lean forward to capture the knights attention by way of doe-y eyes and the shaking of her sisters hand, this is assumed, knights had knight schools and surely they learned things there, “And… we do not meet learned people often. Or… ever.”

“We would ask… do you know of any legends? Any tales or myths…? We… do not know many at all.” Hopeful Feliene, starry-eyed, she unwinds her freehand from Alaera’s grasp to pat Osy’s on the back lightly and excitedly, “We are looking for something magickal, something wonderful… and we will find it, and we will save Crocodile with it.”

“It must exist, in this world… if Shroud-weavers like us can exist… then miracles can, too.”
“We just gotta’ search for it-- like, like an amulet, or a stone, or a spell…”
“Something that can take it away… for good.”
“Real magick, it’s highest form, exists somewhere…!”

Oh, these poor, hopeless, naive girls, now radiating excitement… on a foolish quest to find what does not exist, what has never existed, to save their beloveds soul from an incurable, painful illness that would no doubt be the end of him. The knights hand sandwiched between the gentile warmth of the youths bears pressure, its hold is composed of belief, a want, a need for answers. Another voiceless prayer.

Please.

And they look to her with baited breath for answers.

Everything about those gazes tells Osytha that whatever she says will be taken as truth.
 
For the second time, Osytha underestimates the reaction from one of Sinclair’s menagerie. Or perhaps in this case, she over-estimates their sense of prudence — her mistake being that she assumes they have one.

“Crocodile has…”​

Too late, Osytha gives Fel a startled look. “Hey, w—”

“… the Falling sickness…”​

—ait.

Ah, shit.

Osytha stares into Fel’s eyes. The Falling Sickness. Yes, she knows of it, though what ‘it’ actually is seems to change depending on who you ask. The falling sickness, falling evil, sacred disease, gros mal, passio caduca, morbus comitialis… different names, which may or may not always refer to exactly the same thing. Her mother calls it ‘epilepsis’, which Osytha’s pretty sure is a keepsake from Meri’s year and some change studying medicine in Crown’s Hold. As for its cause, well, take your pick. Some ascribe it to demons or unclean spirits. Some say it’s a divine curse, or conversely, fits of divine inspiration. Others consider the condition to be a form of lunacy, with moonstricken episodes in pre-disposed individuals being contingent upon the Eight’s cycles. Those inclined toward natural philosophy are more likely to blame it on things like imbalances of the humours, despite Rhazes having disproven such theories centuries ago. Yet, even the supposedly ‘medically-minded’ oft find some way to tie in a religious, mystical, or superstitious cause as well.

Is it contagious? Most places Osytha goes, people tend to think it very much so. But she doesn’t recall Meri treating it as such, just… has hazy memories of being taught how to keep a body relatively safe through their episode. Damnit, she really ought to brush up on her Pursuit of Life. Add it to the list…

“We would ask… do you know of any legends? Any tales or myths…? We… do not know many at all. We are looking for something magickal, something wonderful… and we will find it, and we will save Crocodile with it.”​

“It must exist, in this world… if Shroud-weavers like us can exist… then miracles can, too.”​

And in the wide, youthful eyes now fully upon Osytha: desperation. Please.

She looks from Feliene, to Alaera. That urgent, blinding hope is also there in the tension of soft hands wrapped about hers. If she concentrates, Osytha can feel the drum-roll beat of an anxious pulse, pumping through the arteries in those delving thumbs. These two, pinning all their hopes on the Hail Mary to end all Hail Maries. Putting their faith in an effective stranger, fables, and most unrealistically of all: a neat, simple, solution.

The stories make it sound so easy, don’t they?

Shame. Osytha guesses she won’t get to be their friend after all. But it’s no kindness, letting them keep this hope of theirs — no, not hope; delusion. She has to rip these sorts of bandaids off all the time with prospects, just as she’d had done to her It’s going to hurt, and they might hate her for it. Better that than sending them off to chase a fantasy, completely unprepared for the reality which awaits out there.

“Aye. I know my share of such stories.” She gives Fel’s clasping hands a gentle squeeze. “And that’s all they are — stories. Magic like that is much rarer than fables would have you believe.”

More or less. Oh, it’s out there alright, only, not in the way Fel and ’Era imagine it to be. The law of entropy reflects in all things, including magic, which means the really powerful stuff is mostly weapons of some kind. And all too often, such things have been corrupted over time to the point that all they’re capable of now is harm. After all, there’s a forbidden vault full of such things at Astenvale Monastery, even if Osytha only has a passing familiarity its imprisoned catalogue. The specifics thereof tend to be shared on a ‘need-to-know’ basis only — and the twins definitely Do Not Need to Know.

Only. There’s something, isn’t there? Not a legendary treasure, not a mere ‘healer’ — because Rois has tried healers, and if his ailment is beyond one of Astenvale’s finest, then perhaps there’s no physician in all of Khurun who is capable of the deed. But there is someone.

Someone the twins don’t need to go chasing after.

“Listen… Rois told me he’s spent a long, long time searchin’ for treatment. He’s sharp, and he’s resourceful — I sure know money isn’t an issue. If there were such an easy answer to be had, he’d have discovered it himself by now.” Osytha’s message might be harsh, but she tries not to make anything else harder than it need be. There’s no reprimand in her voice, no judgement nor derision toward the girls for entertaining such fancies. Only gentleness, verging on contrition. “Instead, he’s been let down over and over again. I can’t even imagine how painful that’s been for him.”

She’s had a glimpse of it, though. “And I’ve spent— my whole life people have been trying to fix things— the condition can’t be fixed, she tried. I… can’t be fixed. So I hurt her and I knew it didn’t matter, because at the end of it all she’d just— healed herself right back up, right as rain— and what about me?!”

The rawness of that memory has Osytha frowning mildly at the cold stone wall in front of her. She forces her expression to soften, before continuing on; “You’re right, Alaera — I have no intention of hurtin’ Rois. I won’t be tellin’ the order about this. I won’t mention it to anybody. Anybody at all… with one exception. Because I can’t promise that I’ll keep it from him.”

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. He’s going to go apeshit. Fly off the handle. Proper barmy. Fuck.

Despite the madly-spinning wheels of damage control screaming from the back of her head, Osytha keeps her face ironed into a smooth mask of calm. Breathes nice and evenly, and ushers her heart carefully back down from its attempts to leap out her throat. And so, that’s the facade presented to Feliene and Alaera when the woman looks to them once more.

“I’m sorry. But you said it yourselves — he can sniff these things out a mile away. Tryin’ to hide this from him… it’ll only end up hurtin’ Rois even worse, in the end.” The girls are treated to a small, sad smile, then. Presumably, Osytha means for it to be a comfort. “If you’re that worried, I’ll keep your names out of it when the time comes, should it come. But I think it’ll be better if you’re up-front with him, as well. Whatever else, he appreciates honesty. And he loves you both. You’ll all find a way through it.”

Why, oh why, didn’t you wait for me to say if I could keep this sort of secret?


There’s an interesting, if grim, look at epilepsy through the Middle Ages in Owsei Temkin’s The Falling Sickness: A History of Epilepsy from the Greeks to the Beginnings of Modern Neurology via the chapters available on Google Books
 
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She tramples hope underfoot like weeds.

She grasps at dreams and drags them back to earth, back to the mud, ‘truth’ is such an ugly thing but she wields it as well as she wields a sword; grace does not steal away a blade’s bite.

Words tumble from her mouth with practised ease, a trademarked flatness, the voice of one who had set such a tone upon others afar; others who had asked to wander in the path that she had taken. Others that expected the effortless denial of whimsy in favour for stone and steel and they hadn’t chosen that life, the chance had never been given, their little safe bubble erected by their caretaken was burst like lancehead to flesh; exposure. To the real world. Where little things like wishes and hopes could be dashed against rocks like glass tumbling upon frothy waves to shatter into a million glimmering pieces, they exist in that very room… the trembling of lips, the beginning of tears, the retraction of hands, the shunning of faith, Osytha talks and talks and talks and they hadn’t expected it at all. Every part of their fluttering hearts had glimpsed a future where instead of the horror of reality settling upon their shoulders. The knight made it easy. Soft as snow spiralling into the pricking of iron, heavier and heavier and she’s right, she’s right.

And it’s not fair.

But life has not been fair and life would never be fair, that was the misery of existence; no matter where one’s location was during birth, whether caught amidst the glory of stained glass and the ruffle of silk (like them) or the middle of nowhere upon stone (like him) the stretch of time one spent upon the ground was always rife with the tenacious teeth of woe. That had been their experience. This, now, was proving to be their experience. Feliene blinks in stunned silence, eyes rolling down as the fat, shimmering tears spill down her flushed cheeks, a curled hand raises to catch them like dew upon a morning leaf ignorant of the sun and its desire to fizzle away the night’s misty gift to nature. Takes a moment to stare as more join them till a sniffle comes, the mouselike twitching of a nose. Her voice comes fragile as first winters ice,

“I… I see.” A pause of contemplation, a stare down at a fast-blotting length of skirt that kisses the peach of knees. Trouble ensnares her thoughts, too many thoughts rampaging across the breadth of the youths skull at a single fixed point in time, much like her caretaker there needed to be processing-- “I… um…”

“I… reject your idea… about stories, and magic, and fables.”

… For the longest time it had been her sister in the spot-line, skip-hop happy Feliene and her boundless joy skittering about in barely tempered glee, seeing things through a thin veneer of shimmering gossamer. There was a silver lining, always. Gold slumbering beneath the soil, one just had to look. Alaera was always content to follow along with her older sister in whatever she did, wherever she led them, ever-quiet and glad to simply bask in the sunlight of Fel’s glow-- but every sun had its moon, and when the light died and darkness seemed to crash against their little heads it was the wiser sister who was capable of summoning up defiance, no matter how weak it was. No matter how bad it felt. No matter how, the sight of her sister’s light dimmed caused courage to clamber up her throat and bleed into words-- they aren’t spiteful. They aren’t tactical. She is still a child and this is a child engaging in the critically typical, absolutely teenage notion of rebellion,

“I… I hope it does not sound rude, syr. Do… do not take it as such, I am not attempting to stir up an argument-- I just--” The sweeping emotion had urged her to fake flight towards the knight, to stand before her a step away instead of occupying the sacred space of safety at her sisters side with woeful eyes just as tear-laden as Felienes, but there was something else there, too… something a little stronger. Alaera says that she hopes she does not sound rude, but in those words there is the barest, lightest fringe of bite, push-back, fight, little kitten and her needle point teeth stands ready to defend the breaching of her sisters eyelids by salty-sweet tears that draw stains across petal-blushed cheeks. A crinkled nose, a skirting of the crux of her hand against bangs the lightest shade of a bluebells crown,

“We choose to believe in hope… because, i-its all we have. Crocodile is incurable, a-and we could sit here every day and cry about it… or we can choose to believe, in stories. If… if you think we a-are childish idiots for that, then, that’s what you think, right? But… it feels better to believe that salvation exists somewhere… then to simply wait for the end to come find us. Miracles… can happen.”

A pause to breathe, a stand up straight, a louder tone, strength, Feliene’s eyes begin to shimmer with the brilliant starlight of a new speck born upon the daytime sunlight a thousand miles away, stellar formation--

“We are a family of miracles!! Most of us should be dead, our Crocodile is half a demon-- something many people don't think exists-- and, and you and your order can smile and laugh--”

A misread social cue-- a repetitive slap to the chest--

“-- But we are living proof that anything can happen, no matter what science thinks, no matter what you think, I am going to continue to believe in us and the power of this world!!”

Breathlessly looking down upon the knight with fists balled against her ribs, the way the sunlight catches 'Era’s eyes is akin to the way it causes the turning icebergs of the frozen north into spectacular stretches of the surrealist blues imaginable, colours that could never be captured by paintings or ink or dye, the divine shimmer of the Shroud itself ensnaring focused pupils bereft of their long-gone glaze. Feliene stands all of a sudden like a corpse roused by the spirit of words alone and raises arms in gleeful worship, jumping up and down upon the spot as if the energy was so strong her body could not stay still--

“‘Era!! ‘Era, you’re so cool!” She wails through the sniffles stuffing up her nose, red blotchy skin, a mess but an empowered one, “You’re a real Shroud-weaver! You can do anything!!”

“Only if you’re there by my side!!”

It did not matter if Osytha wanted to keep her stories to herself; the world was full of them. There would be time to find more. There would be people willing to share little scraps of other-world wisdom. There are always people that want to sing of things only their eyes had seen. Their little coping mechanism, the spirit of youth may be based in folly… but on days where the truth felt a lot like sitting by his side as he struggled to breathe, half catatonic, then it would spur them ever onwards to try to continue. It would be a lit fire in the snowstorm at their depths. It would flicker, some days it would be but an ash-kissed wick twisted by the wind and aflame by ember alone, but it would not be crushed beneath the weight of a non-believer so readily. And they knew the truth, what was coming, and chose instead to dare to hope like creatures of the churches and covens and holy sites around Khurun steadfast in their prayers. Truth was ever-present, an every-day reminder upon a hazy horizon, one day the hardest day they had ever known would come and threaten to devour them whole…

… But that day was not today.

With the flow of speech stopped it slowly dawns upon Alaera’s fluffy head that for a moment there she had been almost berating a knight-- realization hits her like a mallet upon the skull and suddenly she is scuffling backwards with squinted eyes as if awaiting retaliation, but unknowing of what kind-- it causes her sister to begin cackling erratically at the sight, no part of she thought Osytha would do something so heinous, but just in case… the older of the two addresses Osy with a little side-step before her younger with a mixture of happiness and sadness caught there, so easily twisted were the face of the generations after, unknowing of how to hide feeling--

“Ok, ok, I'm done being weak-- I-I hope you’re not offended, syr.” … Better say this again, just in case she was, taking a deep breath in and hoping the wobble of her voice had vanished with the overwhelming sadness her sister had chased away, what she had wanted to say before the others admission could finally be uttered, “This is just how we are. And um, another thing… you shouldn’t tell Crocodile you know, because of how he is. He’ll hurt you… h-he’ll really hurt you. And, it’s not because… y’know, we told you. Or because you know in general. It’s just…”

The tepid touching of fingertips pressed together, an uneasy look to the door, Feliene hates the way her crying has caused wayward strands of her hair to curl gently against her face in a loose stick,

“... Even if you promise not to hurt him… he won’t believe you. He’ll want to get the, um, upper-hand first. And even if you do somehow persuade him, if your, your friends end up knowing… he’ll…”

Unending violence.

“... Is it worth mentioning it? What... what do you gain?”

 
For a split second there, bemusement makes its encore appearance across Osytha’s features. The question seems to have thrown her.

“Gain?” she ponders, eyes searching from twin to twin. “Probably nothin’. I just don’t want to be that kind of person to him, is all. I don’t want to hide things from Rois because I gain something by it.”

She looks down into her hands, now lying nestled in her lap. In the absence of Feliene’s inquisitive touch over them, Osytha finds her own thumb sliding lazily through the other’s palm. So pale, though more colourful for the coppery dawn light. Not as pale as the twins’, though. Those fingers, white as the fresh-fallen snow.

“I… believe in him,” murmurs Filly, “you know? Maybe he will hurt me. I’d rather take that risk than betray his trust. Otherwise, I don’t really believe in him at all.”

Talk about hope. Talk about simple-minded fantasies. Who’s Taani? Is honesty really as selfless as she’s telling herself it is? Or would it merely be another thoughtless, careless blunder on her part, doing more harm than good — whatever her actual intentions?

Once was bad enough, surely.

“Then again, I did mess things up pretty bad with Vitri…” Osytha blinks down at her palms, then lifts them, burying her face in their cradle with a pained groan. “Gods, I don’t know. I just— I don’t want to hurt him. That’s all. I don’t want to hurt him, but I can’t see… I…”

Osytha lingers in the dark behind her fingers a second longer. She sniffs. Then, her hands trail down enough to bare her eyes. Staring wide and watery, and looking into a great distance; far beyond the wall opposite her bed.

“Why did you tell me?” she murmurs. “I said that he kept it from me. You didn’t even wait to hear if it was something I could keep secret. And now— now I only get to decide how I’m going to hurt him. Do I start lyin’ to his face like I swore I never would, or do I make one of his worst fears realised?”

The hands fall away. Red-rimmed eyes in a face now bared, turns to the girls. Haunts them with that stare.

“How can I possibly ask him to believe in me, now?”
 
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No retaliation… just sincerity. The glazing of eyes and the meeting of palms and turned-down lashes, they understood that, and understood further that it seemed like Osytha was just the same as he was. Honesty was not a sin. The truth indeed was a double edged sword that bore its razer-edge in every direction at once, but like that (often too sharp) Crocodile down below, the twins wondered if Osytha lacked the nuance of knowing how to ease into it… how to take something composed of iron-wrought fact and smith it into something delicate and thin and easy upon the eyes, hammer against silver, easier upon the ears, tact. This was not a lost cause. In fact, the more physically open Osytha was the more human she being, no longer a being of unknown power composed of sculpted stone that like a trap sprung was capable only of sending her sword arm downwards in a cleave…

… She was a person, too.

And he had responded the same way they did… beings of strong emotion, reacting in kind to overt feelings.

“Don’t-- don’t worry, syr! I feel… l-like I believe you completely.” Feliene spares her a bouncing nod before looking backwards to her sister who was slowly regaining composure when nothing came to punish her bravery-- it was… ok? Yes, she’d said that hadn’t she, ‘you’re allowed to get upset, or angry, and to speak up about it. These things matter to you, and rightly so’, Alaera meets Osy’s grey-sky stare with a whirl of surprise about her own, more truths. More promises kept, words and thought-about words now with the grace of exposed sentiment. The antithesis to a spy stealing away into the heart of their ragtag cooperation to squirrel away knowledge for a terrible cause, no blade-tips against their spines waiting to delve beneath the threshold of skin, Rois’s voice echo’d in twin skulls… just a person. A normal person.

Why did you tell me?​

“... Because as, as long as you didn’t know… you could never really get close to him.” ‘Era admits whilst following the same thrum of truthfulness ensnaring their conversation, gentle voice causing her sisters spirit to stir with something, “But… it feels like you want to be… close.”

“... You’re going to be his friend. We’re going to make it so. And when the time comes where you want to tell him… he’s going to like you, so he won’t do a thing!!”

… That is an incredible statement from an excitable girl who has come forth upon springy feet to finally capture both of Osytha’s hands in her own with a heel dig, a pull, the intent is to drag her to a stand and it is partially effective by way of a slightly sliding knight abruptly against the covers--

“And-- and you’ll have to believe in us… and maybe it’s hard to have hope… but! There is nobody in this entire world that knows Crocodile better than us; he thinks you'll try to kill him if you know, and he’ll try to keep you away… and in turn we’ll drag you so close that he won’t have the space to harm you!!”

Lead, follow, the older has the reins, she steals a glance to Alaera with furrowed brows and awaits for the backup-- ‘Era is hesitant. The reasoning for this is not because she disbelieves in her twins rousing tone or even because she thinks it’s impossible for true friendship to be kindled between a knight and a dragon, but rather… humorously, the girl still appears to be a little weary of Osytha herself in the way of punishment. A scoot forward. A look at Fel’s outstretched arms grasping the strangers… the tiniest smile. Thin, fragile, bashful, the lass peers beneath her bangs and announces--

“The measures he’s put in place to keep you away… we’ll overcome them.”
“Because… you don’t deserve to be harmed.”
“And he needs more friends…”
“Osytha the crocodile-tamer!!”

HUH.
 
Just like that, Osytha finds herself back on her feet, body instinctively following the cue from Feliene’s hands; lean forward, engage quadriceps, rise, straighten up. Those soft little hands returned to nestle within her own. Careful not to let this slight elvish lass bear the brunt of Osytha’s true bulk, of hearty bone and muscle.

“And he needs more friends…”

“Osytha the crocodile-tamer!!”

She hears herself snort at that, even feels a smile ambushing her face. Probably there’s no worldly force capable of taming Rois, which, as concerning as that fact may be at times, is also one of his strangely endearing qualities — just like his uncompromising abrasiveness. And as for friends…

“Anyway, I am confident she does not like me…”

… perhaps he already has more than he realises. Not by much, admittedly. But, even so.

“Thank you,” Osytha tells the girls. But, barely any time after it has arrived, her earnest smile is fading back into something more troubled. “I appreciate the offer, it’s just — it feels a bit…” devious. Disingenuous. Opportunistic. Effective. “… like I’d be usin’ both of you to get to him.”

And the mere thought of using children like that is abhorrent to Osytha. Admittedly, it’s not quite so cut and dry; by her own reckoning, she’d considered the kids old enough to handle some difficult conversion, and Alaera and Feliene are right in that they know old Crocs better than Filly does. But they’re still so… naïve. So quick to go from terrified to trusting, thanks to a few smooth words and some very mild waterworks. It would be so easy to exploit that if one actually wished to hurt Rois. Just because Osytha’s being genuine doesn’t make her feel any less icky about it.

“Are you sure about this, Feliene? Alaera?” Now it’s the knight who might appear most fretful of the three; hands searching for reassurance in Fel’s, eyes seeking honesty in ’Era’s. “If he starts to think I’ve been takin’ advantage of you like that… are you absolutely sure this is what’s best for him? For you?”
 

“We… want you to use both of us to get to him...”

A decisive voice; it really is that easy. All Osytha does it look a little reserved, seem a little inwards thinking, dart her eyes around in an unsure manner and she is rewarded courage anew when her other hand is taken up… now ensnared in a trap, the likes of which she could never know. Or maybe it is better not to know what lurks in the cyan depths of eyes caught with a backwards glance, like both girls are communicating telepathically on a channel that no mere mortal could access no matter how hard they turned the dial of their mind, the idea is fanatical, Feliene… looks crafty for a moment.

Very crafty indeed.

“... What’s best for him? Syr, Crocodile does not know what is best for himself.” She has to suppress the rowdy snickering gathering in her throat, “He once tried to show off and almost drowned in a shallow pond because he refused to let other people see him struggling. He would have rather died.”

The image of some dumbass stranded in the mud and black-water wondering whether Hell itself would really rise to take him just to be plucked up by a disgruntled Rakkar-- the sprightlier twin is rather glad their little entwined knight is using her legs, ‘cause whilst the feat of trying to drag her would have been comedic it would not have gotten them anywhere. Leading… slow, purposeful leading… round eyes of determination about the shoulder, rising up with enough courage to simply bat all of Osy’s complex fears away as if they meant nothing.

“Surprisingly, though… Crocodile is actually really smart,” A thoughtful tone, finger curled at her chin, “And people often get scared, because he acts all mean and threatens people a lot. But… that’s the reason he's acting mean and threatening people a lot.”
“... He’s playing a game that no-one can win unless they cheat.”
“We have to cheat!!”

Games, trials, tests, wordplay. Finely honed tools oft hidden till decisive moments in time where it is too late for the player, their distracted eyes floating about scattered clues, trying to understand what the rules were in the first place to notice they had already lost. Trying to think ahead of the curve caused missed marks, and likewise trying to predict what the hell would come out of his mouth next when the man was so adept at controlling the narrative caused the sort of exhaustion that led to people getting wrinkles far before their latter years, it was not worth it. Whatever the prize was, money, sex, or the mysterious and strange friendship was too much effort. A crown for him, winner, people were swatted away like flies and he could remain lurking in the misery he had made a home in, festering like a re-opened wound till the next person needed to be chased away… what was known was safe. What was new was frightening. They had realized long ago that unless pushed, dear old Crocodile would willing stay curled up in the shadows to wither away.

And they were starting to realize something about her, too.

The longer Osytha herself was left to think… the more she wondered… the more questions arose, an ouroboros of doubt needing its head yanked out of self-perpetuated speculation: and they are like little sprites leading her towards an excitable doom, step by step, carefully downwards to the lower floor with the natural grace of barefooted faeries,

“-- And he won’t think you’re taking advantage of us, unless, unless you’re bossing us about or asking us specific somethings!! He’s very aware of how we are. Also, us two are the reason any of the staff are still here… we taught them how everything works with him.”
“... We’re the ones that got them to be ‘staff’ in the first place.”

Alaera gives an uneasy smile (and a reflexive squeeze against the ladies palm) at the distant memories, picking people up from nowhere, saving them, and then saving them again from a disgruntled Crocodile who would quite literally fire anyone for anything if they did not pick up on rules that were never spoken aloud in the first place. Misplaced tools. ‘Subpar’ treatment of precious mules. ‘Being annoying’. All valid reasons to be cast aside like trash the moment thin lines cast about their dancing feet were tripped, woeful, how children had to step up to a snapping beast and find petty reason not to abandon them in the depths of nowhere. And they were about to do it again.

… They fill the knights head with enough chatter to bring her before the unlocked door of a dragons cave--

Trap, set.

What was about to happen was-- likewise-- about to happen very fast, and it needed to be fast, because something told them that Osytha and her neverending doubts would cause the poor woman to shy away from the prospect of absolutely cheating her way into some kind of relationship with the sleeping beast. Ethical? Morally viable? These words do not exist to them, they were concepts that existed in the world of reality, a painful, normal realm that none of them occupied; she had to see how things really worked around here and throw away the notions that clung to everyday folk beyond the borders of his dark influence… and they are so alike. The twins and their caretaker both favoured action at the end of the day, and simultaneously they release Osy to huddle together, just as players would at the start of an important game--

“You get--”
“Ok. I’m faster, so--”
“I’ll--”
“Yes.”

One.​

His door was not locked so they’d always have somewhere to run if trouble did erupt… such tender concerns about their safety was about to get rewarded by deviousness. It is rudely (yet quietly) swung open to reveal a not-very flattering picture, a grown ass man drooling on a pillow afar with arms wrapped tightly about the very same (saturated) fluffy object in a hug against a smooshed cheek. Hair like a raked bush, the (those boxers are literally custom they have his initials, this egotistical--) slumbering half-demon is half caught by sheets about his legs and middle--

Two.​

Alaera heads towards the desk in the murky dark, curtains dutifully closed to stop morning from casting holy light upon him in a burning reminder that daytime was breaking, attention turned towards something juuust out of sight… Feliene rubs hands together, goon-like, absolute mutiny, a heel spin to Osy with a finger held up…

“One moment.”

The door is slowly… shut.

Three.​

… It takes a few seconds. In those blissful moments the knight is simply stranded against the door-frame in silence intersparsed by the din of kitchen noise, the smell that wafts about the interior by way of thin smoke is meaty… bready. Fresh. One would not forgive her for choosing in that moment to instead follow the scent to its delicious home-place, but the moment the ruckus starts that hungry intent is crushed by both curiosity and chaos, raw, unfiltered, explosive-- voices rise--

“WHAT, WHY--”
“SURPRISE! Good morning, this is a heist!!”
“-- Don’t you DARE!!”
“Go-- Go--”

Caturwauling, high pitched laughing, erratic footsteps, the barking of a dog suddenly spooked into alarm by God-knows-what as the door comes flying open and out comes one twin clutching a wooden box baring the scrapes of claw marks and the smudged-black of old burns… a well loved thing stuffed with cigarettes. Lots of them. Well over two hundred of them contained within a space the size of a picnic box, white, beige, black, bands of many hues, it is Alaera that skids across the stone and comes to a far away stop from the swinging barricade to hold them tightly to her chest--

It’s too early. It’s too early to be running around chasing kids before the first smoke of the day, which is in the arms of said kids, Rois appears at the doorway like a mythical creature toppled down to the status of every-day monster… poor guy looks a little fucked up. Without a hairbrush (and interestingly, without bandages) the half-beast looks like he’s been dragged through the evergreen underbrush and has somehow made it out with what appeared to be an immaculately beautiful red dressing gown made entirely of shimmering silk, untied, hanging loosely from his large frame--

“-- You.”

A finger point to Osytha, narrowed eyes with the faint blushings of purple beneath them-- that hand is immediately snatched by Feliene to point it down at herself--

“Us, actually! You’ve been really mean and we don’t like it.”
“Yeah, we shouldn't be horrible to guests…”
“So, we decided we’re going to hold allll your cigarettes hostage until you’re nice to syr Osytha.”

… Ruby eyes turn round, they turn from Osytha’s (no doubt confused) static form down to the girl-- a game--

“You can’t do that! You know I need those?!” … A very immature response mottled by a scratchy, half-awake voice, Rois somehow looks a little fluffed up and flighty with shoulders raised, and there is no questioning. There is no bargaining. It is just accepted as something that is now afoot between the four of them and things like intimidations and threats were nowhere in sight, little concepts thrown out the window-- Osytha is not accused of anything further, completely off the hook--

In order to cheat, you had to play with pieces that could not be easily knocked down.

“Well, this is what happens when you’re being horrible.”
“I wasn’t being horrible!!”
“Actually, Safya told us you were!”
“That bi…rdddddd.”

Ground teeth together so tightly once could hear them being dragged back and fro abrasively as he swallows down the word he wanted to say, if it was uttered they’d just snitch on him to the little kitchen-bird and get him in more trouble.

“We’ll let you smoke,”

Feliene smiles with a step back, tossing her fluffy head in Osytha’s direction with a gentle lilt,

“If you give syr Osytha a hug and say you’re sorry.”

Oh god. Oh God, it is incredible, there is no protesting, there is absolutely no uproar, instead the sleepy man sort of assumes… a POSITION with open arms and curled claws outstretched, partially in annoyance, partially in desperation with words grumbled--

“Come here.”

…. he deadass stanced up like this im so sorry osy


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