“… He’s playing a game that no-one can win unless they cheat.”​

“We have to cheat!!”​

… and that summons up a memory, of their chance midnight encounter a sovereign moon past: how he’d dangled that tender hunk of flesh just in front of her face, rich glaze of soft cheese and herbs unable to truly mask what it was, though who shall ever be a mystery to her. Had that been Osytha’s sole interaction with Taani? Indirect as it was, and though she hadn’t realised it at the time. But, whoever cooked it up, it had been Rois who took that morsel and proffered it forward, goading her from beneath his half-lidded eyes:

“… could you lower yourself to the level of the people you are supposedly sworn to protect… or are you too proud, knight?”

No; Osytha had not been too proud. She hadn’t quite been able to tell what sort of line was crossed from biting down on that perfectly-seasoned meat, which the other grim deeds to her name have not already gone well beyond. So, bite she had. Made sure to hold it long enough to properly taste, that the understanding could really sink in. Only then did she let herself swallow it down.

Rois had not expected that reaction. But it had opened something up between them, she feels like.

The sight of Alaera’s hand in hers momentarily captivates Osytha, as Feliene’s also had before. Alas, she is afforded little time to fully appreciate such a gift — the twins are leading, leading, leading her down to the foyer, so Filly sets her eyes on where they’re going instead, lest she take a tumble in her distraction. Wouldn’t that be one for the reports: Syr Osytha of Dusk, and her neck, claimed by her oath when she fell afoul of some stairs. No thanks. She’s in no hurry to meet her maker, for one thing. And she reckons she can do a lot better than that when the day does come, for the other. So she just focuses on letting the twins tow her along for whatever scheme they have cooking up. “We have to cheat!!”

Has that been her mistake, here?

“I guess a part of Rois might enjoy that,” muses Osytha. “If I, sort of, got down from my high horse for a bit…”

If I fell, in other words. If I broke my morals and went against what I stood for. More than that. If I had to truly, thoroughly, dirty my hands with the kind of filth that no good deed can wash away. Sooner or later… will you want me to pay that price, Rois?

Whatever. For the time being, Osytha has given up the reins to the twins entirely. It still feels wrong, but therein lies the rub, doesn’t it? The rules of ‘normal’ don’t really apply here in Sinclair’s Meat Market. Trying to do what’s right hasn’t really earned her much thus far.

So, that's how she ends up standing before Rois’ bedroom. That’s how she discovers the man is a messy sleeper (though no surprises there), glimpsing his prone, drooling form in monogrammed sleepwear (again — hardly a revelation) before Fel and ’Era shut the door on their antics. And that’s how, with the twins’ shock assault on Mr Crocodile still clamouring in her ears, Osytha abruptly finds herself staring perplexedly down the length of an accusing black talon.

“— You.”​

Her gaze slides up past that digit, past the ostentatious silk gown, into Rois’ sanguine glare.

“Er…”

“Us, actually! You’ve been really mean and we don’t like it.”​

“Yeah, we shouldn’t be horrible to guests…”​

“Well, I don’t, um, know I’d go so far as to say ‘horrible’…”

“So, we decided we’re going to hold allll your cigarettes hostage until you’re nice to syr Osytha.”​

“You can’t do that! You know I need those?!”​

“… except when he got a bit— a bit handsy for a second there, that wasn’t very nice…”

“Well, this is what happens when you’re being horrible.”​

“I wasn’t being horrible!!”​

“… and I know the colour’s not great on me, but calling it ‘ugly’ did kind of hurt…”

“Actually, Safya told us you were!”​

“That bi…rdddddd.”​

“… I do feel ‘animated as a corpse’ was uncalled for…”

“We’ll let you smoke… If you give syr Osytha a hug and say you’re sorry.”​

“… even if it don’t mean as much as you think it does, where I’m from— ee, what now?”

Osytha blinks up at Rois. The man is standing there like an again-walker frozen in mid-lurch; those outstretched arms seeming more a threat than anything else. And, yes — oddly enough without his head wraps. That alarms her for a second, until she realises no one else seems to be at all concerned. No, what’s truly alarming are the next couple words to emerge from Sinclair’s mouth.

“Come here.”​

She looks at the twins. She looks back to Rois. Did she actually hear that right? A hug?

… fuck it. Why not?

Filly rolls up her sleeves for dramatic effect. “Let it be known: I did not ask for this,” she declares… before a big, evil smile lights up her face, “but by gum, I en’t about to complain neither.

“Let’s make it a good one, aye? We don’t want to disappoint your girls now.”

Burgundy-sleeved arms flung wide, her silhouette dwarfed against the hulking beast in open scarlet silk — Osytha steps forward to meet her fate. Enthusiastically, and with a nice, snug, face-squished-right-to-his-chest proper hug.
 
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‘Let’s make it a good one, aye? We don’t want to disappoint your girls now.’​

The expression she sees before her view is overtaken by red and tan is incredulous. So much so that it actually surpasses the spark of surprise within his mind that she’s actually playing along (her, Osytha, engaged in silliness), what did she mean by that? A ‘good’ one, a logical doubt in his softness, oh, the shift of amazement from himself to herself was going to be delicious, three hundred and twenty pound giants composed of iron-wrought muscle and unchained strength were capable of the tenderness of littler men if they wanted to be. Did she think about the simple fact that those arms could snare and shatter spines, break ribs into powder with uncanny force, effectively crushing her to a messy death without fanfare-- or had the knight reached a point where such an action would be impossible to even imagine? The violence always occurs to him mentally, just a fleeting point, just an unspoken note, an unacted reminder. Impossible indeed.

To be gentle does take any effort on the butcher’s part. Rois is simply a master at this sort of thing due to the absence of stodgy emotion most men would feel in this situation.

With concepts of lust, desire and shame, it would be easy to imagine other males shoved into such a scenario as bashful creatures actively pushing down ideas about flirting whilst being unable to rid the red from their faces at the ferocity of her engagement. Osytha is beautiful after all, and this is the closest the unlikely pair had ever been, a common and simpler man would no doubt melt and fumble and have to search for words amongst the warm mist settling against their skulls (it’s lovely, it’s so so lovely, please don’t let go). Not he, the pressure does not phase the half-beast what-so-ever as arms ensnare the woman’s smaller form without hesitation, no staggering, no static, no jittering movement.

And he makes sure it’s just as snug, if only to see if it freaks her out. He wants to see if she panics. Lechery does not possess the strange man but violence still mentally does, I could… if it were any tighter, you wouldn’t be able to breathe…

… Smells like the faint, bitter remnants of cigarettes with the musky pepper of some (no doubt) lofty, imported cologne clinging to the fabric, the salt-sweat is sweet and new, the sort of thing that comes hand-in-hand with the radiating of abnormal warmth that seeks to flush the snow-white stretches of her skin pink. That heat… everywhere. The sensation is not as fire burns but as sub-boiling water comes to seep into tired muscles, a numbing, soothing glow like accumulation one goes through when partially submerged in the rolling mists of a hotspring. Someone is very popular in winter. Tangled ribs cast hearts against each other but his does not dance or stutter with affectionate sweetness, the rhythmic, wave-like shift of skin accompanying every beat seeks to brand itself against her cheek; the slight elevation of its speed is annoyance and nothing more. That same vexation is present when Rois speaks, baritone akin to the diesel-like purring of a greater cat come to shake your bones with its deepness, its underpinned by that come-again second voice growling in the depths of his throat,

“I am sorry.” Blatantly sardonic, the rush of air stirs the hair of her crown with pleasant warmth, “... Also, to say the colours not great is an understatement--”

“Hey!” Feliene saddles up to them with a raised hand, eyes flashing--

“What!” A higher pitch, careful not to let the emotion cause nail-points to dig into the knights spine, in their pointedness they are felt as pressure but not as pain, “I apologized! So, reward now.”

“Let go first-- she has a boyfriend, you weirdo.”

Poor Hector had gotten demoted from husband to boyfriend within the span of a three-quarter hour… and ‘reward now’ is a very interesting phrase! It’s like if human speech was gifted to a dog and it had just finished a trick, now demanding instant payment for such effort-- Rois peels Osytha from him by way of unwound arms (gently) catching her shoulders and puuuuuushing her afar with a conscious step back,

“How has it come to be that I am the ‘weirdo’ when this is the task you gave me--”

…………… The reflexes of an actual rock. One of those inky-black papered cigarettes bounces off of his head silently and claws raise probably an entire second too late to catch it-- with a low stoop to pick it up from the damned floor the red-head’s eyes are blessed by pleasant sparklings and widening diamond pupils, the sort of thing that happens when spying something you love, success. Like the addict he is Rois jams it between his teeth and lights it with a deep, shuddering breath in and a sneer in the general direction of the girls,

“I will be getting the rest back.” The dragon in a flurry of glorious red amidst the grey of nicotine smoke slinks back into the darkness of the room and closes the door in a somewhat-bang. The movement might seem like a stroppy ‘I am going to sulk now!!!’ but it is actually--

“... Ssssahahahaah!!” An explosion of squeaky giggles,
“Shshsh-- quick-- quick--” Rushed words with an almighty grin.

Osytha is no doubt used to being dragged by now, Feliene is tugging her with both hands to the knights one away from the door so that their efforts to whisper would not be heard by the brooding male within--

“W-Where do we hide the box.”
“We have until he’s finished doing his hair.”
“Can’t let him get them till the game is over, right??”

Alaera holds the box snug against her chest and begins looking around dramatically, but it is very clear that they have gone to Osytha for help because adults possess a greater sense of stealth for such a task. If it was left to them it would end up behind one of the lonely plant-pots scattered around, aka, the most obvious place of all.



★ Rois thoughts on hugging Osytha; 'She is indeed a human woman.'
 
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It’s a good one, alright.

Rois closes around her like a beartrap sprung, and the world near disappears from Osytha’s sight. Bar for a vague hint of shimmering red silk, there’s naught but darkness to be found pressed into this big, broad chest, while his curled arms blot out the sky. Space itself seems to have been wrung from existence; there are no dimensions — no up nor down, no forward nor backward, no side to side. Only blackness, and a pressure like the universe being compressed into a single pinpoint.

Osytha clings on best she can, riding it out. Her own arms barely reach past one another around Rois’ back. One of her hands gives him a few encouraging pats against a bulging trapezius, capping off with a comforting little rub. ‘Top-notch hug here’, she ought to tell him. ‘Ee, that’s the ticket’, or similar.

“Urk,” says Osytha.

That feeble little noise doesn’t even escape past his pecs. It’s swallowed up by the steady, concussive thumping of a mighty heart behind a mighty, muscular breast. Lost in the cloying cocktail of salt, stale smoke, and some residual, sumptuous scent.

And the heat.

Everything else seems to ride that warmth, saturating, until what small pocket of air lies here in the dark feels thick enough to drown her. And yet, there’s an oddly peaceful sensation to it. A mind-numbing sort of effect from the heat flooding through her melting body, even as her lungs struggle for breath…

“I am sorry… Also, to say the colours not great is an understatement—”​

“Hey!”​

There’s a strange, dual effect to conversation rolling around Osytha. Fel’s bright voice sounds so muffled and distant, like she’s listening from underwater, while Rois’ great, cavernous rumblings vibrate right out his chest through her head. It’s kind of… nice. She doesn’t even pick out individual words, just, allows the formless shapes of their voices to become one more thing swallowing her up…

When Rois finally starts peeling away, Osytha proves rather reluctant to let go. The woman’s arms don’t make any move to disentangle themselves from around him, and her head continues to loll happily against his chest, eyelids drooped shut, cheeks flushed rosy, and with a sleepy smile across her face.

“… Warm…” she mumbles, dreamily.

… Only to be left blinking groggily when Rois keeps on cruelly pushing her away, forcing the (relatively) cold, bright foyer to all come crashing back into view.

Resignation sets in. Osytha steps back to let the rest of the scene unfold, taking it all in with big, sad, grey eyes.

Very, very suddenly, she wants to be home.

Not to go home. Osytha wishes she were already there, right now, wishes it so strongly that just thinking of the long and arduous journey back feels utterly unbearable. That’s what that hug just now has made her realise. She doesn’t want to be here in a strange town, with unfamiliar, distant, strangers. She wants to be home amongst people she’s allowed to just reach out and touch. Osytha wants… she wants to be able to hug Leo, to let him cling onto her the way he had when they were children. She wants dad to put an arm around her shoulders and give her a jostle like he does when he’s proud of her. She wants mum to hold her close, to stroke her hair and softly hum until she falls asleep. She wishes it were Hector she could throw her arms around right now, and press herself into. She wishes—

—she wishes she had never let him go. That she had followed him, that tender-hearted man, so they might have held each other just as often as they had ever desired to…

A sharp burst of girlish laughter snaps Osytha from her conflictions, back into the present.

“W-Where do we hide the box.”​

“We have until he’s finished doing his hair.”​

“Can’t let him get them till the game is over, right??”​

“I s’pose there’s a couple of ways to do it,” Osytha says, strolling up to inspect the case in Alaera’s arms. She gives it a thoughtful look, hoping that she’s quelled back the fresh shimmer of tears enough that Fel and ’Era don’t notice. “Could find somewhere inconspicuous, of course… but it’s pretty bulky. Maybe on top of a rannel-balk¹, if there’s one tucked up inside the fireplace? Though getting covered in soot will give the game away. Hmm.”

The foreboding doorway to Rois’ room draws her eye. How long does he take to do his hair, she wonders? Osytha leans in a little closer to the twins, dropping her voice to a careful hush.

“… Then again, you can always try hidin’ it in plain sight,” the badger confides, nodding toward Rois’ door. “If one of you slips in there after he comes out lookin’ for it, well… if he thinks it’s been stolen, then last place he’s likely to search is his own room, aye? Might be enough to keep him runnin’ around for a while. But the best part is, technically, you’ve already given it back. Can’t get mad at you for doin’ the right thing, can he?”

She knows it’s a rhetorical question. Yes, he can; Rois can probably justify getting angry at anything he wants to, and it seems as though he often does. But at least the twins should be a safe exception to his ire; an acceptable risk, all in all, especially for the sweet reward of smug inculpability.


¹ ‘Rannel-balk’: a beam set up a fireplace flue, from which chains and hooks could be anchored to hold cooking pots over the fire.
 
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Why was she sad?

That minute shifting of the knight’s expression, a subtlety no doubt lost upon young minds who could not comprehend the wishes of those stranded far from a fixed position. When home was a thing that could go anywhere, the sickness left in its absence was non-existent. So… it had to be something else. Something simpler. As ideas come of where to hide the damned box of cancer-sticks Alaera retains this thoughtful expression, pondering the events that transpired with her clueless sister shaking her head--

“He’s going to watch us like a hawk! So the room is probably going to be very difficult to get to… but the fireplace?”

Was there a …. 'rahnal bulk' there? Feliene relieves her sister of the precious cargo and skitters to the hearth with eyes clearly shimmering with questions surrounding the not-knowing of what in Khurun Osytha was talking about, but sure enough… there it is. The doohicky. The thingamajig. Metal beam running from end to end, the smell of dead soot comes to brush her nose with intensity-- a slight cough and a balance. The generous breadth of the flues dirty entrance allows her to balance it between the backwall and the rod itself, where only a sliver of its lower-half is visible at low angles--

“It’s perfect!!” … Thin arms now dotted in black, Fel did not touch the walls and was extra careful to lean across the decayed remnants of last nights fire but speckling endures all the same, with a gasp she runs fingers and smudges the soot, it’s getting worse-- “Safya!! I need the sink--”

A hurried disappearance into the kitchen; the swinging door opens and closes with a plume of exciting smells.

… And Alaera finds herself with Osytha for the first time, completely alone. A lull in the chaos. The scatter-brained actions of the older sister had not cleaved her deliberation upon the hugging incident in two, still giving it some thought-- and Osy was still a little scary… but far, far less now. The woman got more and more human as time went along, to the point where she can be addressed without stuttering or the beginnings of terror come to lend a quivering edge to words,

“Um… syr?” A gentle tone and gentler advancement to their captive knights side, a tentative look up… and a small smile.
“..... Crocodile won’t react if you touch him a lot. He is like a pet you can harass, and, he just lets it happen… so please, if you want, do not be afraid and grab him all you like.”

That literally wasn’t the reason for Osytha’s brief bout of woe but ok!! In the wave-like ripples of time in which interactions are non-linier, Filly is the first person to know this strange piece of information; Alaera wonders if it’ll be abused like how they abused it all the time, a short distance along the timeline the Celestial’s knew the information had given a certain Rabbit the ‘go’ signal to completely and utterly pester him with wanting hands--

“Morning, girls. Having fun?”

The telltale squeak of a certain bird graces the room with its lilted notes always pitch-perfect, she is wandering backwards through the kitchen door with goodies for them clutched within her claws-- donned in a tan affair the beastkin’s bib does not lack in the way of autumn-brown dark bows at her throat and at its comfortable ends. The table is graced with two plates (little thing had to carry them out two-by-two, hollowish bones and littler clawhands gave no impression of strength), and upon them sits the steaming wonder of lower-easts staple food, something found upon almost every street, an entity that could be combined with literally anything--

The glory that is shawarma.

Large (humorously so, these would require two hands!) disks of markook flat-bread wound about a mixture of poached duck eggs, shredded, fatty pork, diced tomatoes and seared lettuce dotted like Feliene’s arms had been in black pepper. The occasional furl of golden onion combatted by the likewise curl of red bell pepper give it glorious colour, the mixture is stuffed to bursting point and ready to spill onto the clean plates in a medley of running, yolk-kissed flavour-- and as such, they are given cutlery, a knife and fork, but it was out of convenience alone. This was a hands-on function. Alaera waits until Safya is on her way back to the kitchen to get the second lot before lightly setting herself upon the beastkin with a soft and affectionate hug (very huggy family, this),

“Safya, morning! As always, you’re a fantastic cook.” A newly found joy not seen so easily in the younger twin causes her to beam, “We’re tormenting Crocodile with a game today!”

The bird doesn’t look surprised whatsoever.

“Well, make sure you are eating as much as you are playing…!”

 
“Um… syr?”​

A small voice at her side pulls Osytha’s amused gaze away from the kitchen entry, through which float the sounds of minor, Feliene-based havoc, and she finds herself looking down into Alaera’s timid face.

“… Crocodile won’t react if you touch him a lot. He is like a pet you can harass, and, he just lets it happen… so please, if you want, do not be afraid and grab him all you like.”​

It’s always the quiet ones, isn’t it? While Fel dives right into whatever catches her attention, ’Era’s on the sidelines… watching. Watching everything, taking note of this and that. And the further away you are, the more you can see. Like how, in the background to the much more animated ciggie scrabble which just took place, there was a certain knightess overcome by a sudden, aching pang of sadness. Even if Alaera doesn’t quite know what to make of it, she still noticed.

They’re good kids. Not just in the general sense — Osytha already believed that — but good for each other. Strong in different ways, which together, makes something whole.

Now she realises what Rois has on his hands, she could almost laugh at the irony.

Osytha doesn’t go that far, but a sudden warmth does replace that sadness, and she returns the girl’s small smile with a larger, happy one of her own. “Thank you,” she tells Alaera, with absolute sincerity. “You know, I’m very fortunate I got to meet you both properly today. I think I needed a little reminder about hope… about kindness.”

Her face turns back toward the kitchen soundscape, and in a slightly more awkward manner, continues;

“And, er… if either of you are in need of a, a hug or the like, but Rois en’t around, then, um,” Osytha gulps, “—or even if he is around and you still want one from me anyway, well, I’d be. Happy. To do that. Um. Can’t promise it’ll be as toasty as his ones, mind you.”

Not even Osytha understands the reason for her own clumsiness. In truth, she’s hardly averse to tactile signs of affection; perhaps it just feels wrong of her to offer as much when she’d tried to stomp all over their dreams naught but a few minutes ago. Before she has a chance to really simmer in the stew of her own mortifaction, however, Safya comes to the rescue with more gifts from the gods.

“Morning, girls. Having fun?”​

If Osytha wasn’t already, the sight of breakfast suggests she is about to. Pearly white pork fat, succulent eggs, and an enticing vegetable medley over some sort of huge, round, paper-thin cakes, which are giving off the singularly delicious scent of fresh-baked bread. Filly moves like a person hypnotised, transfixed by the plates as she fumbles her way into a seat.

“Mornin’,” she replies, a touch distractedly. “Ee by gum… thank’ee, Safya. What, um, what do you call this ’un, then?”

There’s a disquieting feeling rising in Osytha’s chest. Last night, with the fattet djaj, she’d thought there was something about Safya’s cooking which reminded her of her own mum’s. Yet it’s becoming apparent that the peahen may very well be an even better cook than Meri, and there’s something terribly shameful about that thought. It makes Osytha feel like a Bad Daughter.

It does not make her any less hungry for looking at the shawarma, though. Not in the slightest.

The knife and fork are almost in her grasp — simply because they’re there — when she stops at seeing Alaera go at it with her hands. The girl is laying into breakfast with the markook, using that bad boy to scoop up portions of greens, peppers, eggs and pork into one big wrap.

Oh, so it’s kind of like a trencher, then, she guesses, looking at her own plate anew. Only a bit more edible.

Well, when in Svapna…

Osytha follows suit: trying to keep the explosive mixture all neatly tucked into her folded markook. Only, she’s not quite used to bread so thin as this, and certainly not when pushing its structural capabilities to the limit. She can already tell from looking at the taunting, tantalising, gloopy gleam of yolk oozing out the top of her roll… this is going to be messy.

And utterly delicious.

She takes a bite. Loses some of it back to the plate. Gods, but it’s hard work not to immediately cram more into her mouth. The shawarma is so good, it almost distracts her from the rather pressing question she’s been meaning to ask all morning.

With a swallow, and then a hand raised over her mouth for good measure, Osytha glances around the table from Alaera to Safya.

“Do, er, do either of you know if Vitri came back last night…?”
 

There had been but a little touch before the youngers departure, a sincere moment following Osytha’s awkward bout of tender feelings come forth as a staggered admission; slowly, carefully, lithe hands lend their touch to the knights arm. Full-body contact from the shy creature was still a step too far for a stranger, but yes, the arm would do, a graceful sweep and a loose hug comes to claim the woman’s limb with lace against burgundy and subdued warmth,

“... All living things must have hopes and dreams and wishes to keep on going, syr.” Notes of quiet happiness, “And, we are alive.”

Release, and shawarma*.

“Clean, clean!”

Feliene skips gleefully from the kitchen, freed of the black spots once come to mottle her skin (though her poor dress still bears a few smudges the girl does not remember gaining…) with a plate of her own-- sidles up to her munching sister and rubs hands together in anticipation. It is very much like trying to wrestle all the ingredients together within the fragrant, thin skin of bread keeping them tentatively all in place, but neither girl reaches for the cutlery and instead are content to get their hands lathered with falling food-stuffs, occasionally lending a tongue to a glistening finger, little bites. Graceful and dinky. This is an important addition to the scene because a certain someone was about to be proven as the complete opposite.

“It is Shawarma…! Do not be too impressed,” Comes Safya’s trill of laughter at Osytha’s tangible glee, “It is being easier to make then… cooking steak still pink inside, but not outside. I’m still learning that!”

That seemingly simple task took technical skills that lots of the Suldazan platters did not possess, most of the dishes were simple things in such quantities together that it gave this grand illusion of complexity-- and the mentioning of Vitri’s name interestingly does not conjure up any worry or sour emotion upon the peahen’s face. Knowledge withheld. The man was a sneaky one indeed.

“He was on night shift on roof to watch caravans… I was leaving him a plate and this morning, it was being gone when I woke up.” Forefeather to her chin in thought, “He will most definitely be sleeping now. Oh-- and I almost didn’t--”

Ah, no, the bird absolutely does not know about the little scuffle at the pit, because she scurries away as a lightning thought comes to snatch her attention away from what the beastkin perceives as a non-important matter just to reappear with glasses…! In pairs again, girls first, sunshine yellow liquid only adds to the already vibrant colours of the meal, strained fruit cut with water; not so finely that there weren’t the speckling of pulp particles missed by the cloth but most definitely smooth all the same, diluted just before the point of transparency,

“If you do not like mango, I will bring you something else!” Little claws deliver upon Osytha a glass of the good stuff… and a second glass. A glance across the table, to the girls. A glance back to the space beside Osy. Feliene catches on quickly, beginning to chitter loudly with giggles across the way as a hand smears her own glass with its grip,

“Make him sit there.” She announces with a devilish glint to cyan hues, “We are on a quest to make syr Osytha and Crocodile be good friends.”
“Because… we sort of told her… about… his… problem… the problem.”
“We’re going to make sure that when he finds out, he understands that she is his friend. And friends don’t hurt friends.”
“... He’ll be understanding… that she won’t…”

Kill him? Tell every other knight how to kill him? Trigger him immediately with a skull-bash attempt?! Safya freezes on the spot and begins blinking rapidly, staring at the twins as if they had just beheaded someone and were now showing her the mangled head, it is the look of someone who knows he’s going to freak out. But… the moment is only passing. When emerald spies Osy there is a softening of constricted irises in their verdant garden,

“... I see. It is being ok, because you are not a bad person, syr.” … That confidence is overwhelming. That belief is resolute, not a single worry quakes the beasts cotton-soft tone, the once-again kindness of a stranger choosing to put chips in hope, seeing a trained combatant who was once perceived as the enemy and looking the other way, no, it would be too easy to jump to conclusions most horrid, it did not feel right to not allow Osytha that grace, “... He will be afraid… but I know you will be gentle. It is a good thing, yes. I love master, but his lack of trust in new peoples… it could do with some… biggening.”

There it is again, little affirmations in the way of touch, rough-scaled claws pat the knight upon her shoulder solidly before the last glass is placed beside Osytha. When his plate is fetched it is obvious it’s his because it has two damned wraps upon it as if the bloated mixture of deliciousness wasn’t enough for him, it joins its companion, he would sit there. Feliene raises egg flecked hands and proudly announces,

“The game is called; ‘Only syr Osytha discussion is allowed’!”




* Shawarma was invented in the 1800s (and the name actually refers to how the meat is cut) so it shouldn't technically exist, but the middle east has had 'meat and things stuffed in flatbread' for 14000 years and so instead of saying that I'm choosing to call it by a more modern name despite it not really being shawarma because its closer to what I envisioned and easier to write. we can have a little modernism in our fantasy rp !!!
 
Fortunately, Osytha likes mango just fine — as is clear to see by her expression from the glass raised to her lips. She’s met not by the thick, near-syrup of uncut mango juice, but something lightened with water, and more refreshing. Yet another fleeting show of uncomplicated joy, before her face is overtaken by something else. Something like relief.

“Thats good,” she murmurs, staring down into the faint swirling dregs of pulp. “We… split ways after the Pit. I guess Vitri went to take care of the payment? So I thought we’d end up beatin’ him here, but when I didn’t notice him get in…” Osytha shrugs, and sets the glass back down. “Rois din’t seem worried, but still. I’m glad to hear he made it back safe.”

After all — it would be on her hands if he didn’t. Night shift as picquet from the roof, eh? Fair enough. In Munas Kuvak, you have to create your own security. There’s no town watch to stop ne’er-do-wells from raiding your wagons and making off with your precious mules. Though, admittedly, that’s hardly any different from some of the places Osytha’s used to. Outside of the richer wards in cities, the watch and ne’er-do-wells tend to be one and the same. There’s no gang as big and as dangerous as that which has the law on its side.

And that’s worth remembering, especially for people like her. When you believe yourself on the side of what’s ‘right’ — be it the law, or an oath — it’s easy to start thinking that by extension, then anything you do is justified. Which is just plain arse-backwards.

“Should kindness not be the duty… ?”

Osytha blinks from her reverie, re-focusing on her shawarma. It’s too early in the day to be getting this maudlin. Besides, she’s racing against the clock with this thing; the saj bread is slowly disintegrating in her hands with or without her input. She can philosophise while she eats. And probably later, while she’s washing yolk-stains out her dress.

So she’s only one more bite in when Alaera almost makes her choke on it.

“Because… we sort of told her… about… his… problem… the problem.”​

The badger’s eyes bulge over her wrap. She recovers quickly, though — composing herself with the back of a hand to her mouth as she gulps, then using it to clear a smear of sauce from her lips. She locks eyes with Safya during the whole ordeal; she who is just being brought into the fold concerning this plot against their master. Osytha sees the woman’s shock, understandably greater than her own. Sees that pretty, feather-crested head wrapping itself around the revelation. Sees her beak part to make speech.

“… He will be afraid… but I know you will be gentle. It is a good thing, yes. I love master, but his lack of trust in new peoples… it could do with some… biggening.”​

—Sees the acceptance settle in Safya’s eyes, and feels it in the comforting touch of slight, avian digits on her shoulder. Another trusting soul, it would seem.

Why?

Maybe it’s a lonelier life than Osytha had imagined. “... All living things must have hopes and dreams and wishes to keep on going, syr. And, we are alive.” No, it’s not strange to hope for more — more than to keep cutting themselves off from others, however safe that may be. More than a life spent always moving from place to place, having to hide in some fashion, or go on the run in some other.

She smiles back at Safya. For a moment, she rests a hand over the claws on her shoulder, and gives them a couple of grateful pats.

“The game is called; ‘Only syr Osytha discussion is allowed’!”​

Oh no.

Now Osytha is suddenly fighting down the urge to groan. Not a bad groan, though; the kind of groan one might offer in response when a friend makes a truly terrible pun, or begs you to recount a particularly embarrassing (but amusing) anecdote. A theatrical little agony which is nonetheless wrapped around a core of fond resignation.

“Go on, then,” Osytha concedes. She did promise Safa that she’d share a few stories or the like, after all, so this is their chance. “I’m guessin’ the rules are simple enough — but what’s the penalty for breakin’ them?”
 
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“Vitri doesn’t walk places! He climbs everywhere and walks across the roofs… rooves?” Feliene exclaims when her mouth is free for speech, she is NOT aware there is a shred of glimmering onion stuck to her cheek, “Like a sneaky monkey, so other people don’t see him!”
“Don’t call him that though, he doesn’t like it.”

… They don’t know why calling a grey, dark-skinned Devahni a monkey should be seen as a bad thing, but racial idioms simply slide off of their pretty little smooth brains. And it is a good thing they are pretty! Feliene spares the knight a gentle wave,

“But don't worry, no penalties for you…! You’re going to see the true power of skilled Crocodile-tamers!”
“Mhhm--” … Alaera misses her cue to follow up the brash statement due to rightfully eating, she hastily swallows and tries not to choke-- “Mmmyes! We’ll win, we know it. The rul--”

A door closing causes them to subtly freeze in place, open mouthed.

He has arrived to absolutely put their outfits to shame.

Western-wear work, eastern-wear pleasure, always. The way the western fashion scene loved to don their victims in tightness made him feel stiff and restricted, like moving too much would cause something or other to snap instead of stretching… ruffled shirts and slack-pants were reasonable, Rois had even been known to don a corset or doublet if the occasion called for it, but off the clock? The loose, flowing fabrics of the east in all its cooling glory would always be the preferred look. And work is not the agenda today. So when the half-beast finally manages to drag himself from the dark depths of his now smokey room he is immediately ‘othered’ by the surroundings, by all of their clothes, sticks out like a sore thumb, and he doesn’t mind that.

Because he knows he looks good.

Off-white sherwal pants tied against a shirt with a cut so low that it had to be custom (because of course he has his tits out, when didn’t he have his tits out), jet black flats, his top half is ensnared by a barely opaque hemp shawl in lighter tan; it prettily contrasts against the deep shades of the man’s skin like burning desert sand to a sun-bleached shore. The flipped up hood is frontally engulfed by now brushed waves tumbling into c-like curls at their end, the greater fringe they cause almost hides the bandages come again to carefully coil about that sensitive skull, furls cast dancing shadows stretching down to the edges of his jaw. The whole affair is effortlessly simple in its elegance by avoiding the beloved patterns that the western world so loved to flaunt-- checkers, tweed, tartan and the like-- it is brought to a fancier level by the inclusion of glimmering, likewise-simple gold jewelry. One ear is graced by a circular stud, from the other hangs a small depiction of a flared sun, and to keep it asymmetrical a shining gold band captures the opposing wrist. Jewelry was not for men back home. Here, it did not matter; and so he’d occasionally indulge in it, providing it wasn’t gaudy. It all makes him look so much… younger. A completely different vibe from the night before.

And the fashionable man had been strolling casually with hands in his pockets, almost appearing as if caught amidst a day-dream, until eyes slide to Alaera…………………… and the lack of box. Eyes widen slightly. A toneless call across the room.

“... Where is it.”

There isn’t any response from his two lovely children, who immediately begin snickering in the mischievous way naughty children do when caught in the middle of something-- no answer. Rois blinks in disbelief. Ok, well, it had to be somewhere, immediately he begins to toss his head too and fro to try and glimpse it-- why is he looking up high, who could have possibly put it up there-- a rushed stalk around the table, stares directly at the fireplace and immediately looks away. What was a rannel-balk? Hell if he knew! A silent attempt to push his way into the kitchen just to find his path blocked by a ball of feathers rushing between his looming form and the door, wings raised,

“Don’t you dare!” Safya squawks-- despite her alarm, it is very evident by the quivering of her pitched tone that she too is trying not to laugh, “It isn’t in there, I do not want you messing with my pans!”

“I want my box.”

“Go and eat your food before it gets cold, ayuha timsah almushakis!*”

“You’re in on it… you’re all in on it.”

Rois turns dramatically to the table and spreads his arms wide, claws scattered, declaring with the utmost seriousness,

“Why is my life suddenly being dictated by women!”

Oh, oh! And of course his seat is going to be right next to her, the red-head stroppily takes his place at Osytha’s side with an attempt to look mean about it. It is only an attempt because it crumbles almost immediately the moment he can finally focus on food, and good food was more important than pretending to be pissed off at the woman beside you and her stupid dress and the way she’s left money just out over there at the slabs very edge, rejection as clear as day, how he wants to be pissed off! But shawarma! A harsh swallow of the building saliva gathering in his jaws, not yet, this all needed to be addressed--

“Go on, then. What are your terms.” Rois is speaking in a half-growl to the gleeful youths attempting to appear innocent afar, knowing that Osytha wouldn’t actually have anything to do with all of this. She was normal, after all.

And nothing about this situation is 'normal'.

“The game, ‘Only syr Osytha discussion is allowed’, is played like this; you have until the end of breakfast to show interest in her life!”
“And if we feel you aren’t interested enough, then you’re not going to get your cigarettes back.”
“We’re going to ask the questions.”
“Your ‘meanness’ must be punished.”

Rois takes a minute to regard them with very evil eyes, woven fingers perched against the bridge of his nose. They are the narrowed slits of an apex predator wondering if, with a single movement, they could clear the table and in turn twist the punishment cast forth back upon them; but it’s just a fleeting thought. After all, he did not demand the box back. He did not move from Osytha’s side. He has not scolded them for talking to her. He did not have to play this game, and yet, with that deep voice coloured by thoughtfulness…

“... So… you two are lashing back at me for my whole, let’s not get close to new people rule, a rule designed with your safety in mind, a rule that only I apparently followed--” Loud enough so Safya can hear in the kitchen!! “-- By forcing us together. Bravo.”

Rois graces the table with a slow, sarcastic clap, the twins look a little stunned at the speed in which the butcher not only reads them but understands exactly where the event stems from. But now it is time for the attention to turn to the woman of the hour… a lean back against a creaking chair noisy in its protest against the weight, an arm slung against its back, body half twisted to Osytha pupils pin her on the spot with the most shit-eating grin that could ever be summoned--

“Are we sure Filly’s life is interesting enough to occupy the whole of breakfast…?”


* 'You naughty crocodile!'
 
Well… perhaps there is one earthly power capable of taming the beast. Fel and ’Era proclaim the knight is about to witness two professional croc wranglers at work, but truth is, the fruits of their labours have been plain to see since the moment they ransacked Rois’ precious case.

No, before even that… Osytha had heard their effect on him last night. Mulling over that while she lay in the dark; she’d wondered if there was another way to make him see.

A door opens behind her. At first, the twins’ sudden look of slack-jawed surprise is a cause for concern — one never really knows what they’re about to get with the Crocodile Butcher, after all — but a quick glance over her shoulder puts Osytha at ease. It’s only his tits. Nothing to worry about.

She gives a low, appreciative whistle. “Looks comfy,” declares Filly the fashionista.

Then, turns back to her breakfast. Trying not to look too hard at her own pastel, apricot-salmon affront to aesthetics. Thankfully, Osytha’s learning that it’s easy to ignore a lot of things when you’ve got a plate of Safya’s cooking to focus on instead. A little more grease and yolk dribbles down her fingers as she savours this fresh experience, listening with an ear cocked to the banter bouncing back and forth like a game of table tennis.

“Are we sure Filly’s life is interesting enough to occupy the whole of breakfast…?”​

Osytha surfaces from her shawarma to reply; “I sure hope so, else you can wave goodbye to your fags.”

A relatively clean hand ducks into a pocket and fishes out a relatively clean hanky which, after a preliminary lick to remove the worst trails of errant sauce (can’t let it go to waste, now), Osytha uses to wipe her fingers off. The woman leans over slightly toward Rois as she reaches for her glass of mango juice.

“I’d like to discuss that job offer with you again,” she murmurs his way. Then, she straightens back up, lifting her drink up and saying to the table at large: “But, after breakfast. Someone had better ax me some questions soon, ’cause I don’t know this shawarma’s goin’ to hold out much longer.”
 

Clearly that little retort about her life had been spoken to get a rise out of her.

It doesn’t work.

Just another little thing to tick him off.

“That is exactly what we mean about meanness--”
“Shh, come here--”

The girls are murmuring to themselves across the way with twin hands cupped to very quietly chattering mouths, the devising of some notorious plan no doubt, it leaves him finally free to take giant chunks out of his own wrap in circular shark-like bites that do not allow things to run or fall. Ingredients scissored in straight in half. In times like this sharp teeth actually did have a positive purpose no matter how insignificant it might seem to everyday life. Rois has no intention of letting the smokes evade him, and it would have been a tactical decision to eat fast to force a truce in which the box is (with much annoyance) handed back to their rightful owner, but the butcher does not engage in the notion; he is naturally a fast muncher (and surprisingly polite!), lending an ear to Osytha’s exclamation… the job offer. Interest perks, dogs ears stand up, but he does his best not to let it show and with a placid, neutral expression she is answered by way of rolling, wordless murmur.

Interesting.

“First question isn’t a question.”
“It’s a demand.”

Deliberation has come to an end! Oh, they look smug with their almost-eaten shawarmas resting before them, slightly messy lips curled evilly, both with an opposing hand on a hip-- black claws drive themselves slightly against the markook with some sort of emotion, ha, he cannot avoid his hands being subjected to the same dribblings as everyone else. Rois swallows to rid himself of puffed cheeks and retorts in a lowly voice,

“... You’re breaking your own rules at the first opportunity?”

“Just this once. Just because of what you just said.”
“And you want your cigarettes, so… you better listen up, Crocodile.”
“Because you’ve been quite cruel about the way syr looks, you gave us no choice.”

Feliene leans forward with the most wicked glint to ice-touched eyes, sharp, like the rising of a knife-point glacier lancing through of the gentle fog;

“Compliment her. Be a gentleman.”

“...”

Oh great heavens.

The large creature beside Osytha does not stiffen up for what could be the presumed reasons of the average person suddenly finding themselves confronting a situation that was critically awkward, nope, as always preconceived ideas about what he is going to say or think or do are once again catapulted into the great wide beyond-- it’s… it’s because going to have to be the truth, whatever was spoken within the next few moments could not be a lie. That was not Rois’s way. It isn’t embarrassing to compliment others based on physical appearance to he who had been flattering others since the beginning of his stressful tenure upon the earth, but it is a little soul crushing to have others know what you think about them, the red-head did not want Osy to know these truths. It worked in his favour if she had little to no access as to what she appeared as in the fantastical realm that was the man’s mind, his inner eye, the little spots in which people were stored like pieces of art to be surgically taken apart in quiet moments to study them. Even something as steeped in normalcy as ones outer apparance… it was a blow to the essence of mysteriousness that Rois wanted deeply to remain shrouded in.

To be cryptic. To be unpredictable. To be unknown.

… But this was a game, and the bountiful annoyance that came with losing the darkness of puzzlement that came to fuzzy the edges of his being in the mind of others was nothing compared to the shame of losing-- against children, no less! Already he had taken a glancing blow by Osytha’s refusal to get mad at his little quip, and then again by having Safya choose to take their side (bitter, he’s bitter about it), and now to reject this… Losing, he kept losing, last night at the table regarding the (perhaps back on) job, he’d gone to bed mad about it despite the interaction above with the two heathens seeking to ruin him beneath the cruelty of their expressly obnoxious attempts to catch him out! He wasn’t going to lose anymore. It wasn’t about cigarettes, it was about tenacious attempts to damage his reputation as someone who so effortlessly dealt cards and watched balls tumble about boards and pushed chess pieces and won every time now brought down amongst the midst of cheaters--

… Rois was silent that entire time.

Simmering in his own thoughts he forgets to actually answer them and remains caught once again in a philosophical day-dream, aggressively chewing upon his wrap like dog to bone with eyes furiously cast downwards at its awaiting companion… with a gulp he finishes one before any of them-- who got theirs first-- came close to doing the same. The second one isn’t started. Instead he pushes himself a little away from the biting lip of the brutalist table and turns to look at Osy with only the faintest hints of aggravation letting itself be known as squinted eyes do not make themselves subtle. They are roaming. Low to high, the study curve of calves, hidden beneath the hem of the ghastly dress are no doubt the swell of strong thighs and a taught belly, similarly sculpted arms, it needs a bit of imagination. No good, not without seeing those parts, instead slitted pupils dance around the delve at Osytha’s throat and the coy splaying of collar-bone teased at the dresses cut-line, higher, never meeting her eyes, not even when he is looking right at her face… Rois prefers to concentrate on details.

The twins are waiting with baited breath for the reply, hoping that it isn’t anything awful, but the tension in the room only furthered by the crippling silence is so awkward it makes them want to quiver in their seats--

“... Your eyes remind me of rain-water puddles after a storm, the calm kind that reflects everything back at you when you walk by.”

A twist with the toss of a head, turning attention back down to the plate instead of addressing anyone in particular in the room. That smooth tone, easy-flowing words, there is absolutely no sarcasm there, and why is he talking to the damned shawarma wrap,

“... Your nose reminds me of the classical beauty of the west and their white-marble sculptures. Despite the strength of your muscle tone, the smooth curve of your neck and the roundness of your jaw softens you; appealing and natural femininity, the kind that would no doubt be ruined by paint and blush.”

… You could have heard a pin drop in the room. Rois grapples his second lot of shawarma and opens jaws to savagely bite it at, but before he does, a muted utterance,

“Satisfied?”

Chawmp. Fel and ‘Era blink rapidly before exploding into rapturous applause with gleaming grins and…….. the attention makes the butcher uncharacteristically shrink a little in his seat with an errant grumble, trying to ignore them and focus on eating,

“That was so much better than our initial first question!!”
“Well done, Crocodile!”
“We were just going to ask her where she’s from!!”

 
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“Compliment her. Be a gentleman.”​

It’s a good thing Osytha’s not mid-swallow when that one comes out, otherwise she might start choking for real. The wrap stops halfway to her lips, gently sagging in her grasp, while a few scraps of lettuce and tomato seize this opportunity to take a leap of faith to the white porcelain below. She doesn’t notice. Too busy giving the twins a mildly incredulous look when the pressure at her side shifts; seen and heard and felt in the myriad ways which cry out motion, to which she slowly turns her face. Rois’ mildly irate stare waiting for her there, his blood-moon eyes thinned in appraisal as they scan her from toes to top.

The torturous silence stretches out, broken only by another faint splat of escapee shawarma. Osytha yields a small, uncertain grin for the man, as something akin to pity starts to take root in her. If it’s this hard for him, perhaps they’re better off not hearing whatever agonised ode Rois is composing in his—

“… Your eyes remind me of rain-water puddles after a storm, the calm kind that reflects everything back at you when you walk by.”​

—Ee?

It hasn’t rained in Munas Kuvak, but, quite suddenly, those blashey grey pools before Rois are yet full and lown.

“… Your nose reminds me of the classical beauty of the west and their white-marble sculptures. Despite the strength of your muscle tone, the smooth curve of your neck and the roundness of your jaw softens you; appealing and natural femininity, the kind that would no doubt be ruined by paint and blush.”​

Slowly, vaguely at first, Osytha becomes aware that she’s gawping. And soon after that, much more keenly aware of the faint grease smear she hadn’t fully erased beside her lips. Her head snaps toward her plate. Before she knows it, her hand’s brought the handkerchief for another pass at that smudge which, she’s certain, is much less flattering even than ‘paint and blush’.

“Satisfied?”​

Osytha’s other hand grabs at her juice. Her nice, refreshing juice. “Um.” Gosh. When did it get so stuffy in here? “Yes. Thank you, that was very… very nice of you to say.”

The knight doesn’t so much drink from her glass as try to hide her face behind it. Feliene and Alaera, meanwhile, erupt with glee across the table, which only seems to make Rois wilt in on himself — though, not so much as to distract him from the remaining shawarma. Whatever further thoughts he has on the matter are shared only as an indistinct, mardy muttering between bites. Filly takes a leaf out of his book; buys a little time by occupying herself with her own half-finished wrap, while she processes all that.

Well. How unexpected. Not so much to see that he’s capable of eloquence in general, just, it was quite a shock to actually find it levelled at her. Nice, though. Can’t deny hearing him say those things felt… oddly warm, and a mite giddy. At the same time, nor does it feel right to want more. Not from Rois.

There’s really only one person she hopes to have speak such flattery to her. To have whisper it in her ear, right alongside all the sweet nothings and vile promises which rile her pulse to a hummingbird purr.

“That was so much better than our initial first question!!”​

“Well done, Crocodile!”​

“We were just going to ask her where she’s from!!”​

While the twins cackle and gloat, Osytha carefully finishes chewing. Then she takes another few seconds to dab at her cheek, until her face is halfway presentable again.

“Hræfn Leah.” As the duet of raucous mirth dips down, Osytha’s gentle voice seesaws up in its stead, buoyed on an equally soft smile. “Where I’m from? It’s a village toward the north of Altalusia. Not a bad place, is the Leah. You know. For an indigent peasant town way out in the sticks.”

She takes her glass. It’s easier to talk around sips of mango juice than the culinary anti-Jenga of her crumbling shawarma roll, which is turning into as much of a mental exercise as a physical one.

“My mum, Merifrith… she’s the midwife and healer there. And my step-father, Hroðgar, is the town blacksmith. Got a brother too. Leofric. He’s learnin’ the trade from dad.” Osytha pauses to sip on her juice, before continuing; “Anyroad… they’re good people. If you’re ever up that way and find yourselves in need of a hand, you can count on them. Just, er… don’t bring up your ‘specialty meats’ — the Leah’s one of those places that frowns on cannibalism. Direct cannibalism, at least. Otherwise, folk there are quite welcomin’ to off-comed-’uns.”
 
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... Nice?

Regardless of what he thinks of her response, scrubbing away the immediate thoughts-turned-words begging for release with a metaphorical eraser, the man cannot fault her for wanting to move on. A little safety comes with the lack of needing to speak, a stoic reluctance to turn back to look in her direction, stubborn defiance and instead choosing the plate once more as a target. That is where they will remain, Rois thinks, because looking at the ceiling or twisting a head to look out the window was far more effort than letting whatever emotion was shifting in those strange, inhuman eyes.

It was an inkling that this was the best option.

As Osytha begins to warmly recount her origins to receptive girls across the way-- they seemed to have finished eating, despite neither having really finished their entire wrap-- this inkling begins to prove itself true. Raised hood and pressed forward curls, bandage scrawl, facing forwards and down serves as a great way to completely obliterate all of his facial features from view, bar-----

“Oh!! You have a big family too…?”
“Hræfn Leah is a pretty name… like a place in a fable.”
“... Is your brother single? Because when I’m older--”

Alaera balls a hand that had been subjected to childish suckling to relieve them of foodstuffs and bonks her sister savagely upon the skull, causing Fel to squeak in surprise with crinkled up eyes and a soft ‘what!’

---- Bar... slowly… chewing… fangs.

Healer. Healer. Healer. Healer. Healer. Healer. How fun it would be to show up at such a lovely place and get some new, fresh insight on things! Wouldn’t be entertaining to be sat down and told the same thing as always, no, no, it could be even better, audacity-crushing, ego-destroying, lessons, lessons, no better than anyone else, no better than any of them, people with metal things and their tests and their blended strange-stuffs, just like everyone else, attraction, net to crawling-creatures in the ever-night, down and down and crushed, the end, the breath-taking end, the awaited end that flitted around like butterflies in the garden ensnared all the same with the same basic tools one could use to trap flies, inevitable, just like disappointment, just like the feeling somewhere, a distant light, a wagon-wheel creaking, the footfall of armor, all that way away and then suddenly not, so close it’s suffocating, so close it crackles through every muscle and burns lines against the bone because it is more than a feeling it is more than the inevitable it is everything and everywhere and nowhere and no-one can see a phantom or a spectre or the horizons end for they are maybe-things that exist but don’t in tattered books in far away libraries or toppling from the throats of those who spent their lives with those books and they come forth with all their worldly wisdom and mumble and observe and then preach a song of so few lyrics it mattered not whether it was whispered or screamed--

A glassy look overcomes those dark, dark eyes. Like the coming of a crocodiles third eyelid it glasses over fire causes jaw-movement to slow to a gentle… stop. Resolution. Little thought turned dark-sky thundering overhead, ah, yes.

If Osytha ever betrayed him, he thinks it would be nice go to ‘Hræfn Leah’ and forcefully hang each family member one by one before iron-rodding both ends of dear old Merifrith and turning her gently upon a crackling fire to blacken till the flesh stopped twitching and blood burned and fizzled and cracked like paint-- she’d be the last-- she’d watch, no neck dislocation, a kicked chair and a prolonged strangling with two hands to ankles dragging them against rope till it split the red-raw skin of their throats--

“... Earth to Crocodile!”

An awkward flinch, suddenly raising his head and revealing a normal (but a touch stunned) expression as pupils suddenly contract to these horrid lines swallowed up by liquid ruby… before expanding slowly once again.

“Huh?”

“Day-dreaming again…”

A genuine smile returns to his lips, half the last shawarma wrap gone.

“... Was just remembering something.” An easy huff, outward indifference, inward raging, feels his heart run elatedly against ribs, has to control the shiver of fingers against bread, shhh, “Doesn’t matter.”

Rois opens his mouth and goes to begin simply as easily as he did before; but first,

“We... are capable of going places without a caravan or the business attached, you know. And everywhere frowns upon cannibalism…” The last part is a half-hearted mumble, and the next question almost dies somewhere in the fires of his throat... leg bounce. Tap, tap, tap. Searching mentally for questions, “How… did someone from an 'indigent peasant town'... end up becoming a knight?”

“Doesn’t that mean… anyone can be a knight?” Fel ponders innocently,
“I thought… all knights were born noble…” Alaera admits openly.

The girls look enthralled that he’s asked a question about her-- but really, it is to shift the focus. It wouldn’t do well to stay steeped in such tantalising darkness, it called like a siren, once it had its hooks in you there was no choice but to force yourself in another direction or you’d end up showing it… outwardly. Looking back down at the plate, the butcher begins to automatically eat again with well-practised robotism. Just keep quiet.

Bite. Bite. Bite.
 
“Oh!! You have a big family too…?”​

“Not really, only—”

“Hræfn Leah is a pretty name… like a place in a fable.”​

“—er, well, there’s a tale about how—”

“… Is your brother single? Because when I’m older—”​

“—he, um, sorry, he’s got a—”

Donk. Osytha’s brow rises in sympathy on seeing that castigation land atop of Feliene’s poor head. The scene evokes a half-nervous, half-amused smile over her face as she watches helplessly on. What does Rois make of this trifling sibling drama? But, when she looks over, he hardly seems to be seeing it at all. Man has a yonderly sort of expression glazing over his features, the kind of face one makes when they’re withdrawn to whatever world exists that moment inside their own head. Whatever it is he’s actually seeing is so engrossing that he’s even forgotten about his breakfast there.

“… Earth to Crocodile!”​

Those uncanny slit pupils snap shut, the man almost alarmed by being jerked back to reality. For herself, Osytha is perfectly happy to go back her shawarma. But of course she only gets one more bite in before the questions start coming. And astoundingly enough, it’s Rois who kicks them off.

“How… did someone from an 'indigent peasant town'... end up becoming a knight?”​

“Doesn’t that mean… anyone can be a knight?”​

“I thought… all knights were born noble…”​

“Mm-mm.” Chew, chew, swallow; stuck in throat — juice, please. A bit of mango clears the pipes, and then Osytha is able to answer in earnest. “Depends what you mean by ‘knight’,” she tells them, cryptically. “These days? Aye, it’s become a much more formal class with distinct duties and privileges, and it’s very rare for those not of noble lineage to be granted a knighthood. In the old days, though, ‘knight’ was more of a… job description than a social rank. Any mounted, well-equipped, professionally-trained soldier could be called a knight. The Order of the Chrysanthemum is more like the old kind — we’re not defined by payin’ homage or fealty to a liege in exchange for the right to hold a fief. So long as you have the grit to see your training through, and are willin’ to swear the oath, then anyone can join. Some Knights of Anathaeum come from noble families, while some — like me — were serfs or other common folk. Hells, some were criminals. To be honest, the actual toffs are likely none too pleased about havin’ to call oiks like us ‘syr’. We get away with it because, well… officially, because of long-standing conventions which are honoured between us and Altalusia’s upper class. But really it’s because none of them are too keen on starting shit with an elite paramilitary organisation comprised mostly of powerful weavers and which has unfathomable arcane secrets at its disposal. Funny, that.

“As for how I, personally, joined the order?” Osytha purses her lips and raises one brow in an exaggerated, sceptical expression. “It’s a sorry, undignified tale. You’ll probably laugh at me. But if you’re sure you want to hear it…”

Rois did ask, though. So, tell it she does.

Almost the whole thing at that. She tells them about being raised on stories of her father, mighty Syr Grymmund, Knight of Anathaeum: vanquisher of evil, protector of the smallfolk (and sworn in love to one Merifrith of Hræfn Leah). Tragically claimed by his oath soon after Osytha was born. She tells them about being so insufferably dedicated to following in his footsteps that Meri actually relented and allowed her go to the monastery when she was about ten years old, though only after swearing her to secrecy about Syr Grymmund. Mum probably expected her girl to come crying back home within a month. Only, to everyone’s surprise (including her own), Osytha stuck with it.

She makes sure to regale the table with a couple of her most awkward misadventures growing up there. Pretending she could read after seeing everyone else already knew their letters (yeah, that ruse did not last). How she kept getting stuck halfway up mounting horses (most of whom seemed happy to take off with her tiny self clinging desperately to their flank). Of being too scared to get down once she finally did make it into the saddle (they’re taller than they look!). Recounts some of the most ridiculous questions she asked in earnest of their teachers (strange how none of them had heard of any of the monsters which clearly featured in Meri’s stories). So on and so forth; she really lets them know how much of a bumbling, clueless, airhead young Osytha was. Who knows? Might help explain a few things about her now.

Osytha does not tell them about the Incident. Not exactly. Fel and ’Era are spared those grisly details, so she offers a more vague, hand-wavey reason for finally looking up her father. Or at least, for trying to. Asking around about this illusive figure had been its own, mounting kind of mortifying at the time, so she’s sure to include a bit of that as well.

Which inevitably brings them to…

“… Cat was out of the bag by that point, so mum finally came clean. She’d completely invented ‘Syr Grymmund’ because I kept asking why the other kids were calling me a ‘bastard’, whatever that was. And that’s the first thing as came to her mind.” Osytha leans back in her chair, one cheek puckered sardonically at the now-empty glass in her hand. “I guess my real dad is — was? — some low-life whom she met in Crown’s Hold while she was studyin’. He strung her along for about a year before some shady characters from his past came a-knockin’. Well, mum was at least smart enough to avoid endin’ up as fishbait at the bottom of the Wendway, so she stole back home… but, unbeknown to her at the time, old Artorias had given her a parting gift: me. The rest, you more or less know by now.

“And that’s how I became a knight.” Ah, finally, she can finish her damn breakfast. Osytha closes her hands back around the stub of her shawarma wrap. “If any of you are a bit hesitant to keep callin’ me ‘syr’ after all that, can’t say I blame you.”
 
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There are words.

Words that they do not understand entirely and words that they have heard in passing; fief, oik, and toffs are not amongst the latter and remain firmly in the hazy cloud of ‘strange country folk speak not meant for normal people’. Regardless of whatever they do and do not understand, twin blue eyes capture her from their position with thin arms propping up doll-like heads with the occasional nod as Osytha gets into the real nitty gritty.

And he is listening. For weak points, of course. Lending a pointed tongue to finger grooves with that low-slung gave unreadable, dog aggravatingly licking its paws, the outer appearance is one of aloofness at first. Yes, any low-life could call themselves a knight, as much had been seen in the southern fringes of human existence where armed men who could barely afford their damned second-hand arms were in pursuit of people like them after reading some canned oath-- but the ‘Order of the Chrysanthemum’ sounds just as bad as any other vassal program. Even criminals could join the order, aye, but there had to be some sort of maximum and minimum threshold that kept the sickos out (aka, people like himself) or it would just be a party of fools enabling each other to trip over power whenever they so wished. That did not sound like an organization with peace as a core tenant, but low and behold the upper-class is mentioned and suddenly it all makes sense, of course they’d include any Tom, Dick or Harry in their ranks because the more slaves to the establishment the better, sheep following sheep bleating to wolves for orders and praise and housing and purpose.

How pathetic.

… But even though he has finished breakfast and wants so dearly to make barbed remarks, Rois does her a kindness and lets the woman chatter onwards with fleeting glances to enraptured girls… well. It did them good to see women not sitting around waiting for men to tell them to wash their clothes, being subjected to broom and mop and kitchen stoves and gardens, he’d never want such a barbaric, pointless life for them-- hearing from someone who had broke free of the accursed wheel so many other females got strapped to just because they had been born as the ‘non-working’ gender was a good thing. Lovely, even. Hearing about things young Osytha overcame, things that they too could overcome at their young ages, it gave them this otherworldly glint to their eyes like the scattered lights of the furthest north captured there about young pupils… and he liked that look, even if... well. It was the feverish ambition of youth he remembered seeing as the only ‘living’ part of himself when staring down into the down-trodden, mud-black puddles all that time ago… the thing that kept him crawling forward. A want for more.

… And the more he thought about it... the more it annoys him.

Selfish, selfish thoughts, a bitterness that often bared its ugly head regarding the past as a whole, nursing the juice as a way to keep his damned trap shut. Ten years old… nope, it was not about him, Rois keeps himself distant and lets them all revel in the grand story of how she got the chance to make those mistakes and ended up better for it, selfish thoughts, he gently tests his teeth upon the glass in a noiseless manner. Just stay quiet.

Osytha reaches the twist in her tale, the mystery man revealed, it causes a gasp from Feliene and a raised hand to mouth at the horror of such a revelation-- they can’t wait to speak. Literally chomping at the bit for the chance but despite little peeps of noise they too allow her to continue till the very end, the moment they get a chance at the end there, noise--

“Thats just like a fairy tale!!”
“Just like a book…”

… Some kiddos had been reading a fair few young adult novels.

“An unsuspecting hero enters the ranks of the annoyed noble-borns to rise above all obstacles to shine as as well as any of them ever could!!” Fel recounts with star-spangled eyes, lending a fist to a splayed palm, “You deserve the title syr, absolutely!”

Just stay quiet.

“And, and! The real Syr Grymmund is like the seedy villain from your past that you have to mentally overcome in order to prevail at the end of it all!” Alaera exclaims with a gasp, a curled finger beneath rosy chin… and then a sweet, toothy smile, “But… it does not matter that he wasn’t a mythical figure, though. If that lie helped you carry on through tough times… then that belief in that-which-never-existed was all worth it.”

Just stay quiet.

“Mhm. It doesn’t matter if you’re a bastard--” Oop! She doesn’t say it with malice, poor thing-- “Because all the kids that called you that are probably still nobodies and you’re a knight, so!”

He is so pissed off.

Because yes, it was nice at first that the girls are inspired, but it dawns upon him that nothing about himself is inspiring, has ever conjured up such a reaction from them-- not that they knew the details of his past… but if they did, he’d never get such praise. All that they’d bestow upon him was pity like the many, or actual laughter like the few. He’d never get told he’d ever outshine anyone, they would not light up like new candles to errant flame, in their eyes Osytha is really a shining knight-hero who did overcome obstacles and did get to have a family to go back to and did get to sit there and be fawned at by stupid fucking children that didn’t know anything-- don’t call them that-- but fuck-- if he had her life, if--

Rois takes this large, rattling intake of breath and chains fingers together, pressing them against a bandaged forehead in an outward display of stress and patience that had already ran out-- jealousy. He’s so horridly jealous that it feels like someone is raking at his lungs with nails spread to knead it harder against his soul, aha, just a criminal, just a seedy villain.

He’s Syr Grymmund.

Minus the love.

“I need… my cigarettes.” Comes the static groan, the beginnings of smoke beginning to naturally form at his teeth from the ferocity of inward emotion. “Now.”

“Eh-- but we had--”

“I need them fucking now.” A jump to feet that sends the chair clattering backwards, fingers curled against the stone so violently that white lines appear, surface scratches, flecks of cracking rock and pale dust, the youths are pinned beneath a frighteningly lively glare that does not make them shrink in fear but does conjure sudden notes of worry to once-cheerful faces.

“O-Ok, Crocodile.” Comes the soft mewl, Fel points to the fire-place-- “On the rod… up there--”

“And don’t you even think about getting any damned ideas about your futures, I will be dead and cold in the fucking ground before I ever let either of you become a slavish lap-dog to the rich. Syr Osytha’s,” He spits her name with words dripping like heated venom, rounding the table once again like a stalking animal whilst throwing the knight afar a disgusted gaze, “Little story is great and all, but remember where the hell you are and who the fuck we’re running from.”

“Crocodile… we wouldn't...”
“... It's ok...”

Ignoring them entirely the addict gets to his knees and stares critically at the vague impression of the box against the chimneys back, oh thank the Celestials… Rois doesn’t even bother rising from the spot, immediately one is jammed against his teeth and lit with the shaking haste of someone who could only think of that moment, above the anger, of inhaling that stinging, numbing smoke that burned against the lungs so good, a single bead of sweat rolls down his cheek, the inhale is so deep that it literally burns half of the damned thing away in a single go. Ash falls to gather against the blackened coal… and the girls stare at him afar with muddled expressions before Fel turns with a weak smile, a half-whisper,

“I-It’s ok, syr! He needs them, ‘cuz, he gets cranky without them.”

Yeah. That was the reason for the sudden outburst. The lack of nicotine and nothing else, surely.
 
Osytha just lifts a hand slightly toward Fel, palm forward in a placating little gesture. Don’t worry about me, it says. Then disappears into her handkerchief for one last, thorough wipe-down.

“They en’t nobodies.”

Her voice has little affectation — no anger to it, exactly, nor any of that self-deprecating humour from before. Yet, nor does that make it emotionless; for no one speaks so firmly without something behind their words.

“Eldræd, the one who led the bullyin’… he’s since taken over his family’s farm. They mostly grow potatoes. Damn fine ones, at that.” Osytha briefly looks down, to neatly fold the napkin beside her now-empty plate. “Well, some real hard times broke out in the north a couple years back. Food scarcity made for good conditions to play the market — a bit like here, I guess. But Eldræd’s family, they tightened their belts instead, and gave away as much of their crops as they could spare. He’s still a bit of a grumpybum, aye. But, the man works at least as hard as I do… and he’ll be damned if he just stands by and lets a body starve to death.”

She glances aside, over toward the figure of Rois hunched down by the hearth. Something’s setting him off — probably she’s setting him off, even if Osytha can’t tell exactly how, nor why. There’s more she wants to make clear to the girls, but maybe… maybe they should just wrap this up. For his sake.

“Just ’cos they were a bit cruel to me once upon a time, that alone don’t make them bad. Gods know I weren’t some perfect little saint, neither.” Osytha sweeps her gaze back across Fel and ’Era, throwing them a lopsided, bitter-sweet little smile. “And the fact they’re still peasants hardly means they’re nobodies. People are always more than that. By the same token, please don’t try and turn me into some grandiose fable. Not unless you plan on writin’ a ballad about the Eldræds of this world and their potatoes, too.”

The chair scrapes back, gently, as Osytha rises to her feet. Her fingers drum out a single roll over the stone countertop, steely determination brought to bear in her eyes. A decision is reached.

“Right, then,” she announces, stacking up her plate and glass. “I think the best use for my sword-arm right now is helping Safya scrub some dishes. Who’s all done? I’ll take your plates for you.”
 
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