"Perhaps not for the homely folk, but I am a rebellious son and I have a taste for feats of athletics," Walter echoed. "So long as I don't... overexert, it is not only proper but the only thing that should alleviate the gloom that these prolonged storms bring. I hope it clears tomorrow."

To the quieter question, the corners of his mouth twitched upward slightly. They were in an empty hall with only two seats filled at the table of sixteen. Keeping face took a significant portion of his concentration, now, and he so wished they could be alone. Perhaps, soon enough, or on the morrow, they'd be teasing one another at a table in his quarters.

"You have to win, first," Walter teased back. "And for that, the race should come to pass. If the clouds keep, mayhaps we'll be sailing... Oh," he chuckled, suddenly, as if something had resurfaced out of absent mind. "I've been so tired yesterday I've invited you to stargaze before the thunder began proper. Really was out of my mind." A click of the tongue, head shaking now in ruing his struggle to re-attach to reality only slightly less than twelve hours prior, as he bit into a large clice of fresh white cheese.

"I have my thoughts, but if I were to look into it, I wouldn't like to do so alone. My library proper is quite too large to brave it alone on a fancy, and the oldest of my ancestors has certainly declined any involvement, last he'd been here. The smaller one has better view, too. I think there may have been a weaver, in times past, who'd enchanted some beast with music, why not? Or else, I could recount to you the legend of how lindwurms are made, that has enough credence to it to cause concern. Sometimes I regret burning those journals I've accumulated in my travelling years. So many fascinating stories from all kinds of folk."

Healing was hungry work - and yet he took care not to overeat.
Once they would be done and it was time to clean leftovers, slightly curved tooth picks would be placed before them last, to truly be done with the food, alongside a herbal brew that had the scent of wild mint and chamomile, to rinse the flavors out. Thornhall's healer certainly knew a thing or two about things besides magic.

"A tour, if you are feeling ready?" Walter offered. "Quite a span to cover, we could talk as we are on that constitutional."
 
"I did," he echoed, and offered no further detail, though the dark eyes turned distant for a moment. The beat passed, and he picked up the mask of the host again, taking thanks with a polite incline of the head in return. "It is a trifle, though Anthea has schooled the new cooks a few years prior, I've been told."

He stood. Mentally mapped the route to avoid passageways, doors and oubliettes he'd rather prefer to stay unknown.

"This hall was built before any extensions, and as you see sports quite a profound stone frame that doesn't consume the sounds like the hallways we passed through. The only better sounding space is underground. If you don't mind, we shan't go there today. Instead, let's explore the rest of the eastern wing.

The manor is itself somewhat of a compass, situated to be perfectly oriented to the cardinal directions, and more. As you might know, a weaver from the potential I see in you, Bremen also hosts a major leyline underneath its major river. The manor is situated on its branch, where it turns out it curves vertically into the sky."
He tried to walk slower, and keep from increasing the pace, so used to walking with purpose that it was hard to slow down. Especially when he needed to think, and catching Laric staring made his thought spark and burn out like wicker.

"The grand library can only be entered from the second floor, my ancestral trophy rooms, from weapons collected through generations, to trophies of the hunts, to nautical exploration tokens, are housed along the hallways of the western wing and in three themed walk-through rooms. According to custom, we have an armory here, as well. You may remember my servants wielding crossbows - in cases of incursion, everybody here is trained in the basics of defense. The family history dictates that Garrick was knighted by my grandfather. The waiting room was something Dolores insisted on, in the fashions closer to Crown's Hold. There is also an empty room where Richard used to retire to smoke certain things - due to the potent smell, the practice was abolished on my orders."

The hallway seemed empty, if for a moment. Fingers feathered a caress between Laric's shoulderblades before they emerged into the main hall with stairs leading forward. Walter, however, gestured to his right as he kept moving past.
"Along the central hallway, you already know the small library, and entryway to the cliffs in the back with the staircase to the ocean, and the stairs directly down to the family crypt, which is also here. We don't have a shrine or a chapel, and though I dream of a glasshouse, or at least a rose garden to frame the view, I doubt that it would weather the winds and the local soil. The overlook that served as a hall for our fencing lessons is also in the middle... complete with that thick stone railing hanging almost directly over the waves crashing into the cliffs."

A brief glance to the other's face.
"Want to dip in there and reminisce? Or, rather, would you like to see anything in particular? The tower? The laboratory? Dolores' art room?"
 
The question on Richard had caught him while walking, and it was easier to glance away, into one of the rooms where a ship at sea was closing sails as a storm front crawled closer. The sun hit orange against the teal waves that turned steely and menacing where the sky had covered them from light.
"Richard... has been sent north," Walter uttered, after a few steps thudded against the floor in silence. "I hope the time with the garrisons will teach him sobriety - men who do not have to answer to him because they are loyal to the family."

They passed another room, door open to mounted heads. No ordinary prey - shroud fiends; a serpent head the size of a horse; a furred creature with six eyes, black maw and large yellow fangs protruding from it. An old banner with washed-out colors.

The dark eyes smiled when he spotted the coin, and that smile set faintly against the corners of Walter's mouth when the piece of metal, flipped, ruled tails.
"Not a weaver? How come? You do have the ability with cats, I thought... Hm. What a coincidence that we're headed to the tower, then," he murmured, and brushed past Laric to take lead. Up the flight of stairs, keeping the right hand side after ascending to another. Halfway along the hallway to the living quarters, another turn right, past a maid closing the door to one of the guest rooms. Up a shorter set of stairs - onto the roofed and windowed skywalk...

Walter lingered as he eyed the slick stones of the passageway arching slightly towards the tower - the rhombus-patterned windows of colored glass were thrown open by the wind.
And yet, this was one place where no servants should be passing without them noticing. His hand rested on Laric's waist, as he nodded, walked a little slower.
"This tower has been somewhat underused since my ancestor, serving as a classroom and the space under the roof as weaving practice hall. A good defensive spot, and a receptacle for a few dangerous things to be kept away from people living on the grounds. The skywalk is one of two ways to get into it, neither allowing access directly outside. If only the rain lets up, you can see the main road to the manor, and there, in the trees - the gate. The tower offers a far better view."

He stopped to close the latch, check that it wasn't broken. Unlike Josephine to forego a detail.
Kept walking, taking lead. A glance back, at the landing they've departed. Out the paned window, over at someone hurrying to servant building in the rain, two storeys down.
At Laric, who had been eyeing him, it would seem, ever since they've departed.

"Something on your mind, tomcat?" The baron's hand broke contact, brushed at Laric's hip before moving freely at Walter's side as he walked. The father away from manor building proper they walked, the more the sounds died down but for the thunderstorm and their own steps, braving the stone bridge to the wooden landing. No singing floors here, just a square of space, and more choices.
There was a locked room - and the stairs wrapping counter-clockwise the interior and leading one more level up. Or... down.

The baron stopped, however, turning on his heel, perhaps, a little too close to Laric. But his eyes wandered without rising to meet the green-hued gaze. Listening. Like he wanted to make certain they would not get caught by someone with the same idea.

The dark eyes shone with mischief, seeming black in the half-darkness without candles nor lanterns, away from windows.
"I think there's no one here with us," his voice lowered to a conspiratorial murmur, just above the whisper so the velvety low notes still caressed the ear.
He shifted his weight onto the first step, just to elevate his form enough to rise as tall as Laric, slightly taller, smiling at the man as he wrapped fingers around his shoulder, pulled closer, his whisper brushing the cheek as it lingered at the ear, "Let's take the lesson upstairs, shall we?"
 
There was no tension, hand resting on Laric's shoulder idly to keep him yet a moment longer as it lasted. Lukewarm fingers traced Laric's cheekbone and curled, brushed softly down. Patience.
Walter smiled, just the edges of his fangs showing.
"The way you move against me, makes me think."
A breathy chuckle, he turned away, ascending stair by tall stair between the dreary, dim light from narrow, arrow slit-like windows.

"I've always wanted to dance with someone close. Feel the synchronicity of the movements, delight in that kind of... union with music, each other, and the prowess of two bodies, with or without the watchful eyes. Never dared. I know, I know there is no law that would bring consequence upon me... but I can't bring myself, not to mention it would require someone close enough, and at that a dancer. And in the privacy or solitude of getaways like this, there's rarely music. So, I became an avid fencer."

A pause, a few more steps in silence.
"Such a silly thing. Back then, nicking someone's skin to spill blood would not send me reeling. Seemed no more serious than a scraped knee, no thought of death attached to steel. Another life, when I thought it would replace, relieve the want to be close with something that was... acceptable."

A stutter in the step, sudden silence. Gloved hand found the wall.
"Oh no."
He could feel his heartbeat stuttering, the color drain from his limbs.
"Laric..." his breath shook, voice suddenly gravelly and slurred, hurried as agony set in and he raced it before it stripped him of words, and black dots danced in his vision. "Laric, please help me up the remainder, not long now- Please." The last word landed on a whispered exhale.

Above them, under the roof, was what could pass for a lecture hall, or some kind of demonstration arena. An empty, rounded space, with long, wide benches at the walls, a couple tables, a lectern. That circle was halved by pathways - two doors led out onto the railed walkway at the tower's topmost tier. Lanterns hung against the walls, but had no oil nor candles within, only dark glass with something faintly moving.

Walter leaned heavily, still moving his legs, but stumbling easily.
"I'm... I just need to sit down," he whispered. "To lie down... 't will pass..."
 
The man would whimper, darkness flooding the vision so he almost connected his head with the bench harder than intended. Every nerve felt flooded, firing off when it should not. He heard the question, shook his head sharply. Oddly quiet, only a few groans parting his lips , eyes closing tightly. His jaw knit, even air felt like sandpaper.
"No... doesn't work anymore," he breathed. Swallowed hard, shaking from the strain - the suddenly vivid feeling of his body losing warmth. "Oh, gods, it hurts so much."

He came home less than a year ago, and this was one of the reasons he could not make it out of bed. Healing over things that should have seen him toppling over, going longer than a normal man could, took its toll. The resonance of every bit of excess Shroud, more retained than he should retain, wrecked his body with pain as it joined the ambience of the world. Sometimes it happened in negligible increments, sometimes, when he was leaning into the mundane as much as he possibly could - it ran through him like a blade, reminded him that he only had one foot in mundane anymore.

Just a few minutes.
His cold hand reached out to Laric as he struggled to breathe deeper. To hold. To claw at, just a little.
"I h-...have these... rarely. The strain catches up." Another swallow, as if trying to keep the pain down, distract himself with talking. "My body can't hold Shroud anymore, not in the way it used to. And then, I've- I've broken myself, in this new state. And then the long road home. And now... I pray this stops, eventually. We're on the leyline, it's so much easier to mend here, but hits harder."
Eyes closed tightly again. No words, not even a whimper as he tensed, then forced himself to inhale, slowly.
"It's passing. Just a few m-minutes, it will b-be gone," he muttered, as if trying to reassure Laric, get some of his voice back. "Could you please... it's so cold. I'm sorry."
 
"Just hold."
There was no new pain, just an old, old pain of him having been an idiot. No. He continued to be an idiot, continued to push himself, because he could do things other men could not. They barely fit, but the way Laric did it served well, his warmth against the back.
"Everything is going to be fine. Yes, like this, Laric... thank you." He shuddered, leaning into the touch. The breathing deepened slightly.

Minutes passed interrupted only by the storm's violent rampage just outside. Ever so slowly, warmth returned into the fingertips, blue palor receded from the lips. Walter's breathing evened - awake, a bit worn by the sudden onslaught, but undefeated.
It was cold, here. No hearth fire, just insulated walls against the weather that persisted throughout the night and now for half the daylit hours. Despite the hall being clean, free of any leaks from the tiled roof, it smelled like dampness from the wooden window frames. It was dark, too, grey slivers of light making their way through the exit doors and cracks of shuttered windows.

"I think I'm better. Must have given you a fright... let's... sit up, I-" Walter waited for Laric to start moving, not wanting to shove them out of a precarious configuration they were in. A couple minutes away from being able to laugh about it, but close enough. "...not exactly how I planned to get against you when at the top."
He found one of those hands that held him, cradled it tenderly against his chest.
"See?.. No longer fraying."
 
He sat, slowly, still not too steady, keeping close to Laric. Shuddered at the thought, the sound of the other's words.
"I hope that won't come to pass... because I won't be death, darling." The husky voice was slowly regaining its proper ring, outlining the receding tide of agony. "I will be the dying. Far too many. Not you. I refuse."

He suppressed a grimace as a shot of misfired electricity went down his spine and echoed in the fingertips, and reached to take Laric's hand. Gently slid fingers between the lover's, interlocking them. The gloved digits wrapped around the side of the blond's neck, pulled him closer again, gently stroked behind the ear.

"I am well enough. Your tender care makes it even better." A kiss pressed to the worrying mouth. "I will answer your questions when I can stand - I will start pacing, for certain."
He hoped there was no hint of blood in that kiss. That would only cause worry. Worry was useless. Past a certain point, there was no getting better - but compared to a normal man, he was incredibly sturdy.
"It's barely midday. By the time we make it to my quarters, I want the doubts dispelled on just what we are going to be doing to one another, m?" A slow sigh, tempering the last unpleasant sparks of pain, like static. "For now, want to hazard a guess as to when this room had been used last?"
 
He welcomed the touch, tilting his face into it. Lips parted. Caught the tip of the thumb, eyes closing for a moment.
He caught the attentive gaze, of course he did. He would have been worried, too, beyond simply switching the topic. So he kept the contact, in no hurry to move too far away.

"I promised to tell you if I'm in pain, right?" he said quietly, finally. "I am. All over my body, in every inch and every nerve. It's lessening. It's old as it comes and goes, punishing me when I overstrain, and it won't kill me... best I can tell. But lying and whimpering won't do me any good, it's not that strong right now. Being held by you, your warmth, touching you, helps me ground and distract until it's gone for good." Slowly, his hold on Laric loosened, though he still held onto the fingertips, not wanting to part completely in this moment. "Now... your questions."

He inhaled, slowly, and exhaled, raking a hand through his own hair. Dark eyes would not rise to Laric's, instead set at a spot just behind his shoulder, as Walter spoke slowly, choosing words with focused caution.

"I am attuned to the Shroud, still. But weaving - by which I would mean magicraft, or arcanocraft, rather than the broadest of definitions, that very thing that artificers and court mages use - means that you take the Shroud and you imbue it with whatever aspects you can manifest. The means may differ - some use runes with symbols denoting aspects on it, some trace their choice of symbols in the air, arrange special stones, ornaments, beads, often with a verbal component to amplify resonance. Enchanting is the incryption and stabilization of weave into a thing - or a body. In that sense, I... can't weave anymore.

My body still utilizes Shroud, to mend my wounds, grant me speed and expand my senses, to track and... a few other things. But it's not wholly a conscious choice, no more than to take a breath when you feel there isn't enough air in the lungs. In a way, the Shroud sort of... filters through me without defining itself in my essence. It lingers in small amounts, but all of it loses the aspects it once had when it comes into contact with me. Those who practice weaving, sorcerers, wizards, what have you - have a vessel, trained or natural, that accumulates Shroud within their body. I see you have one, I tasted it in your blood, too, which is why I mistook you for a weaver. I no longer... it doesn't work that way. To my knowledge."

Fangs teased as the corner of his own lip for a moment before he let it go, unbloodied.
"The leyline is simply a stream in which ambient Shroud accumulates more than usual, and travels to further redistribute in the world. Like a wind tunnel, or a river. It's very beneficial for me, of course, given that I rely on the Shroud dispersed in the world, in one way or another.

But it also puts a strain on me.
After I've been mending myself for long enough, going without for long enough to survive conditions other men would not have - what is retained around the hollow vessel kind of... resonates before returning to the world. The resonance is what causes my entire body to agonize, but it's still better than losing my men to that monster, or myself to the wounds it dealt."

A pause. "I... research it, I mean... research myself. It's been happening less, these episodes. I must be mending, or maybe putting less overstrain on myself. A healer cannot help me - their weave does not seem to find anything to hold on to, I've tried. Would that answer your questions sufficiently?"
 
You must log in or register to reply here.
Back
Top Bottom