Private Trouble at the gate [M]
- Thread starter Laric
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Ah. Somehow he managed to forget, in this long, lust-soaked day, that Laric was actually above him in the ranks, and means, just as well. The golden boy of the Deliriens wasn't just blond. Not that it mattered for what was taking place.
"Doesn't have to me modest, hm?" the dark eyes narrowed slyly. "I don't want you buying out the entire market. But jokes aside, I could use a few new articles in clothes that aren't dark or austere. If you come with me, you can sneek a peek. At my choice of colors, of course."
A smile with the corners of his mouth, and he took another sip of the wine.
"A townhouse, where we could have some privacy? I would love it, Your Lordship." Walter's foot found Laric's inner thigh and pushed against it slightly, at the risk of slamming his knee against the tray. "How would you introduce me?" A glimpse of musing, hardly any pressure as he moved on.
A chuckle to the mention of carnal desires - quite telling that it was Laric's eyes seeking his lips.
He braced feet against the bottom of the basin, and rose to move the tray away, without a comment. Took standing up, water rushing down his skin in rivulets that contoured the ridges and dips of scars on his body. A man of barely mid-thirties should not have this many. He looked leaner without all the layers, muscle still outlined but some healthy, form-smoothing underlayer missing.
Walter lowered himself back into the soothing heat, arms splaying against the edge of the basin and a long sigh escaping him. Eyelids parted slightly, and a langurous look measured the lover, to where the water outlined the body.
"Want to bathe, instead of just soaking? Or, should I wonder the alternatives? It's not that we have to be apart on the morrow, plans and all."
The rain outside quieted, and a strangely loud gust of wind seemed to pass by the wall of the manor with a low howl, and a sound so distant that even Walter's hearing did not quite discern it. He tilted his head, but the sound did not repeat, and the man relaxed again. It was a large, old place, with creaks and clatters for every weather besides every person residing on the grounds.
"Doesn't have to me modest, hm?" the dark eyes narrowed slyly. "I don't want you buying out the entire market. But jokes aside, I could use a few new articles in clothes that aren't dark or austere. If you come with me, you can sneek a peek. At my choice of colors, of course."
A smile with the corners of his mouth, and he took another sip of the wine.
"A townhouse, where we could have some privacy? I would love it, Your Lordship." Walter's foot found Laric's inner thigh and pushed against it slightly, at the risk of slamming his knee against the tray. "How would you introduce me?" A glimpse of musing, hardly any pressure as he moved on.
A chuckle to the mention of carnal desires - quite telling that it was Laric's eyes seeking his lips.
He braced feet against the bottom of the basin, and rose to move the tray away, without a comment. Took standing up, water rushing down his skin in rivulets that contoured the ridges and dips of scars on his body. A man of barely mid-thirties should not have this many. He looked leaner without all the layers, muscle still outlined but some healthy, form-smoothing underlayer missing.
Walter lowered himself back into the soothing heat, arms splaying against the edge of the basin and a long sigh escaping him. Eyelids parted slightly, and a langurous look measured the lover, to where the water outlined the body.
"Want to bathe, instead of just soaking? Or, should I wonder the alternatives? It's not that we have to be apart on the morrow, plans and all."
The rain outside quieted, and a strangely loud gust of wind seemed to pass by the wall of the manor with a low howl, and a sound so distant that even Walter's hearing did not quite discern it. He tilted his head, but the sound did not repeat, and the man relaxed again. It was a large, old place, with creaks and clatters for every weather besides every person residing on the grounds.
"You may. Black and red are the only exclusions in my dressing preferences." Walter murmured. "It could also be fun to wear matching and opposing colors."
He grew still at the thought of introductions, eyes wandering off Laric for a moment. They searched for something on the wall that was not there. Then, a surreptitious nod followed.
"You must consider, however, that..." a pause, struggling with words. "It might be dangerous to make a tender relationship with me public, dangerous for you. It's not about the views, tomcat," his voice was soft, apologetic, almost. "I can't tell you more, right now."
He leaned back as Laric moved toward him, his left hand drifting underwater to find the other's waist, go lower and dig fingers playfully into the hip.
"Yes, you should. You promised to help me, after all," he murmured, but the resolve was weak, breath growing deeper, lips parting, head tilting to the other's mouth. "And... there we are..." He pulled the lover closer by the waist, almost to his lap. A quiet, short moan, a shift of his own weight. "Readying yourself for another round, m?"
He grew still at the thought of introductions, eyes wandering off Laric for a moment. They searched for something on the wall that was not there. Then, a surreptitious nod followed.
"You must consider, however, that..." a pause, struggling with words. "It might be dangerous to make a tender relationship with me public, dangerous for you. It's not about the views, tomcat," his voice was soft, apologetic, almost. "I can't tell you more, right now."
He leaned back as Laric moved toward him, his left hand drifting underwater to find the other's waist, go lower and dig fingers playfully into the hip.
"Yes, you should. You promised to help me, after all," he murmured, but the resolve was weak, breath growing deeper, lips parting, head tilting to the other's mouth. "And... there we are..." He pulled the lover closer by the waist, almost to his lap. A quiet, short moan, a shift of his own weight. "Readying yourself for another round, m?"
The gold locks unfurling, Walter's hand lifted quickly from Laric's waist to along his spine, to catch most between fingers. The fingertips curled upward, to capture more, moved up Laric's back. Index finger brushed aside to pull upward a lock where only the tip ended up in water, and it clung to the skin as it moved like a wetted brush.
"I am not telling you not to do it." Walter uttered, quietly. "How would Your Lordship introduce me? A paramour?" There were so many civil, verbal drapes for a relationship based on lust and differing levels of affection.
And with Laric's warm mouth trailing along his neck, he could almost forget caution and want the common thing.
"Perhaps, if you were to stay in this delightful piece of country for a few weeks, fresh air would do you good," he teased, and leaned into the kiss with a response of his own.
When the kiss broke, the baron could only chuckle.
"This closeness is new, and you are wanting to explore. I should only encourage that."
Who knew what would happen once tender affections would lose the luster of novelty.
"Mh, if you'd want to pour the second water jug over, I won't say no. I'll do the same for you. Enchantments under the fabric will start draining it if it goes too close to the upper edge. Like a certain cup mechanism, but magic."
A light smile, and Walter reluctantly stirred to stand and find some washcloths and combs to sort them out.
"The water will be lukewarm, so, please be gentle."
A far away floorboard creaked at the stairs, then creaked again a couple moments after. Walter felt a shiver pass through him - strange, he thought the place free of drafts.
"I am not telling you not to do it." Walter uttered, quietly. "How would Your Lordship introduce me? A paramour?" There were so many civil, verbal drapes for a relationship based on lust and differing levels of affection.
And with Laric's warm mouth trailing along his neck, he could almost forget caution and want the common thing.
"Perhaps, if you were to stay in this delightful piece of country for a few weeks, fresh air would do you good," he teased, and leaned into the kiss with a response of his own.
When the kiss broke, the baron could only chuckle.
"This closeness is new, and you are wanting to explore. I should only encourage that."
Who knew what would happen once tender affections would lose the luster of novelty.
"Mh, if you'd want to pour the second water jug over, I won't say no. I'll do the same for you. Enchantments under the fabric will start draining it if it goes too close to the upper edge. Like a certain cup mechanism, but magic."
A light smile, and Walter reluctantly stirred to stand and find some washcloths and combs to sort them out.
"The water will be lukewarm, so, please be gentle."
A far away floorboard creaked at the stairs, then creaked again a couple moments after. Walter felt a shiver pass through him - strange, he thought the place free of drafts.
"Oh, I'd want more than anything to have my affections known, someday," Walter murmured, his cheek touching lightly to the strands of gold, voice quiet with a wistful dreaminess. "But before then... there is much to be done, and only time will tell."
He kissed the golden crown on Laric's head, and chuckled low, though there was little humor in the noise.
"I would like that. Stay. Time will tell, and if it is just lust, well - we'd have had some delightful time together. I can't promise to dedicate all of my time to you. I might even have to be absent on occasion... but I would like to be seeing you coming back."
He leaned over the edge, pulled the bathing items closer, reluctant to step out, and joined Laric, content to be quiet. Content to mirror the other's slow ministrations, spreading bathing oils on skin, rubbing the whole body down.
He held Laric's hair when it was his turn to pour from the enchanted jug, water having drained to their mid-thighs, and watched the small stream flatten against the sun-kissed skin and glint in dim firelight.
He'd love to have thought the creaking was just a servant late at night, a cat... but what Laric could not feel, and what Walter could not read, was a message, like a booming voice, directed at him. The magical summons thundered in intent around his form, voice unrecognizable, words illegible, as the weave could not find its target proper. By the time the summons came, he knew it would not be long.
"Laric," the voice was quiet, serious, against the blond's temple like confessing a secret, "Someone's coming, just stay q-"
Two heavy, spaced thuds came at the door.
The languid manner dropped entirely as color receded from the baron's face.
Walter was already out of the bath and positively flew into the night shirt draped over the modesty screen. He moved like he was maneuvering, shifting the screen behind him to obscure Laric and putting himself closer to the door when it opened.
There was no pause.
"You better have an explanation." A voice spoke, bass booming and carrying anger like an avalanche.
"We aren't alone."
"Into the study. At once. You've made me wait long enough."
A pause, and Laric could almost feel something like an involuntary shiver - or perhaps it was a strong draft from the door. A huff, derisive, followed, and a slow shift of weight as the figure seemed intent to move on from the room, and take Walter along.
He kissed the golden crown on Laric's head, and chuckled low, though there was little humor in the noise.
"I would like that. Stay. Time will tell, and if it is just lust, well - we'd have had some delightful time together. I can't promise to dedicate all of my time to you. I might even have to be absent on occasion... but I would like to be seeing you coming back."
He leaned over the edge, pulled the bathing items closer, reluctant to step out, and joined Laric, content to be quiet. Content to mirror the other's slow ministrations, spreading bathing oils on skin, rubbing the whole body down.
He held Laric's hair when it was his turn to pour from the enchanted jug, water having drained to their mid-thighs, and watched the small stream flatten against the sun-kissed skin and glint in dim firelight.
He'd love to have thought the creaking was just a servant late at night, a cat... but what Laric could not feel, and what Walter could not read, was a message, like a booming voice, directed at him. The magical summons thundered in intent around his form, voice unrecognizable, words illegible, as the weave could not find its target proper. By the time the summons came, he knew it would not be long.
"Laric," the voice was quiet, serious, against the blond's temple like confessing a secret, "Someone's coming, just stay q-"
Two heavy, spaced thuds came at the door.
The languid manner dropped entirely as color receded from the baron's face.
Walter was already out of the bath and positively flew into the night shirt draped over the modesty screen. He moved like he was maneuvering, shifting the screen behind him to obscure Laric and putting himself closer to the door when it opened.
There was no pause.
"You better have an explanation." A voice spoke, bass booming and carrying anger like an avalanche.
"We aren't alone."
"Into the study. At once. You've made me wait long enough."
A pause, and Laric could almost feel something like an involuntary shiver - or perhaps it was a strong draft from the door. A huff, derisive, followed, and a slow shift of weight as the figure seemed intent to move on from the room, and take Walter along.
The man who was turning away, stopped, and his dark-blue eyes measured the naked blond man who stepped from behind the modesty screen. The visitor stood only slightly taller than Walter. A long mane of silver-white hair sat neatly behind his back, a beard that framed his face was groomed and orderly with a cold, surgical precision. Spectacles, inscribed around the rim with what could only be enchantments, sat on his nose, and the heavy leathers of his coat and vestments resembled greatly the garb of a hunter. He was armed, a sabre at his side, a compact-looking gear-shift crossbow at the other.
Walter, still clad only in a knee-long night shirt, felt his fear turn numb. He didn't even feel the cold, as he stared into his ancestor's pale face. Like a macabre apparition, come to judge his rule of the family. His eyes darted to Laric.
No.
Meinrad's eyes, a greyer shade of how Walter's once were, seemed to peer through Laric's very skull, into what little there was of self-preservation, immolating. If looks could harm, the heir of Deliriens would buckle in agony.
"I will speak to my grandson," Meinrad stamped down every word as he spoke, unblinking attention honed on Laric even as Walter stepped between them, "in a manner befitting his accomplishments."
The room felt darker, deafened, despite the squall of wind outside.
"And you - will not deign to speak of matters which concern you little."
"Grandfather," Walter started, his fingers, suddenly cold, curling to the palm - fists weren't useful, he knew as much, and kept them loose. He knew his face betrayed him, he could feel the pallor, "you interrupted rest, not only mine but that of lord Delirien's. Allow Garrick to accommodate you, and we can speak on the morn."
Before he could blink - a rarity, for how fast he himself could react - Meinrad was on him, fist crumpling the fabric of his shirt, as if a great silver fox had gotten prey between its teeth, and was now about to turn it into mottle of fragments. Walter's jaw knit tighter, his stare, slightly glassy, affixed to the other's face of rage.
"The wards are failing, boy," the ancient weaver growled. "You are failing your family."
"It's time," lord Thornley's voice steadied, gloved hand gripping at the one that threatened to move him against his will. "It can't go on forever, anyway."
A bark of a laughter, half-contemptuous and half-in shock as Meinrad finally seemed to catch the pinpricks of light at the bottom of his great-great-great-grandson's eyes. He half-pushed and half-threw Walter back and away from himself, like one does a venomous snake they grabbed by accident.
"What have you become?"
Walter, still clad only in a knee-long night shirt, felt his fear turn numb. He didn't even feel the cold, as he stared into his ancestor's pale face. Like a macabre apparition, come to judge his rule of the family. His eyes darted to Laric.
No.
Meinrad's eyes, a greyer shade of how Walter's once were, seemed to peer through Laric's very skull, into what little there was of self-preservation, immolating. If looks could harm, the heir of Deliriens would buckle in agony.
"I will speak to my grandson," Meinrad stamped down every word as he spoke, unblinking attention honed on Laric even as Walter stepped between them, "in a manner befitting his accomplishments."
The room felt darker, deafened, despite the squall of wind outside.
"And you - will not deign to speak of matters which concern you little."
"Grandfather," Walter started, his fingers, suddenly cold, curling to the palm - fists weren't useful, he knew as much, and kept them loose. He knew his face betrayed him, he could feel the pallor, "you interrupted rest, not only mine but that of lord Delirien's. Allow Garrick to accommodate you, and we can speak on the morn."
Before he could blink - a rarity, for how fast he himself could react - Meinrad was on him, fist crumpling the fabric of his shirt, as if a great silver fox had gotten prey between its teeth, and was now about to turn it into mottle of fragments. Walter's jaw knit tighter, his stare, slightly glassy, affixed to the other's face of rage.
"The wards are failing, boy," the ancient weaver growled. "You are failing your family."
"It's time," lord Thornley's voice steadied, gloved hand gripping at the one that threatened to move him against his will. "It can't go on forever, anyway."
A bark of a laughter, half-contemptuous and half-in shock as Meinrad finally seemed to catch the pinpricks of light at the bottom of his great-great-great-grandson's eyes. He half-pushed and half-threw Walter back and away from himself, like one does a venomous snake they grabbed by accident.
"What have you become?"
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Walter did not buckle under pressure, and found his feet when shoved back like a child about to be disciplined by a heavy-handed parent. But he was paler than a sheet, breath weighing his chest heavy, head filling slowly with pinpricks that would drown out the richness of the ambient sound and thought.
His eyes followed Laric, arm stretching out to keep the man behind himself right until the moment he was launched. Shoulder ran into shoulder, foot planted against the floor. He could not feel the cold from the boards, attention fixating on Meinrad the more still his ancestor seemed.
The grip of the sabre sang in Laric's hand. Vibrated slightly, its power trickling down the bones and up the wrist to the elbow in a thin vibration. It was so keen that it could probably slice wood and sheets of metal like leather. And it wanted Laric to try it for size. To draw blood. Perhaps it was the lack of attunement to the Shroud, or Laric's own will, but it could never quite make that hand move as the blade bid.
Meinrad, however, responded with a huff that was daring Laric to try.
"You are a boy," he uttered, "A lay. I do not care where you come from, what are you possibly going to do to me in my own home?"
His voice rang, but so did the blade. Every inch of metal felt like it was trembling, shaking in opposite, disjointed directions. The weave was spilling over, and every stone fell in place with the will.
The manor groaned, and the carved beasts and hunters on the ceiling felt like they were about to move, take flight from the impending collapse.
"ENOUGH."
Walter's voice flooded, trembled and split unnaturally, into several tones. And there was silence. Devoid kind of silence, where even the reverberations that made the earth tremble seemed completely deadened. Where a pop from the log in the hearth sounded muffled, and light dimmed. The keen blade no longer sang. Walter's gloved hand curled into a fist with jerky, uneven motions.
The horror on the ancestor's face was tempered with disdain, concern, and fury that did not diminish as his grandson turned his back to Laric, the glare aimed at the bigger perceived threat to his peace.
Even from this angle, shadows fell darker, cut out from the world, and the baron's dark hair felt almost like a thick veil of curling smoke that did not reflect light. The outline of his face, from what Laric could glimpse, seemed strangely gaunt, all of a sudden. But only for a split moment, as if brought about by a trick of the light.
"If you have any sense," Meinrad spoke, his words addressed to Laric with but a flick of the gaze, "then you will aim my sword at that creature, boy, instead of your sentimental fantasies. It is human no longer."
His eyes followed Laric, arm stretching out to keep the man behind himself right until the moment he was launched. Shoulder ran into shoulder, foot planted against the floor. He could not feel the cold from the boards, attention fixating on Meinrad the more still his ancestor seemed.
The grip of the sabre sang in Laric's hand. Vibrated slightly, its power trickling down the bones and up the wrist to the elbow in a thin vibration. It was so keen that it could probably slice wood and sheets of metal like leather. And it wanted Laric to try it for size. To draw blood. Perhaps it was the lack of attunement to the Shroud, or Laric's own will, but it could never quite make that hand move as the blade bid.
Meinrad, however, responded with a huff that was daring Laric to try.
"You are a boy," he uttered, "A lay. I do not care where you come from, what are you possibly going to do to me in my own home?"
His voice rang, but so did the blade. Every inch of metal felt like it was trembling, shaking in opposite, disjointed directions. The weave was spilling over, and every stone fell in place with the will.
The manor groaned, and the carved beasts and hunters on the ceiling felt like they were about to move, take flight from the impending collapse.
"ENOUGH."
Walter's voice flooded, trembled and split unnaturally, into several tones. And there was silence. Devoid kind of silence, where even the reverberations that made the earth tremble seemed completely deadened. Where a pop from the log in the hearth sounded muffled, and light dimmed. The keen blade no longer sang. Walter's gloved hand curled into a fist with jerky, uneven motions.
The horror on the ancestor's face was tempered with disdain, concern, and fury that did not diminish as his grandson turned his back to Laric, the glare aimed at the bigger perceived threat to his peace.
Even from this angle, shadows fell darker, cut out from the world, and the baron's dark hair felt almost like a thick veil of curling smoke that did not reflect light. The outline of his face, from what Laric could glimpse, seemed strangely gaunt, all of a sudden. But only for a split moment, as if brought about by a trick of the light.
"If you have any sense," Meinrad spoke, his words addressed to Laric with but a flick of the gaze, "then you will aim my sword at that creature, boy, instead of your sentimental fantasies. It is human no longer."
The stones of the old manor seemed infused with the Shroud of the leyline, woven into an intricate, monumental pattern. Like the intricate work of sealing an unbreakable vow, the power welled at the foundation now gravitated erratically to two sources located in that room, the one who created the weave and the one to whom it should have applied... and yet flowed through. In any other world, here in his domain Walter Thornley would have been the most warded person in Altalusia. But as he was... only his duty as the heir remained.
"Grandfather," Walter tried again, withstanding the glare with an effort of will like a wanderer against a frigid squall. "I am not of the undead." Every word seemed weighted, clumsy on the tongue locked with fear and exertion of whatever power he was wielding. "Nor am I a thrall."
A beat, and Meinrad's empty hand moved up to rest two fingers on the baron's neck. A frown deepened behind the glasses, as the ancestor caught the echo of a heartbeat.
"What kind of abomination are you, then?" he demanded, the tension in the air marginally loosening. Meinrad's eyes then drifted to the black-purple-red litany of scars between the shirt sleeve and the gloved hand.
"All that I've gleaned so far, is that my inner aspects have been..." Walter's lips pressed together for a moment, "seared into me, and some attempt at altering them failed. But I lived. I'm alive, I swear. My blood does not run pale, I'm..."
"In the habit of keeping nocturnal company, I have suspected," Meinrad interrupted. His eyes flicked to Laric, and a slight inclination of the head was a wordless hint to lower the damn sword if he knew what was good for him. "The remainder of von Bremens depend on the wards that you are letting fade. If you are not with the enemy..."
"My condition. I'm ready to take the enemy head on, once I've recovered."
Sound was returning, shadows fading into deep blue-grey. With them, Meinrad's anger seemed more composed.
"Are you going to warn your sister?"
"Yes. When it's time."
A nod. "We'll speak tomorrow."
And then, attention turned to Laric. Eyes from behind the glasses scanned the naked form, downward then up. An expectant pause hung in the air, the sword still in the viscount's hand.
"You. You have some gall to turn a weapon on a Thornley in our own home, boy. You will return it now, your ignorance is weapon enough. And it's your turn. Talk. Who are you, 'lord Delirien', and what do you think you are to my grandson?"
"Grandfather," Walter tried again, withstanding the glare with an effort of will like a wanderer against a frigid squall. "I am not of the undead." Every word seemed weighted, clumsy on the tongue locked with fear and exertion of whatever power he was wielding. "Nor am I a thrall."
A beat, and Meinrad's empty hand moved up to rest two fingers on the baron's neck. A frown deepened behind the glasses, as the ancestor caught the echo of a heartbeat.
"What kind of abomination are you, then?" he demanded, the tension in the air marginally loosening. Meinrad's eyes then drifted to the black-purple-red litany of scars between the shirt sleeve and the gloved hand.
"All that I've gleaned so far, is that my inner aspects have been..." Walter's lips pressed together for a moment, "seared into me, and some attempt at altering them failed. But I lived. I'm alive, I swear. My blood does not run pale, I'm..."
"In the habit of keeping nocturnal company, I have suspected," Meinrad interrupted. His eyes flicked to Laric, and a slight inclination of the head was a wordless hint to lower the damn sword if he knew what was good for him. "The remainder of von Bremens depend on the wards that you are letting fade. If you are not with the enemy..."
"My condition. I'm ready to take the enemy head on, once I've recovered."
Sound was returning, shadows fading into deep blue-grey. With them, Meinrad's anger seemed more composed.
"Are you going to warn your sister?"
"Yes. When it's time."
A nod. "We'll speak tomorrow."
And then, attention turned to Laric. Eyes from behind the glasses scanned the naked form, downward then up. An expectant pause hung in the air, the sword still in the viscount's hand.
"You. You have some gall to turn a weapon on a Thornley in our own home, boy. You will return it now, your ignorance is weapon enough. And it's your turn. Talk. Who are you, 'lord Delirien', and what do you think you are to my grandson?"
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