It was impossible not to feel like a speck of dust surrendered to the wind. All of his plans slipped between his fingers, leaving Quincy in a bind that defied his entire modus operandi.
One would think a bard would choose to face the music. However, that wasn't a sentence in one of his books to impress his patrons; it was his life, and those of the people close to him. Not only didn't he mean to return so soon to the settlement of Praesidium, but the idea of actually staying felt alien to him mere hours ago. Fate was truly maneuvering his strings in that unseen stage of life, and feelings of guilt and yearning ensured the show would go on for at least a little while.
"So... Maemae got attacked by afflicted", Mote said, as objectively as usual. She was the first familiar face he met on his way back home, and already he had been handed a ton of bricks to go along with his travel apparel.
"I beg your pardon?", Quincy stammered, looking at her as confusion washed over him. Mote just stared, allowing him to process it.
"Did you not hear?".
"How? When!?".
"We need to go someplace private", she said, heading to the Hearth and Hale immediately after.
Quincy could feel the uneasiness building within, and the short woman leading the way did little to abate that feeling. The communal room in Eryn's place was quickly becoming tied to uncomfortable exchanges: he didn't even wait for the usual pleasantries and claimed a chair as soon as they entered. Only a few minutes in, Mote mercilessly filled him in on much that happened the past few days.
"A few days ago, the templar camp to the north of Bright Lantern, fell to Torment", she nodded, watching Quincy behind a chair. "And... we're not to speak of it in the fort. I suspect the paper shall not have a report on any of this. Even though we were only out there because of Jeane".
"I don't understand...! What can we not speak of?".
"Any of it!", she said energetically.
So, Miranda was attacked, and Constantine got his share of punishment as well, trying to protect her. And where has Quincy been? Getting some air to cool his head and hiding under a rock at Bright Lantern; not quite what men did in the stories he knew and told around for copper.
They would eventually head to the Risk, and he'd have to face Constantine with the shadow of shame draping over his shoulders. Though he wouldn't openly show it, Quincy only imagined what the Kaduraan might think about him fleeing yet again.
"If what Mote told me is true, and I have no reason to doubt her...", Quincy said, looking at Constantine behind the bar with Mote beside him, "I owe you a huge deal, then". Drawing anything other than a quizzical brow from the man was hard, so he'd have to try harder to provoke him. "I understand you pulled Miranda away from a dire situation recently?".
"Ahm, yes, I suppose so", he finally said.
"You have my gratitude", he nodded, folding his hands across his lap. "Ask anything within my powers and I shall make sure it's yours".
"Hmh. Anything?", he licked his lips, his eyes drifting down to rest on the counter.
"You heard me". A slight grin was forming on Constantine's lips, and he started nodding. There was a knot tugging at the back of Quincy's throat, as he didn't imagine the man would seize the opportunity that promptly.
"Sometimes, Quincy, it feels like you see a wildfire coming, and you resign yourself to setting your own life ablaze before it can", his eyes sought the minstrels' as he delivered it. "Smoke doesn't always mean fire. Fire doesn't always mean all is lost".
"This is quite eloquent", he nodded. "I see where this is going".
"I thought you might".
"I returned to deal with a much more pedestrian matter, Constantine: that of my missing salesman and therefore my merchandise", he eyed from him to Mote and back. "But I can't leave now after I heard what happened. How is she, and how soon can I see her?".
"Yesterday", Mote offered, still cleaning the same mug for the past five minutes. "If you meant in terms of quarantine. Otherwise, who knows?".
"She's well enough. But I think if you want to know, you should ask her", Constantine said levelly.
"I will, even if I'm not allowed past her doorstep".
Mote even let slide Miranda's heavy drinking after their last encounter at the neglected courtyard. Constantine sent a few reproachful squints her way as she mentioned the alarming number of empty bottles everywhere in her cottage. The pair didn't realize, but Quincy pieced the picture together in his head quite fast: the alcohol coursing in her veins, her alertness compromised by these excesses and those horrid Torment-carrying fiends that could just as easily have claimed her life. All of it reverberated back to him, once more he was to blame.
There was no relief when he finally set foot in the house. Quincy set his bothersome travel gear on a corner and noticed the note on the table. It wasn't the one he'd left, he could tell by the parchment hue. Reading the tear-stained message did nothing to ease the pang in his chest, and he slowly settled his weight on a chair as he absorbed her letter despite its brevity.
Quincy took her note and locked it with the others he received from her in his night stand. Along with his personal diaries, these letters were the only thing he'd really miss if they were taken; it was quite odd that this plain, ordinary night stand was locked while the vanity with all of his jewelry was ripe for the taking.
A fresh set of clothes on his back was as good an incentive as any to stave off the weariness he felt: despite several comfortable choices to rest his tired bones around, he couldn't quite cope with repose just yet. He had a mind to meet with the Black Sun's leader, and if Azar was half as shrewd a businessman Quincy thought he was, both keen eye and mind were needed so he wasn't caught on the underfoot by the wealthy mercenary.
And then that same evening, he'd go check on Miranda. His hand shook as he locked up his place: the nearing encounter with the Yult agitated him more than the man he was about to see.
[To be continued]
Puppetry
Re: Puppetry
Everything in the room was refined, from the murals hanging on the walls to the dark wooden table between Quincy and the mercenary leader. He replayed in his head what took place when he set foot in their headquarters.
The entrance hall of the building instilled within him just what he expected: a cold, uninviting ambience in which one was welcome only up to a point. Experienced sentinels appraised Quincy's moves with sidelong glances, though an enormous stuffed bear holding a menacing weapon (a sword?) gripped his attention tightly. Was it sharp?
"Mister Everhard", a metallic voice said, drawing him from the sword-wielding bear trance. A helmeted figure mostly clad in black rose from his seat and came to meet him, circling the desk.
"Greetings", he said noncommittally.
"Welcome to the Eclipse", the figure replied, pulling off his helmet and setting it aside. Quincy knew the man: he had even requested smelting services from him in the past, though he'd hardly remember it by now.
"Mister Azar", he said, offering a small greeting measure. Once a few commonplace pleasantries were out of the way, he was invited into the clientele office.
"What can we do for you, Mister Everhard?", Bidukan said, watching him across the table.
"Well, I will allow myself to be as forthcoming as possible, if that's alright", he shifted in his chair, aiming for a comfortable position. "I need a man found".
"A man found".
"Let me provide you with some context", he said, receiving a nod. "I had to take a few days away from the Fort due to personal reasons. Thus, I provided a few measures to ensure my local business, the Color and Vanities shop, to carry on seamlessly during my absence".
"Excuse me, Mr. Everhard, where was that shop located?", he said, opening a drawer under the table with his gaze still on Quincy and laying some sheets of paper down.
"Just below the Meddler's Risk, the tavern nearby".
"I think I know where it is", Bidukan said as he took a few notes. "And what took place there, sir Quincy?".
"So, upon arriving, I discovered that the shop had its doors closed and all my property had vanished", he said, rubbing his temple lightly as he laid out his case. "Now, I provided the man who worked for me, a certain Mister Jean-Pic, with more than enough to honor his contract for at least two months".
"So, is he gone along with all wares?".
"Precisely, and I'd be very interested to know where he is now".
Even though Quincy didn't have the man's sketch Bidukan requested, he dealt with the man so often his memory would suffice for his accurate description. But that job he was hiring the Black Suns for was neither the reason he sought them nor his main concern: he needed to test the man before imparting sensitive information to him, and thus far the mercenary did nothing to dissuade him.
"There is one other thing", Quincy said.
"Proceed".
"People very close to me have, as rumors go, contracted a semblance of illness that might as well be what we know as Torment", he delivered the words carefully, watching Bidukan's facial expressions degrade for the first time.
"T-torment?".
It was only natural that the mention of the terrible affliction would draw every precaution out of the mercenary: he used a weird contraption that allegedly indicated if sources of Torment were nearby, and also asked a few questions about Quincy's health in general. In the end, the point of every effort from the Black Suns to uncover helpful information about the dreadful condition was driven home.
The decor inside the Eclipse made him feel uneasy all throughout his business with Azar, but he was equally concerned to leave that place: Quincy knew what lay in wait for him, and didn't deem himself ready to see her just yet. Maybe he would never be.
There wasn't a single moment of respite ever since he returned to the fort, and only then he realized his body was depleted; waves of exhaustion ebbed without pause, finally subduing him to an armchair. Yet, Quincy failed to relax, as his nerves relayed to him just how disastrous the evening might turn out to be. And he had to see Miranda that night lest he wouldn't muster the courage if he convinced himself to wait longer.
The chair wasn't comfortable enough, he ventured, and moved to his bed upstairs. Tossing everything but his pants on the back of a chair, the midlander tossed and turned on his bed for hours, witnessing sunlight's steady decline until the moon's silver flooded his bedroom. It was useless, he hadn't achieved anything but tire himself further. A good wash and some fresh clothes afterwards, he was heading for her cottage.
"Constantine, you're supposed to be-", Miranda froze, stuck between a word and the next once she opened her door.
"Hello", he said weakly.
"Resting...", she mumbled, staring at the man by her porch. "Quincy. H-hello".
"I'm sorry to drop by like this". He watched her for a long moment, not quite recovered from the shock just yet. Then slowly her eyes moved above his and landed on his head.
"You dyed your hair again".
"I wonder if you have a few minutes...?".
"Uh- sure".
He even told her she didn't need to invite him into her home, that they could talk elsewhere. However, she was already stepping aside for him to come in, and surprise was all his read in her eyes. Once the door barred the view from outside, it took a while for either of them to break the silence.
"I heard what happened", he finally said, taking in the sight of her wounded forearm. Miranda looked to her limb as well and pursed her lips.
"You did?".
"How are you? What did they do to you?".
"The afflicted or the inquisitors?".
"Take your pick", he said, sighing as he knew neither would ring pleasantly on his ears.
She then relayed her own account of what Quincy already knew through Mote and Constantine, though her sorrow was present from beginning to end.
"I'm glad you're well".
"I'm alive, Quincy. I am not well", he noticed her folded arms to grip tighter around her frame.
"Miranda, I-", he blinked. It was hard to meet her eyes, but he forced himself to. "I wanted to give you time, at least until your big show. But what if it had been worse than it was? What if those filthy beings claimed you?".
And he allowed his regret to pour out through his words: that he wasn't there for her when she needed, and also that Constantine was the one to come to her aid. How many more times would the Kaduraan need to display his value through actions instead of words? Why couldn't he just learn from him? He had to content himself with her weak reassurances.
"Do you need a doctor?", he asked, resigning to close the subject. "I mean, really".
"I've seen a doctor about my arm".
"Who was it?", the question flew naturally, as he was half-expecting Theo's name to follow it.
"Drusilla". She looked down and drew in a deep breath, releasing it with a laugh that was more air than noise.
What? Was he hallucinating? Was his weariness playing tricks on what was left of his nerves?
"Come again?".
"She was at the gate when we came back and were waved through by the VIC apothecaries".
"But-", he stammered, flabbergasted, "I don't have to tell you t-".
"I was having some kind of fit, I-", she looked away, withholding the rest, "I thought I could dig the infection out of my arm. She stopped me from scratching away even more of my skin".
It dawned on him that he was indebted to Drusilla as well, and now he had to find a way to approach her after what he did to her. Redemption had one treading on a road that only grew harder. Yet, still a low price to pay for having an experienced physician looking after Miranda.
"Anyway, I wanted to know if you needed anything", he tried to steer clear of his consternation; the Yult could do without more judgment. Oddly enough, she considered his words, drawing her bottom lip into her mouth and running it through her teeth.
"I need your submission for the art show".
"I haven't painted anything", his voice trailed off for a moment, still taken aback at such a modest request. "My easel-, well, your easel is covered with a sheet".
"It's yours, Quincy, I made it for you".
"I don't know if I want to see what'll come out of my brush".
"You told me you'd submit a piece", she pressed, and indeed he had promised her. "Even if it's an older one".
There was more to their conversation, but Quincy's head was already swimming in circles by the time they parted on her doorstep. Though he needed rest desperately, he felt comforted by the fact Miranda didn't seem glad to get rid of him. Of all she could have done, that would surely have hurt him the most.
Was he allowed a grain of hope?
The entrance hall of the building instilled within him just what he expected: a cold, uninviting ambience in which one was welcome only up to a point. Experienced sentinels appraised Quincy's moves with sidelong glances, though an enormous stuffed bear holding a menacing weapon (a sword?) gripped his attention tightly. Was it sharp?
"Mister Everhard", a metallic voice said, drawing him from the sword-wielding bear trance. A helmeted figure mostly clad in black rose from his seat and came to meet him, circling the desk.
"Greetings", he said noncommittally.
"Welcome to the Eclipse", the figure replied, pulling off his helmet and setting it aside. Quincy knew the man: he had even requested smelting services from him in the past, though he'd hardly remember it by now.
"Mister Azar", he said, offering a small greeting measure. Once a few commonplace pleasantries were out of the way, he was invited into the clientele office.
"What can we do for you, Mister Everhard?", Bidukan said, watching him across the table.
"Well, I will allow myself to be as forthcoming as possible, if that's alright", he shifted in his chair, aiming for a comfortable position. "I need a man found".
"A man found".
"Let me provide you with some context", he said, receiving a nod. "I had to take a few days away from the Fort due to personal reasons. Thus, I provided a few measures to ensure my local business, the Color and Vanities shop, to carry on seamlessly during my absence".
"Excuse me, Mr. Everhard, where was that shop located?", he said, opening a drawer under the table with his gaze still on Quincy and laying some sheets of paper down.
"Just below the Meddler's Risk, the tavern nearby".
"I think I know where it is", Bidukan said as he took a few notes. "And what took place there, sir Quincy?".
"So, upon arriving, I discovered that the shop had its doors closed and all my property had vanished", he said, rubbing his temple lightly as he laid out his case. "Now, I provided the man who worked for me, a certain Mister Jean-Pic, with more than enough to honor his contract for at least two months".
"So, is he gone along with all wares?".
"Precisely, and I'd be very interested to know where he is now".
Even though Quincy didn't have the man's sketch Bidukan requested, he dealt with the man so often his memory would suffice for his accurate description. But that job he was hiring the Black Suns for was neither the reason he sought them nor his main concern: he needed to test the man before imparting sensitive information to him, and thus far the mercenary did nothing to dissuade him.
"There is one other thing", Quincy said.
"Proceed".
"People very close to me have, as rumors go, contracted a semblance of illness that might as well be what we know as Torment", he delivered the words carefully, watching Bidukan's facial expressions degrade for the first time.
"T-torment?".
It was only natural that the mention of the terrible affliction would draw every precaution out of the mercenary: he used a weird contraption that allegedly indicated if sources of Torment were nearby, and also asked a few questions about Quincy's health in general. In the end, the point of every effort from the Black Suns to uncover helpful information about the dreadful condition was driven home.
The decor inside the Eclipse made him feel uneasy all throughout his business with Azar, but he was equally concerned to leave that place: Quincy knew what lay in wait for him, and didn't deem himself ready to see her just yet. Maybe he would never be.
There wasn't a single moment of respite ever since he returned to the fort, and only then he realized his body was depleted; waves of exhaustion ebbed without pause, finally subduing him to an armchair. Yet, Quincy failed to relax, as his nerves relayed to him just how disastrous the evening might turn out to be. And he had to see Miranda that night lest he wouldn't muster the courage if he convinced himself to wait longer.
The chair wasn't comfortable enough, he ventured, and moved to his bed upstairs. Tossing everything but his pants on the back of a chair, the midlander tossed and turned on his bed for hours, witnessing sunlight's steady decline until the moon's silver flooded his bedroom. It was useless, he hadn't achieved anything but tire himself further. A good wash and some fresh clothes afterwards, he was heading for her cottage.
"Constantine, you're supposed to be-", Miranda froze, stuck between a word and the next once she opened her door.
"Hello", he said weakly.
"Resting...", she mumbled, staring at the man by her porch. "Quincy. H-hello".
"I'm sorry to drop by like this". He watched her for a long moment, not quite recovered from the shock just yet. Then slowly her eyes moved above his and landed on his head.
"You dyed your hair again".
"I wonder if you have a few minutes...?".
"Uh- sure".
He even told her she didn't need to invite him into her home, that they could talk elsewhere. However, she was already stepping aside for him to come in, and surprise was all his read in her eyes. Once the door barred the view from outside, it took a while for either of them to break the silence.
"I heard what happened", he finally said, taking in the sight of her wounded forearm. Miranda looked to her limb as well and pursed her lips.
"You did?".
"How are you? What did they do to you?".
"The afflicted or the inquisitors?".
"Take your pick", he said, sighing as he knew neither would ring pleasantly on his ears.
She then relayed her own account of what Quincy already knew through Mote and Constantine, though her sorrow was present from beginning to end.
"I'm glad you're well".
"I'm alive, Quincy. I am not well", he noticed her folded arms to grip tighter around her frame.
"Miranda, I-", he blinked. It was hard to meet her eyes, but he forced himself to. "I wanted to give you time, at least until your big show. But what if it had been worse than it was? What if those filthy beings claimed you?".
And he allowed his regret to pour out through his words: that he wasn't there for her when she needed, and also that Constantine was the one to come to her aid. How many more times would the Kaduraan need to display his value through actions instead of words? Why couldn't he just learn from him? He had to content himself with her weak reassurances.
"Do you need a doctor?", he asked, resigning to close the subject. "I mean, really".
"I've seen a doctor about my arm".
"Who was it?", the question flew naturally, as he was half-expecting Theo's name to follow it.
"Drusilla". She looked down and drew in a deep breath, releasing it with a laugh that was more air than noise.
What? Was he hallucinating? Was his weariness playing tricks on what was left of his nerves?
"Come again?".
"She was at the gate when we came back and were waved through by the VIC apothecaries".
"But-", he stammered, flabbergasted, "I don't have to tell you t-".
"I was having some kind of fit, I-", she looked away, withholding the rest, "I thought I could dig the infection out of my arm. She stopped me from scratching away even more of my skin".
It dawned on him that he was indebted to Drusilla as well, and now he had to find a way to approach her after what he did to her. Redemption had one treading on a road that only grew harder. Yet, still a low price to pay for having an experienced physician looking after Miranda.
"Anyway, I wanted to know if you needed anything", he tried to steer clear of his consternation; the Yult could do without more judgment. Oddly enough, she considered his words, drawing her bottom lip into her mouth and running it through her teeth.
"I need your submission for the art show".
"I haven't painted anything", his voice trailed off for a moment, still taken aback at such a modest request. "My easel-, well, your easel is covered with a sheet".
"It's yours, Quincy, I made it for you".
"I don't know if I want to see what'll come out of my brush".
"You told me you'd submit a piece", she pressed, and indeed he had promised her. "Even if it's an older one".
There was more to their conversation, but Quincy's head was already swimming in circles by the time they parted on her doorstep. Though he needed rest desperately, he felt comforted by the fact Miranda didn't seem glad to get rid of him. Of all she could have done, that would surely have hurt him the most.
Was he allowed a grain of hope?