The Rook's First Move

Log Info

• Title: The Rook's First Move

• Emitter: Ravenstongue

• Characters: Ravenstongue, Telamon

• Place: Market District / Ravenstongue and Telamon's house

• Summary: Ravenstongue sends Telamon to the market to retrieve a sprig of thyme for the evening dinner. While he does that, Telamon has an unsettling encounter with Ravenstongue's father and the fey entity known as the Corpse-Eater, who is posing as Glorenacil's servant, 'Ro'. Frightened by the Corpse-Eater's magical fright, Telamon races home and tells Ravenstongue all about what happened.

Market District, evening.

Telamon's been sent to the market by Cor'lana in search of a recipe ingredient that she realized she needed at the last minute. She would have gone herself, but she needed to continue babysitting the pot as it boiled away on the fire.

"Just a sprig of thyme, please," she requested, right before batting Pothy away from the stove. "I know it sounds ridiculous, but Grandfather's notes say that it needs the sprig or the whole thing's just incomplete. I could have sworn that I had it."

The market stalls are now bereft of Pothy merchandise, with only a few small plushies here and there mixed in with the rest of the adventurer merchandise at one stall. The Pothy fad imploded and died as quickly as it came, with almost no children carrying around their Pothy toys. But there is...

Huh?

That's Glórenacil, talking calmly to the merchant at the stall. "Surely you have one," he says. "My daughter. Cor'lana. She's an adventurer. You have one of her bird but not of her?"

Telamon is of mixed opinions about the whole thing. On one hand it was downright embarrassing -- especially with small children asking how they could get their own white raven -- and on the other it did amuse Lana so, as well as himself. Ah well, seasons change, and the weather is turning colder fast.

Gliding through the market, wearing a long leather and fur coat of oruch design over his white tunic and dark trousers as well as a broad-brimmed hat, Telamon looks less like a sorcerer noble and more like a rakish herder. Having picked up the thyme at a nearby herbalist's, he makes a detour through the tailor markets. He mentally shrugs at the lack of Pothy merchandise, and then... he stops.

Dark eyes flash, just for a moment, before Telamon calms himself again. Deliberately he walks up behind Glórenacil, not standing too close. Just watching him, his body language, studying him.

GAME: Telamon rolls sense motive+3: (5)+20+3: 28

The odd thing about Glórenacil is that he's supposed to have been missing for quite some time--almost a full two months. And yet he looks healthier than he did at the Soldier's Defense, with his face and form filled out a bit more (perhaps a little too much, judging by the slight gut that's evident through his belted robes). His clothes are of nice quality, albeit somewhat plain, and his shoes are of sensible make and sturdy build.

And the last time Telamon had seen him, he was still confused at times and reluctant to talk at worse, but Glórenacil appears to be talking rather coherently. He's asking questions, yes, but he hasn't outright demanded the merchant to produce a plush toy of Cor'lana yet.

"I just don't," the merchant replies. "I buy these off the people who make 'em, and they're the ones who decide who gets made and who doesn't. We're just trying to offload the remainder of the Pothy stock. All the kids are onto some game involving tops now, I hear."

Glórenacil rolls his eyes. "The children will do as they want," he says, and he offers the merchant a small smile. "Well, have a good day..."

And he turns to face Telamon. His eyes widen, and then... they narrow. "Do I know you?" he asks.

Telamon stares back into Glórenacil's eyes. That starry gaze measuring, cool. Then his brows knit ever so slightly. "Perhaps. It's been a while, Glórenacil Lúpecyll. How are you feeling?" His voice is calm, not showing any of the tension he can't help but feel around the man.

Tel pushes up the brim of his hat ever so slightly, leaning a little closer, inspecting Glórenacil. "I'm a bit surprised you don't remember me though. Our interactions were a little rocky. You weren't feeling up to snuff, as it were."

Glórenacil is visibly flabbergasted as Telamon continues to talk. "I'm feeling quite fine, thank you," he says. "I just happened to be in the market to do my daily rounds. My darling daughter wanted something to make for dinner tonight for us both, so I thought I'd pick up something for her to cook when I saw the little plush toys of her bird..."

He stares at Telamon again. "Hmm. Are you perhaps one of my daughter's suitors?" he asks. "She's told me there have been men trying for her hand, but she's rejected all of them. She's a good girl who only wants to care for her father, you see. I'm getting up there in age, after all, and I simply just can't be bothered to remember all of the men who have dropped by."

There's not a hint of confusion in his voice. He really thinks whatever he's describing is reality.

Telamon feels a chill creeping up his spine, a cold that has nothing to do with the weather as he watches Glórenacil. He takes a deep breath. "That's... fascinating. How old is your daughter? While I'm quite happily married, I've a few cousins and a couple friends who wouldn't mind making an acquaintance. They're raised in good families, too, so they understand the need to take care of an elder."

A pause. "After all, what are we if not the products of our upbringing, the fruit fallen from the tree of our parentage? It's important to not set aside family." Tel's expression takes on a feigned expression of annoyance. "Though it's also important to spread one's wings, and fly on your own."

Glórenacil beams with pride as the line of questioning turns toward his daughter. "Cor'lana? Hah, well, I don't think she's much older or younger than you. She'll be turning twenty-two in the spring. I don't think she'll welcome your efforts to introduce a match, however. She is solemnly sworn to my care."

He looks around for a moment. "Speaking of my care... Where did that blasted servant boy go. Ro! Ro, where did you go."

"Right here, sir Lúpecyll," announces a young man. He glides out from behind the stall, where he'd apparently been out of sight. He appears to be sildanyar, though whether he's a wild elf or a dawn elf is hard to tell from sight alone. His bright blue eyes and blonde hair suggest lyranesi heritage, but that's the only clue. He puts an arm around Glórenacil's and smiles apologetically to Telamon. "We should probably stop bothering the young man and head home, sir Lúpecyll."

"Nonsense," Glórenacil huffs. "I have to find ingredients for Cor'lana to cook. You wouldn't want to disappoint her, would you, Ro?"

'Ro' blushes a little at the mention of her. "No, I don't," he admits.

Telamon turns his eyes to Ro, his face schooled into calm impassivity. Is this a nightmare? No. His left hand curls, feeling the weight of the ring on his finger. Calm. His gaze moves back to Glórenacil. "Interesting. And she has a bird, then, sir Lúpecyll? A white raven?" Almost absently, he brings his right hand over to absently trace the pattern on the back of his left hand. "I think I may have heard of this remarkable bird, for his sheer, gluttonous appetite if nothing else."

Suddenly his eyes flick back to Ro again. "I don't believe we've met, sir. Ro, is it? Where do you hail from, Ro? A native of Alexandros? Llyranost? The Mythwood?"

"Of course! You know the bird--oh, well, I imagine everyone has," Glórenacil says with a shrug of the shoulders. "Pothy, the bird who could eat us all out of house and home if it weren't for my fortunes. He belonged to my late wife, who passed him down to Cor'lana. Tragic, but love begets love, as they say."

Ro looks like he's been thrust into the spotlight as questions are asked of him. "I'm from Llyranost, sir," he says. "I was an orphan--abandoned as a baby. So I have no clue who and what's my kin. I try to take care of sir Lúpecyll as if he was my own father."

"And maybe you will be! If I can ever get that daughter of mine to look your way, that is," Glórenacil says with a hearty slap to Ro's back. This make the poor boy visibly gulp.

GAME: Telamon rolls sense motive+3: (17)+20+3: 40

Telamon's eyes shift from Glórenacil back to Ro. "Indeed." His voice becomes firmer. "Of course, you might have to reach an accord not just with her father, but with her grandfather." There's steel in Telamon's voice, the surreal sensation falling away as he stops playing along with this funhouse game. "Has she introduced you to him yet, Ro? I'm sure Glórenacil has mentioned him. He is much involved with birds -- especially ravens."

Tel stares at Ro steadily, fingers curled ever so slightly. "Then again, that's why they call him the Feathered One."

Glórenacil seems confused as Telamon talks of the Feathered One. Ro, meanwhile, has no reaction whatsoever. "The Feathered One? I mean... He's not my father. Why, he's just a fairy tale, passed down through the family tree."

"I know, sir Lúpecyll," Ro replies with a soft smile. "Perhaps you should go find ingredients while I talk with the young master here?"

The offer makes Glórenacil pause for a moment. "Oh, well... If you think it's fine, I can shop for myself," he says. "Just don't leave me alone for too long. I'd hate to make you or Cor'lana worry."

The smile remains on Ro's face. "No, please, go ahead, sir Lúpecyll." He insists.

Glórenacil walks off a short distance away. Ro looks at Telamon and folds his hands behind his back, but he still smiles genially. "I didn't wish to bring it up in front of Sir Lúpecyll, as he is suffering from memory loss and is quite delicate," he says, "but yes, I am aware of the Feathered One. Now, I didn't quite get your name, sir...?"

The calm, faintly genial expression drops off Telamon's face. "If you need something to call me," he purrs. "Some call me Telamon Lúpecyll-Atlon. Others, the Lord Lúpecyll." His eyes are shot with distant stars. "Now, who are you really, Ro? Because the last I checked, Glórenacil should not be wandering about because of his memory loss. In fact, he escaped the Soldier's Defense not long ago."

There's something cold and ominous in Telamon's expression, something very dangerous. Not in a personal way, like that of a drawn sword, but a frighteningly impersonal one -- a glacier moving inexorably to crush a countryside as it advances. "Who is he staying with that he believes to be his daughter? Because," he holds up his left hand, displaying the curuchuil inscribed on the back of his hand. "I am certain it is not."

Ro just offers Telamon a smile that widens ever so slightly. "Mmm, he might have 'checked out' early from the Defense, but I assure you that he is in no danger nor harm to himself," he says. "He lives in his own imaginary world, and I occasionally invent stories for him to believe in when he asks for them, but that's the nature of caring for people like him. Sometimes, you have to go from day to day like it's a bad improv-acting show at the Theatre District."

His eyes crinkle with delight. There's not an ounce of fear in his face. After all, they're in a marketplace surrounded by people. What can Telamon do? "I can be anyone he needs or wants to see. I can be a companion, a loved one, a stranger, a friend. But I have to take care to let him have contact with reality once in a while. Now, my friend, I think you and I both know who I am. We've met already, in fact, albeit... from afar."

Telamon's eyes glitter. "I suppose it's more constructive than some things you could be doing, Rook." His voice is faintly disdainful. "And after all, it keeps you out of trouble. Alud'rigan will be annoyed, I suppose." He leans close to 'Ro', his voice dropping. "Don't get too big for your breeches, though. My temper is notoriously short when my family is threatened."

He straightens up again, his face transmuting once again into that faintly genial, polite expression. "I believe we're done here... for now. You will take good care of him, won't you 'Ro'?" There's something ever so faintly mocking in his tone.

GAME: Telamon rolls Will: (1)+12: 13 (EPIC FAIL)

As Telamon leans in, something changes in the face that belongs to 'Ro'. Bright blue eyes that are more on home on a baby's light and innocent face turn violet, and the wide smile turns into a disdainful sneer.

"Your family with Cor'lana is my family, long before you were ever a twinkle in your noble father's eye," the man sneers. His voice is, in all reality, a whisper, but to Telamon, it might as well be the loudest thing in his head, the voice boring down to Telamon's very core in ice-cold syllables. "Remember you are merely a sparrow while I soar in the sky. Remember that your beloved wife is of my blood--the same that is within Alud'rigan's veins. Remember that your happiness with her exists only so long as I allow it--and only so long as Alud'rigan is there to protect you."

He leans back, and that look of disdain on his face remains. "And you wouldn't want to give me a reason to topple your nest over and throw you to the wolves below, Telamon Atlon. This is your only warning."

The violet eyes fade to blue, and the man turns on his heel to rejoin Cor'lana's sire a few stalls away--as though he'd never had a heated word to say.

GAME: Ravenstongue rolls 5d6: (17): 17
<OOC> Ravenstongue says, "17 rounds of frightened."

That's it. As far as Tel's concerned, this is the part where he turns this son of a bitch into a bad memory. But the chilling voice grips his heart. Somewhere in the back of his head he realizes what is happening, and curses, but the cold flows into his limbs, his chest, a sensation he's not felt in a long time. Until all he can think of is flight.

Flight. Yes. That's what he needs. Tel stammers out an incantation, "Baras, kalag dana i'iz!" Shimmering wing-like vanes appear from his back, and he streaks into the skies, rocketing towards the only place he feels safe now: home.

Fear may be the only ruler of Telamon's mind, but the queen of his heart dwells inside the home. Cor'lana's stirring the pot on the fire while Pothy sits on the kitchen counter, observing the cooking process.

"Oh, Telamon decided to fly back," Pothy observes. Blue eyes catch him midair, hastily speeding home.

"Huh?" Cor'lana looks up from the pot, and her brows furrow as she also recognizes Telamon. "Not sure why he would be flying back, unless it was that urgent... I mean, he does like to fly, but..."

She frowns as her voice trails off. She abandons the pot and walks out of the kitchen to make her way to the front door. "Mind the pot," she orders Pothy, and then she walks out of the house. "Tel! Everything okay?"

Telamon descends at almost unsafe velocity, barely braking fast enough to avoid slamming into the narrow strip of turf in front of the house. Seeing Lana, he wildly gestures for her to go inside, barely able to speak as he almost bum's-rushes her back inside the house. He tries to get something out, but he can't seem to speak, his eyes wide and his hands shaking.

Something is very wrong, indeed, with him, as he pushes her back indoors and slams the door behind them, locking it.

"Tel--!" is all Cor'lana manages to get out before he pushes her inside. She lets him lock the door before she tightly, tightly wraps her arms around him. "Tel, what's wrong? Is everything okay?"

Cor'lana quietly curses under her breath. "Nevermind, dumb questions--just close your eyes, okay? Listen to me talking. Breathe in, breathe out. In, out. I've got you, okay?" She's not letting go of her husband, and she seems almost staggeringly calm in the face of him panicking.

Telamon grasps her hand, eyes locking onto the curuchuil. That seems to focus him, and after several long moments, he shudders, the trembling subsiding and his breathing slowing. "Shit. Shit. That bastard. Fear. Magical fear." He sucks in a breath, and presses his cheek to hers, letting the scent of lavender wash over him.

Finally, he pulls back slightly, not letting her go just yet. "Dammit. I ran into him. The rook, the Corpse-Eater. Grandfather's cousin. He was squiring Glórenacil around, and he's a pretty good actor. Unfortunately, I caught his scent, challenged him. He hit me with magical terror, threatened us." He snorts. "Just another day ending in 'y' for adventurers."

Cor'lana's violet eyes widen as he explains what happened--and who he ran into. "The Corpse-Eater? He has Glórenacil?" She pulls away from Telamon, but only slightly--just enough to look into his eyes. "What was he doing down in the market? And... he threatened us? What should we do?"

"Well, Telamon should come in here and add the thyme to the pot already," Pothy declares. "I can't keep watching the pot forever!" Good timing, Pothy.

Telamon sighs, reaching into his pocket, and removing a small vial. "If I could save thyme in a bottle..." he says a bit wryly. "Look... let's go out there, keep cooking, and I'll tell you what I saw. I... don't know what to do immediately." His eyes glint. "We need... we need a plan. I know, neither of us is particularly great at that, but we definitely need to think this one through first."

Once the couple has removed to the kitchen, Tel sits down, continuing his tale. "Evidently Glórenacil is... living in a fantasy for now. He thinks he lives at home with his darling daughter who cares for him. He was out looking for things so she could cook dinner." He shudders. "For a little bit there I felt like I was in a bad dream. Had to touch the ring and the curuchuil to keep it from freaking me out."

Cor'lana just takes one look at the pot that's now burbling away on the fire with a newly-acquired sprig of thyme added to the broth as Telamon mentions Glórenacil's delusion. "Especially since, well, I was attempting to try and cook when you left," she observes as she turns her gaze back to Telamon, soft and full of sympathy. "I can only imagine. That must have been... awful."

"Don't worry, I'm pretty sure Cor'lana would never let Glórenacil call her his 'darling daughter'," Pothy interjects. He comes over to rest on Telamon's shoulder. "I think the first thing you should do is to probably tell Grandfather about this."

"I agree with Pothy," Cor'lana says with a nod. "We should."

Telamon nods, and shivers a bit, hugging Lana close once the pot is cooking properly again. He strokes Pothy as well. "Yeah. Yeah, we need to talk to Grandfather. Hopefully he can give us some advice before we deal with this... and how to best approach it." He shakes his head. "The worst part, though..."

He looks up, staring at Lana. "He looked happy, Lana. Glórenacil, I mean. He didn't look near as bony, he'd actually put on a little weight. I... if we have to break him away from the Corpse-Eater, it's going to mean killing that fantasy. And that's going to be hard."

Cor'lana frowns deeply. But she reaches out with her left hand--the one that has their marriage curuchuil on the back--and draws herself close to Telamon as well. "Of course that monster would do this to us," she says, quietly. "He'd ask us to choose between our happiness or Glórenacil's. That..."

She pushes herself into Telamon's arms more fully, putting her head underneath Telamon's chin. A deep sigh leaves her. "Now's not the time to ruminate on it," she decides. "You're here. He can't reach us here. The home is warded. We are accomplished magicians. We can do this... But for now, I just want this."

Her arms squeeze tightly around him. "Just us," she says. "Just you."