Raccoon in the Kitchen

[Vivian]

20th Glade

Two days.

It had been two days.

His stomach had actually stopped growling after so long.

Vivian stood on the street corner, glaring at the noble house he had been watching for the better part of the morning. He had tried not to be obvious about it, circling the block and looking for unattended merchant carts. He didn't particularly want to sell himself that morning, and most of his work was in the evening. He eyed the house again. Idle hands and all that. He folded his arms over his narrow chest, suppressing the cramp in his gut. He exhaled shortly, pursing his lips and narrowing his blue eyes. He had to do something and soon. If he went after something in the market that was just asking to get caught and have his hands taken off. A house was much more risky, but it was also less public. It was right in front of him.

"Gods be damned fat nobles swilling wine and eating roast duck while I starve here on a corner..." he muttered under his breath.

Vivian was a pretty thing. His large eyes, accented with a generous helping of kohl and white mica dust over his lids, had pulled in many a client. He had a ratty coat on with a fur cowl that had kept him warm through the winter. His pants were more hole than fabric at this point, and his boots weren't much better. Winter had not been a kind mistress to him for his second season out on the streets; his hair was dirty and his generous lips were cracked. He shivered, looking to his left and right. The streets weren't too active at this time of day. It was early morning. Everyone would either be at the market or in their own homes. Their own, warm homes.

He slowly approached the house from the left. He wasn't stupid enough to just walk up to the door. He had to pray the back gardens were unattended and the kitchens were unlocked. That was one hell of a gamble. He could always say he was just cutting across the yard and run if he was caught, couldn't he? He couldn't think. His legs were already on the grass, feeling the tickle of cold morning dew seep through the holes in his shoes.

Vivian slid along the house, trying to stay out of sight of any windows. He stayed hunched over, hiding behind bushes as he circled the building. Nobles usually kept their kitchens in the back, and oh how he could smell it! Fresh bread from the morning, sausages, were those eggs he was smelling as well? His stomach cramped up at the scents and he stopped, huddling next to an ornamental dip in the wall and clutching his middle until it passed. He shakily reached the kitchen door, and took a deep breath.

Please be unlocked. Please, please be unlocked.

The door gave at his touch.

He stepped into the kitchen, his eyes darting around for any signs of life. Thankfully the servants were elsewhere. He hurried over to a cutting board and seized a loaf of bread in his fingers. Dear gods, it was still warm! His teeth tore into it greedily, barely tasting it as he shoveled mouthfuls down his throat as fast as he could. He swilled milk from a nearby jug, no doubt brought in fresh that morning with the cream neatly skimmed off. He stole strips of bacon right out of the pan, swearing under his breath at the hot grease. Down his gullet they went. He huddled the loaf to his chest, his greasy fingers pushing open the door to the pantry and shutting it behind him. Oh. Praise everything. Sausage.

Well, at least whoring meant he didn't have much of a gag reflex. He chomped down half a string of sausages and tore off a hunk from a wheel of cheese. His fingers left greasy, dirty marks on everything.

[Degare]

TIMESTAMP: 20th Solace, Glade 4622
NOTES: -

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For those presently staying within House Socorro’s Amoren estate, early morning was not a very active period of time. The only Veir left within was rather fond of sleeping late into the morning and consequently was not awake. Those who wandered the halls at this hour were the staff in charge of cooking and two other Valran responsible for making sure naught was amiss. It was atypical for anyone to do something as foolish as break into a noble’s house knowing that near to everyone within possessed at least one Mark of Control and the treatment of such intruders ranged from a slap on the wrist all the way to…well, death. Sometimes, maybe even a little worse.

As a result of this general attitude, Valran Lucia wasn’t exactly the most alert of people at the time. Awake, yes, but she was sitting in a study near the kitchen reading– paying attention? Not so much. However, the doors to both rooms were open and so sound would be able to carry between the two– and carry it did. At first, she didn’t think much of the sounds of movement coming from the kitchen. To her, she initially assumed it was just the servants doing their jobs…but then, the longer she sat there, the more what she was hearing struck her as odd. Out of place.

Rolling her eyes, she marks the page she was on, snaps her book closed and gets up to investigate the disturbance. To her, it was a nuisance to even have to get up. With steps silent as a mouse, she makes her way through the short corridor between the room she was in and the kitchen, only to be surprised that there was, in fact, an intruder. The poor waif within wasn’t doing anything all too nefarious, however. He looked half starved and wore clothes torn and ragged– he was clearly only there to sate a need not plan a heist. With a loud sigh to catch the other’s attention, “You really are an unfortunate thing, aren’t you?” Her voice was soft as silk with an oddly playful chime to it. In some ways, the poor thing reminded her of herself prior to gaining her title. Her rarely felt empathy was piqued…if only just a little bit.

Shaking her head she approaches the man, frozen like a possum. “Listen…I’m not going to hurt you if you cooperate. However, I can’t just let you go. The Veir I serve would throw a fit if he found out, and truly? I can’t have that. So please…don’t resist.” Again, her tone is oddly impish, yet at the same time rather amiable. Compared to what one would expect when caught stealing red handed, she was being perfectly polite. Making zero attempt to take away whatever food item the man currently had in his hands, she guides the starving man down the corridor to the exact study she had been in. This one would serve her just fine because it did not have any windows and therefore would be more difficult to escape from.

“Just wait here, will you? Don’t cause a fuss– our Veir is a powerful mage, I wouldn’t upset him if I were you. I’ll be back with him as soon as I can,” she speaks with the same tone as before– closing and locking the door on her way out.

—

Somehow, Lucia had managed to wake Degare without bothering his sleeping companion. Truly remarkable a feat, this was, especially since he was the far heavier sleeper of the two. Once he had been roused, the Ferrier used Allay to remove his own Bane, sighs, and readied himself to attend to whatever apparent nonsense required his attention.

Lucia had informed him that the intruder was a starving vagrant and that he could likely get away with doing whatever, just that she thought it was better to leave the situation in his hands rather than handle it herself. Admittedly, it intrigued him that somebody would actually be audacious– or desperate– enough to break in. After directing him to the correct room, the Valran took her leave.

The door to the study opened again, only this time instead of the woman from before, the figure that entered was an exceptionally tall, exceptionally thin, exceptionally pale Sil’norai man. Dressed simply but well, he wore waist high matte satin black pants with three rows of two shiny silver buttons each. For his shirt, he wore one of fine white silk with loose, billowing sleeves that are cuffed at the wrist. Around his neck, he wore a cravat of the same type of fabric. For shoes, he wore black boots that stopped at his ankles made of the finest quality leather.

He blinks at the half-starved man that awaited him in the room, then laughs a bit. “Oh, how cute.” That’s all the Veir said as he approached the stranger, opting to sit in a chair across from him. With a cant of his head and a glint of interest behind amber eyes, he smiles and lifts a hand roughly shoulder height, holding it palm upward in front of him. If one looked, they’d notice a thin, ethereal purple strand emerge from his palm. It twisted and sparked as if it was electric, though it most certainly was not. Anyone familiar with Mentalism would recognize this as a Tether, something used to connect the mage’s mind to another’s. Not too slow but not too fast, it floats through the air and appears to phase easily through the skin at the back of the vagrant’s neck. Murals now connected, the Veir closes his eyes for a moment to let images of the other’s mind flit before his own.

With a slight, asymmetrical curl to his lip, the man laughs; musical, almost, and velvety in timbre it was. Snapping the thread that had connected the two, he rests his elbow on the table between them and chin on that hand. “You poor thing,” he spoke with a click of his tongue and a shake to his head that read as heavily sarcastic. “There are far safer places to steal food from than a noble’s house, you know. I doubt there’s anyone out there that would look for you and I can do…whatever I want, really. We older mages can be quite bored…and quite cruel when the mood strikes,” he spoke with a smile that narrowed his bright eyes just the smallest amount.

____

'Thoughts'
"Common Tongue/Speech"
"Raillen Tongue/Speech"
"Silvain Tongue/Speech"

[Vivian]

A loud sigh caught his attention, and Vivian froze in mid chew. He swallowed thickly, turning and clutching the last of the bread to his chest. He was caught, it was over. He rubbed crumbs and grease away with the heel of his hand, which really only succeeded in making a large dirt streak across his cheek. A woman was approaching him, and his mind began to race. Did he throw the bread at her head and run? No, that would be defeating the purpose of why he'd broken into the house in the first place. Did he try and attack her? No, that was an even worse idea. His stomach was churning with the amount of food he'd packed into it, and while he sported the sort of wiry muscle that most street urchins did he didn't stand half a chance against a well-fed noble. Especially one that showed absolutely no fear of him.

So, he was caught but not allowed to leave. Instead, she was bringing him to the master of the house. No doubt because she feared getting stripes across her back for the nightmarish mess in the kitchen and pantry. It looked like a wild animal had broken in. As they walked, Vivian stuffed the last of the bread in his mouth as fast as he could. It was safer in his stomach than it was in his fingers. He sucked the last of the grease off his fingers as they walked, his eyes not leaving her. If she was going to whip around and beat him for getting crumbs on the floor he was going to take whatever quick exit he could...even if his stomach was warning him against it.

Instead, he was put in a study. A study she locked. Panick rose in his throat as he heard her footsteps padding away.

Vivian hated being trapped. No windows. Gods, what did he do? Arm himself? No, that was asking for a fight. A fight he couldn't win. He had to pick the lock. He scrambled around the study, pulling open drawers and pawing through them. Papers, useless fucking papers. Books, those were useless. A letter opener...no, that was too big to jimmy a lock properly. Why was his lockpick set with his things? He swore under his breath and sat down insolently on the desk, folding his arms across his chest.

"Well, that settles it. You're going to swing tomorrow, stupid." he muttered to himself. "Should've just eaten the god damn mule and been done with it."

He waited. And waited. He sat in the chair behind the desk and leaned back in the leather, sighing. When the study opened again, he sat bolt upright. Oh no. He did not like whatever was coming at him. His eyes widened and he scrambled back in the chair, seeming to forget he was sitting in it. There was a horrific thread of something seething through the air at him! He pawed at it like a cat, trying to slap it away, and grabbed at the back of his neck. This was it. He was going to die. His heart was pounding in his chest like a rabbit.

Bored? Cruel? Oh gods have mercy he was not here to be some sadistic nobles' toy. He'd heard stories of whores who were lured into noble houses only to wind up half-skinned and dumped in alleyways! He launched over the desk and threw a book at the noble in a moment of sheer panic, attempting to get to the door and throw himself through it before the other got out of his chair. He was not going to die like this! He was too fucking pretty to die like this! He scrambled through the doorway with all the agility of a drunk polecat, half lurching half running into the hallway.

[Degare]

TIMESTAMP: -
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The man in front of him looked wide-eyed and panic stricken when the Veir sat down. While everyone’s reaction to situations like this was different, this particular individual’s was…rather unique. It would appear that he was not quite familiar with how Tethers functioned given the fact that he actually tried to grab at it. Degare couldn’t help but laugh at this reaction in a way that would come across as both light and cruel. He does so love fear.

After the Ferrier finished speaking, the reaction the stranger had to his words was yet more fascinating. Scrambling out of the chair with uneven breathing and an obviously spiked blood pressure, the man flails about trying to find something to use as a weapon– or rather, a distraction– since the book he threw was not thrown very hard. Lifting his dominant arm, he blocked the projectile with his wrist, grabbed the same wrist with his left hand and popped off his hand. If one looked, it would appear fairly grotesque as his wrist and arm detached from one another; almost immediately, skin would fuse over the break on either appendage and look completely uninjured. This process was also painless and extremely quick given the complete lack of reaction on the mage’s end.

Channeling ether through his Neurocrux, he manifests weave, crystalline and near to transparent, around his detached hand and uses Impel to launch the hand at the fleeing stranger. It struck fast and true. Maintaining full control of the fine movements on that hand, he grips the other’s shoulder where it landed and manifests the Bane of Sap from his palm. It would only take moments for a Master’s Bane to take effect and the vagrant would likely only make it a few feet outside of the room before collapsing from strain and exhaustion– Degare’s sap would make one so physically weak that even one’s heart would struggle to beat.

Sighing softly, the silver elf rises from his own seat and with languid steps and long strides he crosses the room again, passes the threshold of the door and ever so slowly approaches the fallen man in the hall. Crouching down next to him, the Ferrier picks up his right hand and presses the wrist against his forearm– skin immediately opening and fusing the limb back together. “Aww…a feisty one, huh?” Speaking with a tone of cold mockery, his right arm would become engulfed in the blackest of shadows shortly thereafter. Sharp claws would emerge from the second knuckle of each finger on this hand and plates of shadowy, soot colored armor would grow over the skin of his upper arm. While this was most certainly a weapon, the Corvo in this scenario was not using it as such.

With the utmost care, the Ferrier lifts the Sapped man into his arms using the enchanted one to carry the bulk of his weight. In this case, the other was actually small enough to have been lifted without Shaper under normal circumstances. Unfortunately for Degare, he had been neglecting himself for over a month at this point and was so thin that even this waif of a man would be difficult to pick up without it. Nonetheless, he carries his prisoner back to the room they were in before and this time he locks it.

With the first few notes of a laugh, “You’re funny. Did you really think that would work, or was it just the desperate fear that compelled you? You don’t look that stupid…” He speaks musingly, mostly to himself, being fully aware of the fact the other man would struggle to speak coherently in this state. Moving ever so slowly, he places the half elf in the middle of the floor, flat on his back. Crouching over him now with long limbs folded beneath him, “So tell me…why shouldn’t I kill you?” Again, he asks this question in a voice suffused with mockery. Red-amber eyes flit over the stranger’s body, scanning his exposed skin for any visible Marks of Control.

As of yet, there were none to be seen. With careful hands and deft movements, the Veir removes the captive man’s coat and shirt. Unfortunately, nothing was to be found on his chest. Degare then rolled the man over onto his stomach and it was there, between the stranger’s shoulder blades, that he saw something that did interest this eccentric nobleman: a Malformist’s mark.

“If you’re wondering, I’ve answered my own question,” words spoken as he runs a finger down the man’s spine where the mark sits, movements light as a feather. “Your Mark…I’d like it,” his tone immediately shifted to something almost saccharine with these words. “Just give it to me, I’ll have a Valran watch over the initiation– I’m well aware how it works. I’ll free you when this is done, promise; a lover of mine would get upset if I ended your life, after all.” The Veir’s voice is notably brighter and far more friendly than any previous point during this encounter.

As a kind gesture meant to build some small semblance of trust, the Ferrier places his palm flat to the smaller man's back and channels ether through the blackened triskelion on his chest and down through his hand, casting Allay to rid the poor boy of his Sap.

____

'Thoughts'
"Common Tongue/Speech"
"Raillen Tongue/Speech"
"Silvain Tongue/Speech"

[Vivian]

Vivian felt the hand strike his shoulder, and a dizzying sense of exhaustion crawled over his body. It was like every sleepless night, every hangover, every bit of starvation whipped right back into his body. He crumpled to the floor with a gasp. He could barely breathe, sucking in shallow air as the other man approached. It was his touch. The other’s touch had sucked his strength away! He couldn’t move to hit or bite as the other wrapped his arms about him and lifted him up.

They were headed back to the study, he noticed. Back into that windowless room. The door shut with a clicking lock and Vivian made a small whine of dismay. He was dead wasn’t he? He was going to die here. He tried to fight the horrible feeling of exhaustion leeching in his bones. He was set on his back on the floor, and the other man crawled on top of him, staring down at him.

How could he ask that question? Why shouldn’t he kill him? Vivian tried to speak, to at least fling one last insult in his killer’s face, but only another angry whine burbled in his throat. The more he fought the more tired he was. He could barely keep his eyes open. The other man seemed to be examining him…cold fear washed over him as his coat was yanked off.

Oh gods no.

He’d been raped before. Usually when he was drunk or when someone overpowered him and took it for free. This one had laughed at his terror, now was stripping him and turning him on his stomach. Answered his question?! No, he was never going to get the chance to spread his legs if Vivian had anything to say about it.

Being so close to the floor and on his stomach recalled another creature, and he summoned up her form in his mind. Lithe strong limbs covered in mahogany armor. Powerful fangs, large eyes, delicate feet. He felt the touches between his shoulders and down his back. Soon those horrible fingers would go lower, exploring his prize. Vivian barely heard what he wanted. Mark? A mage mark? The tattoo between his shoulders? This man wanted his power!

He sure as shit wasn’t getting it!

Vivian cried out in agony the moment the exhaustion lifted from him. His skin darkened to a deep bay shade and split like a ripe fruit in the sun, hardening. His eyeballs bulged free and traveled up his forehead, his nose vanishing and his teeth melding into a horrific set of fangs. His fingers melted together into claws that gripped the carpet under him, his legs spreading wide and his knees turning backward into jointed insect limbs. Ribs shattered and burst through his sides to become additional limbs, and his screams vanished as his lungs dissolved.

Then he was shrinking. Down, down, impossibly far and sinking into a nest of wild fibers that was the carpet under them. He seized them in his claws and burrowed deep, shoving aside boulder-sized grains of dried mud from his coat. He looked up at the behemoth lording over the carpet, the god, the Titan that was several thousand times his size now.

He gathered his legs under him and leapt for the door. Fleas could leap the equivalent of horse paddocks with those strong back legs. He could be under the door and crawl toward a window! He just had to get away from the maniac who had stripped him half naked! He wanted to steal his magic, this beautiful gift that had him sailing through the air with impossible leaps. He made for the door, a mammoth wall of rough grain texture. The gap between the door and the floor might as well have been a tree canopy at this size.

He was going to be free!

That was, unless this mage had the brains to put a glass on top of him or something.

[Degare]

TIMESTAMP: -
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The only lust Degare possessed at the moment was one for power– of the magical sort, to be precise. He wasn’t so daft that he couldn’t tell how his touch would be perceived by his prisoner, rather, it was more that he just…didn’t really care. The half-elf could think what he wanted, really, as long as he was afraid. The pleasure’s all the same regardless of exactly why the victim is afraid. Suppose, then, one could make an argument that the Ferrier enjoyed control a bit too much as well, but…

While he didn’t expect the smaller man to immediately want to be his friend after this experience, he was certainly not assuming he would scream and turn into…a…bug? The Sil’Norai was no stranger to Malformity so he was quite aware of what the other was doing, just not the precise species he’d chosen. He was also not one to wince at the transformation, either; it would be weird if he was after he'd watched a Dranoch hold his stilll beating heart–ostensibly just for fun– with his chest cavity torn open whilst he lay helpless, straddled underneath him. Things like this sat comfortably in his memory among a plethora of other nightmarish experiences from as far back as near to ninety years. Some he enjoyed, some he did not, but the tearing and twisting of the body is all the same whether one takes pleasure in the experience or not.

As the Malformist finished his transition and began to shrink, the Ferrier rose a brow as he realized what the other had chosen: a flea. With a deep sigh, he manifested a crystalline, translucent chamber of Weave in the air around the flea once he managed to spot where the little one had landed. Safely enclosed within, Degare repositions to sit cross-legged on the floor and floats the flea over to about a foot in front of him. “Fascinating choice of transformation, there,” his voice is fairly coy and that along with the squint of his eyes and the curl of his lips gives away the fact that he is thoroughly amused. “Anyways, you can’t get away that easily…did my Valran not tell you of my skill in casting? You really shouldn’t continue to test me like this, little one, lest I have to use something more debilitating,” despite outright threatening the tiny Malformist, his tone remains light and amiable.

“Fortunately for you, I hold you in a rather small amount of Weave. I’m…assuming you’re not familiar with concepts of Mentalism, yes? So to clarify, all you would have to do to escape the confines of your chamber is transform back into your…normal self. It will not be strong enough to hold you when you’re full sized again, rest assured,” he’s speaking using a tone that would sound reassuring, though there are notable undercurrents of delight at the distress he assumed the other man must be feeling. “I suppose it’s worth mentioning that I’ve no wish to molest you. Delicious as your fear is, I’m sated in that regard– just give me your mark and you’re free to go. I’ll even throw in some money and food for the road, if you wish; I’m happy to make it a fair trade.” The Veir may enjoy toying with people for fun, but if they had something he wanted, he was near to always true to his word.

____

'Thoughts'
"Common Tongue/Speech"
"Raillen Tongue/Speech"
"Silvain Tongue/Speech"

[Vivian]

How many tricks did this monster have up a sleeve?! He thought he was just going to be able to hop away, get out of the room, leap onto a windowsill and transform back once he’d gotten to the relative safety of an alleyway. Maybe take a dog or horse back to a better part of town. Instead glittery hell descended down upon him.

He had to admit it was rather pretty, and not harmful. He just couldn’t move. He turned to look at the behemoth as he spoke. He calmed himself enough to listen. So this wasn’t harmful. He could still breathe and think, thank the gods. There was none of that all consuming exhaustion. He was clearly outclassed as a mage; he had little choice but to listen.

Vivian thought over his options. So the man was hungry for his mark. Vivian didn’t know how to give the mark much less what it meant, but the man didn’t know that now did he? He was clearly desperate enough to kidnap him for his mark, so it couldn’t have been as simple as putting out an ad and purchasing one from Malformation mages. That meant it meant so much more than cash. That meant he could get so much more.

He let go of the form. His form bulged and flexed, stretching the translucent skin between the armor. The flea’s flesh bulged out, spilling over the exoskeleton and submerging the whitening bones back into flesh and muscle. His scalp spread flesh over his skull, the teeth shortening and becoming human.

Vivian sat naked on the carpet, having jumped right out of his pants. He crossed his legs to satisfy dignity, tossed his head of hair, and lifted his chin.

“I want to know what you do. Coin goes away and food only lasts a day, but power like yours lasts a lifetime. Teach me more about magic…things like that. And I’ll teach you what I do.” He said, feeling more brave than he was at the moment. He wasn’t going to throw this opportunity away.

[Degare]

TIMESTAMP: -
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Per his instruction, the half-elf opted to let go of his mold and return to his primary shape. This time, though, he was entirely without clothes; while expected, he did find the man’s posturing rather funny given the fact that he was more exposed than before yet no longer showed fear. The transformation was almost as disgusting in the reverse as it was in its forward motion, but what hadn’t the Ferrier seen at this point?

The Veir’s nose scrunches with the onset of an amused, asymmetric smile along with a soft laugh at the stranger’s request. “Really? What a pragmatic request. I do find it funny you’ve much an interest to continue to be in my presence, but you’ve been anything but predictable thus far…” he spoke musingly, curiously, trailing off at the end of the sentence. “Now, it should be specified, I have two marks: Bane and Mentalism, with my mastery being in Bane,” the Ferrier lied– he has three marks, but one of them is exceptionally illegal and usually gets a reaction of revulsion, or fear, or both…so he kept that one to himself. Neither his face nor his voice gave away this deception, though; his features remained neutral with a gentle underlying curiosity behind eyes of reddened amber.

Canting his head a bit in consideration before he spoke again, “I’ve reasonable knowledge on most marks, though. I’m sure you’ve noticed that Daravin is full of mages, yes? Very well documented, everything is…Well, everything legal, that is,” the last bit is tacked on with a slight, sarcastic scoff and a roll of his eyes. “Anyways, I should be able to offer insight into your mark regardless of the fact that my own ability to channel it will be a bit behind your own. You…can stay here, if you wish. I’ll let the staff know.” The noble spoke matter of factly, as if the decision had already been made.

“Plus…I’ll get you some money so you can blend in a bit better, buy some new clothes and all that. Pretty little things like you ought to dress well, regardless. Kind of a waste otherwise, don’t you think?” He spoke with a soft timbre and an impish tone, donning a bit of a coquettish expression.

“So, then…do we have a deal…?”

____

'Thoughts'
"Common Tongue/Speech"
"Raillen Tongue/Speech"
"Silvain Tongue/Speech"

[Vivian]

Vivian could feel a headache beginning at the base of his skull. He’d popped in and out of the form far too quickly. He was still getting the hang of his powers, and had rarely seen the need to go so far. Usually just the leaping powers of the flea were enough, or some of her armor. Full transformations needed to be given more respect, clearly, and his body was punishing him for it.

“It’s not about a desire to be in your presence. You’re an incredibly attractive creature but you’ve got all the gentility of a starving dog. You? You’ve killed. Dozens, hundreds, maybe thousands of people without a second thought. But I’ve got something you want and that keeps me safe, and I’d be a fucking idiot if I didn’t use it to get a bath and a decent bed.” He said plainly.

Vivian was under no illusions. This man would kill him the second he ceased to be useful. “Mine isn’t something you can do without passion…” he said carefully. “…so first lesson is to be more emotional not less. As long as those emotions don’t come in the form of tearing my head off.”

The Malformist rose and bent down to pick up his pants, making sure the other got a good look. After all, his rear was one of his best features. A little narrow right now ti be sure but still shapely. “Besides, I can be useful in so many other ways than magic.” He smiled coquettishly over one shoulder as he pulled his pants up his hips. “As for everything being documented…I’m not. This happened to me. I never asked for it.”

Vivian had been forced into it, really. He still remembered laying in bed, slathered in sweat while feathers poked through his skin or his vision went mad being split into a thousand frames. It still felt like some evil fever dream, and the man who had done it had just…left him there to survive or die on his own.

[Degare]

TIMESTAMP: -
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The Ferrier’s lips twisted up into an amused smile that scrunched his nose and squinted his eyes at the other’s implication of how many people may or may not have died at his hands, though he supposes he could also count the people that died because of him as well. Five Valran had died here just a month ago, all at once, not by his hand, but by his command– his Dranoch companion killed them, but that was much the same as if he’d just done it himself, he thought. “I think thousands is a little much, not that I’ve really counted, though…” he speaks with a trail and a voice soft and contemplative. He genuinely did not keep track and a lot of them were…forgettable, at least identity wise. “Just don’t hold onto the Mark for too long, lest I…grow bored, ah…tired? Of waiting.” While he does maintain a somewhat amiable, almost musing tone, it does turn somewhat cold towards the last few words.

The amusement on his face does return when the stranger speaks again, however. “Oh, don’t worry. I’ve plenty of emotion that extends well beyond what you’ve seen. I just must…carefully choose when each is to be expressed, you understand, yes? Time and place.” The elf punctuates this sentence with a coy smile, though reflected in eyes of amber would be bitterness.

The Veir had seen glimpses, flashes of pictures, emotions, and sensations that had given away the other man’s profession during the brief time that the two were tethered, so his rather flagrant display was….fitting. While thin, the half-elf was well proportioned, at least. “You’d really want to put yourself in that position?” He floats the question across with a raised brow and an impish tone. Did he really mean that as a threat…? Perhaps it was just teasing. Perhaps not.

At the mention of his Mark not even being his choice, the Ferrier’s brows knit together in almost confusion. Marks of Power were usually something given out only in shrewdly bargained trades or between loved ones…not just…thrust upon somebody. “Really? How…bizarre…” he trailed off, mind drifting away in thought. “I imagine such an experience was most unpleasant, however– Malformity is the longest initiation and one of the most dreadful, so I hear. How senseless.” The Veir sounds a mix of fascinated and bewildered, though woven in between these emotions are threads of disgust. Giving out a Mark of Control that way clearly bothered him for one reason or another.

“Your ignorance really isn’t an issue– after all, since you’ve asked for help it’s to be expected, I’d think. I’m happy to break down the core tenants of Malformity as well as its skills, if you’d like. For things I’m a bit fuzzy on there’s plenty of texts I’ve access to as well,” at this point his voice is fairly casual, tone having drifted back towards something placid, amiable.

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'Thoughts'
"Common Tongue/Speech"
"Raillen Tongue/Speech"
"Silvain Tongue/Speech"