Refuge

[Alistair]

28th of Ash, Year 4622

Dear Vivian,

I write to you to inform you that I have made a grievous error, and for that reason, I must leave my home in Genteven until the barrel leaning over my head subsides. On the eleventh of Ash, I attended a gathering hosted by my friend, Vilhier, and met with a woman who claimed to work in the Arvant Luhre, the Palace of the Emperor. I thought -- perhaps -- she might help me meet with my cousin, Catherine, so I allowed her to come to my home to discuss my circumstances. The moment we arrived, she began to probe me for sex, and would not accept my resistance or my declination. Eventually, she became enraged, and began to wield Mentalism to choke me and influence my mind.

I ripped out her spine. I was so angry... so, furious, that all I could see a desire for was retribution. I have discovered since then that she was a Veir of the Entente, and now, her father is searching for me. Witnesses reported me as the one she went home with -- I cleansed her body and its remnants from my home, but she is still days missing. I have been staying in the Veravian Coven, here, in the city: they are going to help me to escape Genteven tonight. I can't return unless I manage to kill her father. Her brother is now first in line for inheritance after her death, so I believe I might be able to persuade him to leave me alone in exchange for his father's murder.

For now, I am going to use the information you gave me upon our departure to come find you. I want to see you again, and considering I have no reason not to now, I will make all haste to be there.

Yours,
Alistair Reid

- - -

The Risen found himself looking down a lot, all throughout his life. It was a consequence of being tall, and of living in the Upper City of Praetoria, elevated into the sky so that the fine Lords within it could sneer at the mundane men below. It had been a while, though, since he'd gotten a view like that -- not really since he left the Imperium. He'd wanted to stand atop one of Arlain's white spires, but had never been given the chance. Now, here he was, standing on the very edge of one of Boghadar's cobbled balconies, peering out towards farmlands in the valley below, watching serfs toil in the labor of their Lords. It was familiar, which made it equally as nostalgic as it was disgusting. He did not know whether he missed that feeling or not, and perhaps merely found it gross because of its association.

Alistair had searched for some time, looking for Vivian's estate. Boghadar was segmented in weird ways, parts of the city separated by bridges and stairwells, divided by the beautiful waterfalls that crashed below. The wealthy, of course, lived in higher elevation distal to the city core, beyond a waterfall and a retractable bridge. He'd tried to enter that district of the city, but apparently -- due to a violent encounter in the city center -- the Entente had seen fit to lift that bridge, and he was not allowed through. His timing was poor, but he imagined he would simply be able to stay in the tavern overnight and go to Vivian the next morning. It turned out it would remain lifted for another fortnight, and perhaps forever, considering a recent uptick in crime. The world had become more violent ever since that moment, in the sky, where looming cords of black met with the washing, golden rays of the Living Gods. They were living in madness -- in the end of an era, he liked to say. The end of their cycle of peace.

Ruminating, just like that, he peered over the edge of the balcony, the waterfall's rush moving through his ears as he continued to stare down, down, down. The man grew pensive, quiet. He sighed out, reaching forward and lifting water as it fell from the falls, arching it up so that it grazed along his fingertips, cool and suspended in an almost perfect stasis.

Alistair began to hum, old Griscian tunes. Songs he'd never find here -- save for, perhaps, in the phonographs the Entente occasionally managed to lift from Griscian merchant companies, generally with a steep uptick in cost. He wanted a phonograph: nothing sounded more pleasant than that, to him, as he loomed above the cascade.

[Vivian]

Vivian stared at the letter in his hand, and crumpled it to his chest as though to embrace the man who wrote it. His heart pulled as he recalled the words. Alistair, a Corvo, turning down sex? He had never meant to restrain the man. Sex was how they breathed, it was how the Corvos moved through life. Vivian would never ask him to turn away someone he wanted just for his sake. But somehow, the fact that Alistair had chosen not to made his heart surge. Had Alistair been thinking of him? Of their child? He smiled a bit, sadly. Gods, the silly man. He'd killed the girl in a fit of rage. Vivian would have felt sorry for her, but she was a Veir. The Veirs were mostly evil, as Degare had been, and the stain of the Entente ran deep in their blood. It was likely she would have sought to ruin Alistair to cover her own embarrassment at rejection. He didn't mourn for her in the slightest. Oh, the deaths she had probably caused. It was only the wheel of fate at work, turning back one's own actions against her.

He took the letter away from his chest and folded it carefully, tucking it into his book on Malformity. He'd had to move to Boghadar, at the behest of his Veirs. Both estates had now been owned by the crown, and distributed as such, and that meant a new household to get used to. Bara was yet again in a proper stable, even if he had to share it with the house's horses. He had liked being the only beast of burden at the Amoren house. Vivian's room overlooked a street, and one of the narrow canals leading down to the thunderous waterfalls. It was a pretty city, and the first time Vivian had faced living away from the streets where he was born. He didn't know this area as well.

Vivian chewed his lip, and touched his belly. Already a small swell there, if only visible because of the moderately skinny build he had. Ah well, he had been running every single morning. Wisps of muscle were beginning along his legs, calves and shoulders. Would Alistair know he was here? Would he know the estate? He got up from his bed, pacing nervously. His room was slightly larger here, though not by much. He had enough room to set up his cosmetology tools on a side table along the wall, and prop his books up on it instead of hiding them under his bed. The box with the wasp larvae was settled on his desk, with a new generation feeding on a new caterpillar he had taken from the Amoren house.

He rubbed at his neck. What to do? He had his beetle form, but could the little thing find it's way? He'd have to try. It was small, only double the weight of a ruby-throated hummingbird, but perhaps large enough to navigate. He took a deep breath. He had to be careful. He had good synchrony with this form; it was the form that had birthed him into Malformity. He set the letter on his desk, closed his eyes, and changed. His body grew small, about the size of a thumb, and his legs cracked and bent backwards as his limbs accommodated the shape of the beetle. His skeleton melted, becoming more aligned with an insect's sense of hydraulics, and his eyes went compound. A great shield of chitin grew on his back, as golden and beautiful as a piece of jewelry. He shrunk down to the carpet, his little claws grabbing them for purchase, and lifted the shields on his back. His wings unfolded, and he buzzed over to the open window.

A little kick, and he was aloft. The golden beetle flew a bit drunkenly, weighed down by its carapace, but Vivian was following scent. As long as he stayed above the street, he was fine. He flew toward the adjacent building, grasping the tiles with his claws, his antennae waving. Little scents on the air that teased and flicked at him. Men. Cats. The smell of the street and fresh water. He toddled over to a tile and drank a bead of water, indulging the beetle in its wants before he flew off again. He was floating past a balcony when he heard a rush of wings. Oh gods. That was the bad thing about being a bug.

The god damn birds.

Vivian buzzed in a panic toward the nearest balcony, sailing past its occupant. A rush of deep song wafted around him, and the evil little sparrow intent on its meal. Vivian flickered around the room. The scent. He knew this scent. He dropped to the bed and narrowly avoided an angry peck from the sparrow. The little bastard! Vivian scuttled into the pillowcase to hide while he adjusted. He could hear the bird hopping around, and the beetle's little brain was utterly terrified. He buzzed angrily, shuttering his wings against the chitinous shield. Releasing the beetle in this state was slightly more difficult than if it were calm! He prayed the man in the room would shoo the crazy bird out. He licked at the pillow. This scent...

Alistair?