Dark of Night - Jaezred/Sorrel
Mar 25, 2022 4:53:14 GMT
Velania Kalugina, stephena, and 2 more like this
Post by Jaezred Vandree on Mar 25, 2022 4:53:14 GMT
Co-written with stephena.
The most packed services at the Temple of Selûne are the ones at nighttime, naturally, typically starting after dinnertime and ending at 10 o’clock — except during the nights of a new moon or a full moon, which are reserved for holier rituals. Tonight, however, is a waxing crescent, and when the bells strike ten the worshippers rise from the benches and begin shuffling out of the doors with quiet murmurs amongst themselves, gently shepherded by the acolytes who had also conducted the service in the High Diviner’s absence.
As the last of the congregations leave, Sorrel sits down cross-legged on the plain stone floor by the reflecting pool in the centre of the chamber, staring into the impossibly tranquil, aqua blue waters. The acolytes are now tidying up, rolling up scrolls of sacred texts and putting the censers away, whilst one cowled worshipper remains in the room, seated on a pew in the southeast, leaning over the back of the bench in front of them, head bowed and hands joined in prayer. As it is a common sight in this temple, no one pays them any mind, trusting that they will leave quietly once their mind is at ease.
The acolytes are retiring for the night, some going deeper into the temple whilst others leave for an outside accommodation, each bidding Sorrel goodbye. The last door creaks shut, and soon she finds herself alone in the chamber with the silent pilgrim. She turns back to the reflecting pool, trying, in her mind, to attune to its calming effect and ignore the paranoia gnawing at her. A late night visitor to the temple whom she does not recognise, their face hidden under a hood… After recent revelations, no one could blame her for feeling on edge.
There is a sudden shift in the air, something that rips that paranoia back into the forefront of her mind. Sorrel’s hand is on the grip of her blade before she even realises it and she gets to her feet into a position primed for lunging, whipping around to face the pilgrim. But there is no pilgrim — instead, she sees an elegantly-dressed drow seated where the cowled figure was, cane and top hat placed primly on his lap.
“Good evening, Miss Darkfire,” says Jaezred Vandree. “Forgive me, I hope I’ve not interrupted your spiritual contemplation.”
Sorrel has made it a matter of personal and professional pride to avoid being — and seeming — surprised. She has worked on her poker face in the kind of places a tell means instant death if you’re one of the lucky ones. It does, however, take an active effort of will to keep her eyebrows in place and her mouth from gaping open.
“Why Lord Vandree,” the whisper of her blade nestling back in its scabbard is carefully concealed by the rasp of her feet on the stone floor as she sweeps an elegant bow, her eyes never leaving Jaezred’s. She is polite but not stupid. “I am honoured by your presence. I was labouring under the misapprehension that temples were uncomfortable places for you and yet you seem very much at home. Are you here to commune with the goddess, perhaps? Or might you have more earthly concerns?”
“Why in the world would a temple to some surfacer goddess I do not know be uncomfortable for me? They are all the same to me.” He waves a dismissive hand at the altar and effigies of the Moonmaiden on the wall behind it. “I came here to commune with someone who could actually be useful to me. You.”
Sorrel smiles carefully. The last time she was useful to Lord Vandree involved battling demons in the 66th layer of the Abyss. And yet she has no choice. She is sworn in debt and also — her inner survival instinct sighs in despair — she enjoys his sheer… Jaezred-ness…
“It is always a delight to shine in use, as the poet says,” she already knows they are alone in the temple but she sweeps the room briefly to be sure. “Would you like to speak here? I have a room — not the cell you first met me in, although it is a barren place for someone of your refined habits. Or perhaps elsewhere? The Three Dragons isn’t far.” She checks herself. “No, I think that might be worse than my room.”
“My my, what would Miss Silvia say about you inviting me to your bedroom?” he says teasingly, then stands up and cranes his neck around to admire the humble fresco of the lunar cycle on the ceiling. “No, here is fine.”
The drow lord steps away from the pews and approaches her slowly, his cane going tap—tap—tap on the stone floor. “A few weeks ago, there was an incident in the farmlands outside the walls of the town. Arson and something more than a slaughter but less than a massacre. And a mutilated body was brought back to this very temple — who was it?”
Sorrel meets his gaze coolly. “Lord Vandree, there is a question I need to ask you first and, whilst I’m sure you could lie effortlessly, I would urge you to tell me the truth for two reasons — the first being whatever this is,” she waves her hands to indicate the pair of them, inches apart, unflinching in their stares. “I don’t have friends — I have lovers, clients and victims and they are sometimes the same person — and I am certain you are highly selective to say the least. But somehow our fates are intertwined. For better or for worse,” she smiles ironically. “And the second is that it’s about which side you will find yourself on when things develop. Because I think neutrality will not be an option. So, tell me, can I count on you?”
“Which side I will—” He looks confused for a brief moment, but as soon as he realises what she meant, he bursts out laughing, the deep peals of his laughter echoing in the empty chamber. “Oh, by the Dark Seldarine. No offence, Miss Darkfire, but I care not for your lousy surfacer gods and their doddering followers. This sibling rivalry”—he spits out the phrase with such disdain that one could be forgiven for thinking he is speaking of a fight between children—“has no bearing on someone like me. I only care that this piece of land I happen to currently live on is not burnt to ash by fiends.
“As for your first query, this is business. You said it yourself, we are bound to each other. I scratch your back, you scratch mine, is that not true?”
Sorrel shrugs. “Very well then, business it is. What is your trade for my information?”
“I trained you last time, didn’t I? It’s time you repay that.”
“You agree to help and then invoice afterwards, the mark of the imperialist but who am I to complain?” she is disappointed, but philosophical. “In which case, the germane facts for one concerned with the Dawnlands and encroaching fiends is that, yes, there were at least two, they were accompanied by nightmares, they carved sigils with flame, they murdered innocents, they were not defeated and they will come again if they have not already. The sibling rivalry does not concern you so this is all you need to know.”
“I saw in heaven another great and marvellous sign: five angels with the five last torments, last because with them the Goddess’s wrath is completed,” he recites as he circles around her towards the altar. “You think anything goes on in this town without me hearing about it? I already know all that. I simply want to know why they came after that person.”
“I have no idea beyond what you already know,” she shrugs. “It is the sibling rivalry. The story continues. Why that location at that time above all others… I have not been made privy to that information. I assume it is part of the extermination and I do not know the order of their coming.”
“I have no time for this. This cosmic catfight is already costing lives and you still insist on wasting what little time you have playing games? In your goddess’s own sanctum? I’ll give you one last chance: who was it?”
Sorrel bristles. “You have had more clues than any Dawnlander as to how to play me and you wilfully ignore them,” she shakes her head. “I wonder why? You are clever and yet you behave as if you know nothing of the tools you could employ. What in your previous dealings with me has convinced you that giving me ‘one last chance’ is the route to success? You are drow. Where is your subtlety? Or have I been trained by the wrong sort of drow?”
Jaezred chuckles darkly. “Did you think that was a threat? Oh, Miss Darkfire, I’m not going to kill you. How am I to get the information I want out of you then? Again, I’m not interested in games. We’re on the same side, just for different reasons, or is that too difficult for you to understand? Who. Is. It.”
“I did not think that was a threat,” she seethes with impatience. “I am woefully disappointed. How can I have misjudged you? Perhaps I imposed my own hopes on you. Well, here is your skirmish neatly won, Lord Vandree, I will give you the name you require. But you have lost something in the asking which was precious indeed. The dead man was Ivoluin Brynan. I hope this satisfies you. If you will forgive me, it is getting late.”
“Goodness me, not the dramatics again,” he groans. He bends down to look at her at eye-level. “Listen. You are not drow, you will never be drow, and you certainly will never be drow by making every interaction some sort of bizarre dance back and forth. I was plain with you with my intentions and I told you already that we have the same goal! What exactly do you think you would gain from being obtuse towards me? What is it you suspect me of, for heaven’s sake?”
“I suspect you of nothing,” Sorrel smiles pleasantly. “And I am of course aware that I have not the honour of one drop of drow blood in my veins. It is of enormous benefit to the Dawnlands that you prefer them unroasted. Everything has turned out just as you desired. I did not mean to be dramatic. There. All is well. Now, as I said, it is getting late…”
Jaezred straightens his back and puts his hat back on. He seems to be content to let her leave, but then: “You wondered why I did not use the ‘tools’ available to me to pry this out of you. Because I don’t want to manipulate or lie to you, you fucking idiot.” There is a faint sliver of pain in his frown. “I lived that life and I have had enough of that. So I came to you with my honest opinion, promising nothing beyond what I can give. That’s all I can offer you. If that is not enough, then good night.”
“Lord Vandree, the tools I was referring to had nothing to do with lies or manipulation, pain or death — they were the things you should know about me by now,” she shrugs. “The sharpest tool you had, you insist on throwing away — the respect I had for your skill and intelligence. I would have expected you to realise how hard-won my respect is, how difficult it would be to gain my loyalty and how the service of one who would follow you to the Abyss for nothing would be a valuable asset, however clumsy she may be. Of course, my debt remains unpaid. You may call on me when required. Good night.”
“You respected me for what you saw I did in the Abyss,” he says quietly with teeth gritted, though not in anger. “But there is nothing respectable about that, and I cannot pretend that it is.”
“Well, it is spent now, so the distinction is academic,” Sorrel gazes into the pool. “It’s a shame.”
“And for all your ostentatious declarations of loyalty, you have twice now met my honesty with deception for no reason. So what is it really that you have, Sorrel Darkfire? Perhaps we are both disappointments in our own ways.”
Jaezred turns around and strides out of the temple, slamming the doors shut behind him.
Two days later, Melissa hands Sorrel a leather pouch and a letter that she says has been left for her. Opening the pouch and tipping it onto her palm, two black stone tokens with a rune carved on the surface come spilling out. Dark House tokens.
The accompanying letter, sealed in wax but lacking any signet, has no return address. It reads:
Sorrel reads the letter sadly and considers whether to reply. The gulf of misunderstanding between the two of them seems to widen with every communication. The insult Jaezred has paid her by returning the stones would, in normal circumstances, require violent reprisal. He has dishonoured her repeatedly and under the House Code she should not live with such shame. But she feels, for some reason, no ill will towards him.
He has chosen a difficult path through life and follows it out of love. Perversely, his obtuse rudeness and thundering insensitivity has made her more certain that he is trustworthy. No enemy would send such a letter. They would insinuate and wheedle, play nice and deal in dark ways. Jaezred’s raw need is too obvious — and perhaps resembles her own too closely — for her to see him as an enemy. It is ironic, she reflects, that she withheld the name because she wanted to be sure she could trust him and it is only now the bond she imagined is sundered that she finally knows she can.
She walks back to her room, sits at the simple wooden desk and takes out a sheet of paper. But what could she say? If they were squabbling toddlers their parents would smack them and force them to shake hands. Now they are grown, they have given up such childish things. And yet, how grown up are they really? She is happier communicating with blade and muscle than heart and soul. Lord Jaezred… she has no idea. And probably never will.
She returns the sheet of paper to her desk drawer and walks through the temple into the sunshine.
There is darkness coming. She and Lord Jaezred will face it on the same side. Perhaps that will be enough to repair their bond. In spite of the hurt he has done, she rather hopes it will be. He talks of business and transactions, but his heart is so obvious she could almost hug him. Or stab him. Could go either way.
Sorrel sits on the temple steps and gazes into an uncertain future. One ally lost. Try not to lose any others, Darkfire, she tells herself. You don’t play well with other children but that should probably stop.
The most packed services at the Temple of Selûne are the ones at nighttime, naturally, typically starting after dinnertime and ending at 10 o’clock — except during the nights of a new moon or a full moon, which are reserved for holier rituals. Tonight, however, is a waxing crescent, and when the bells strike ten the worshippers rise from the benches and begin shuffling out of the doors with quiet murmurs amongst themselves, gently shepherded by the acolytes who had also conducted the service in the High Diviner’s absence.
As the last of the congregations leave, Sorrel sits down cross-legged on the plain stone floor by the reflecting pool in the centre of the chamber, staring into the impossibly tranquil, aqua blue waters. The acolytes are now tidying up, rolling up scrolls of sacred texts and putting the censers away, whilst one cowled worshipper remains in the room, seated on a pew in the southeast, leaning over the back of the bench in front of them, head bowed and hands joined in prayer. As it is a common sight in this temple, no one pays them any mind, trusting that they will leave quietly once their mind is at ease.
The acolytes are retiring for the night, some going deeper into the temple whilst others leave for an outside accommodation, each bidding Sorrel goodbye. The last door creaks shut, and soon she finds herself alone in the chamber with the silent pilgrim. She turns back to the reflecting pool, trying, in her mind, to attune to its calming effect and ignore the paranoia gnawing at her. A late night visitor to the temple whom she does not recognise, their face hidden under a hood… After recent revelations, no one could blame her for feeling on edge.
There is a sudden shift in the air, something that rips that paranoia back into the forefront of her mind. Sorrel’s hand is on the grip of her blade before she even realises it and she gets to her feet into a position primed for lunging, whipping around to face the pilgrim. But there is no pilgrim — instead, she sees an elegantly-dressed drow seated where the cowled figure was, cane and top hat placed primly on his lap.
“Good evening, Miss Darkfire,” says Jaezred Vandree. “Forgive me, I hope I’ve not interrupted your spiritual contemplation.”
Sorrel has made it a matter of personal and professional pride to avoid being — and seeming — surprised. She has worked on her poker face in the kind of places a tell means instant death if you’re one of the lucky ones. It does, however, take an active effort of will to keep her eyebrows in place and her mouth from gaping open.
“Why Lord Vandree,” the whisper of her blade nestling back in its scabbard is carefully concealed by the rasp of her feet on the stone floor as she sweeps an elegant bow, her eyes never leaving Jaezred’s. She is polite but not stupid. “I am honoured by your presence. I was labouring under the misapprehension that temples were uncomfortable places for you and yet you seem very much at home. Are you here to commune with the goddess, perhaps? Or might you have more earthly concerns?”
“Why in the world would a temple to some surfacer goddess I do not know be uncomfortable for me? They are all the same to me.” He waves a dismissive hand at the altar and effigies of the Moonmaiden on the wall behind it. “I came here to commune with someone who could actually be useful to me. You.”
Sorrel smiles carefully. The last time she was useful to Lord Vandree involved battling demons in the 66th layer of the Abyss. And yet she has no choice. She is sworn in debt and also — her inner survival instinct sighs in despair — she enjoys his sheer… Jaezred-ness…
“It is always a delight to shine in use, as the poet says,” she already knows they are alone in the temple but she sweeps the room briefly to be sure. “Would you like to speak here? I have a room — not the cell you first met me in, although it is a barren place for someone of your refined habits. Or perhaps elsewhere? The Three Dragons isn’t far.” She checks herself. “No, I think that might be worse than my room.”
“My my, what would Miss Silvia say about you inviting me to your bedroom?” he says teasingly, then stands up and cranes his neck around to admire the humble fresco of the lunar cycle on the ceiling. “No, here is fine.”
The drow lord steps away from the pews and approaches her slowly, his cane going tap—tap—tap on the stone floor. “A few weeks ago, there was an incident in the farmlands outside the walls of the town. Arson and something more than a slaughter but less than a massacre. And a mutilated body was brought back to this very temple — who was it?”
Sorrel meets his gaze coolly. “Lord Vandree, there is a question I need to ask you first and, whilst I’m sure you could lie effortlessly, I would urge you to tell me the truth for two reasons — the first being whatever this is,” she waves her hands to indicate the pair of them, inches apart, unflinching in their stares. “I don’t have friends — I have lovers, clients and victims and they are sometimes the same person — and I am certain you are highly selective to say the least. But somehow our fates are intertwined. For better or for worse,” she smiles ironically. “And the second is that it’s about which side you will find yourself on when things develop. Because I think neutrality will not be an option. So, tell me, can I count on you?”
“Which side I will—” He looks confused for a brief moment, but as soon as he realises what she meant, he bursts out laughing, the deep peals of his laughter echoing in the empty chamber. “Oh, by the Dark Seldarine. No offence, Miss Darkfire, but I care not for your lousy surfacer gods and their doddering followers. This sibling rivalry”—he spits out the phrase with such disdain that one could be forgiven for thinking he is speaking of a fight between children—“has no bearing on someone like me. I only care that this piece of land I happen to currently live on is not burnt to ash by fiends.
“As for your first query, this is business. You said it yourself, we are bound to each other. I scratch your back, you scratch mine, is that not true?”
Sorrel shrugs. “Very well then, business it is. What is your trade for my information?”
“I trained you last time, didn’t I? It’s time you repay that.”
“You agree to help and then invoice afterwards, the mark of the imperialist but who am I to complain?” she is disappointed, but philosophical. “In which case, the germane facts for one concerned with the Dawnlands and encroaching fiends is that, yes, there were at least two, they were accompanied by nightmares, they carved sigils with flame, they murdered innocents, they were not defeated and they will come again if they have not already. The sibling rivalry does not concern you so this is all you need to know.”
“I saw in heaven another great and marvellous sign: five angels with the five last torments, last because with them the Goddess’s wrath is completed,” he recites as he circles around her towards the altar. “You think anything goes on in this town without me hearing about it? I already know all that. I simply want to know why they came after that person.”
“I have no idea beyond what you already know,” she shrugs. “It is the sibling rivalry. The story continues. Why that location at that time above all others… I have not been made privy to that information. I assume it is part of the extermination and I do not know the order of their coming.”
“I have no time for this. This cosmic catfight is already costing lives and you still insist on wasting what little time you have playing games? In your goddess’s own sanctum? I’ll give you one last chance: who was it?”
Sorrel bristles. “You have had more clues than any Dawnlander as to how to play me and you wilfully ignore them,” she shakes her head. “I wonder why? You are clever and yet you behave as if you know nothing of the tools you could employ. What in your previous dealings with me has convinced you that giving me ‘one last chance’ is the route to success? You are drow. Where is your subtlety? Or have I been trained by the wrong sort of drow?”
Jaezred chuckles darkly. “Did you think that was a threat? Oh, Miss Darkfire, I’m not going to kill you. How am I to get the information I want out of you then? Again, I’m not interested in games. We’re on the same side, just for different reasons, or is that too difficult for you to understand? Who. Is. It.”
“I did not think that was a threat,” she seethes with impatience. “I am woefully disappointed. How can I have misjudged you? Perhaps I imposed my own hopes on you. Well, here is your skirmish neatly won, Lord Vandree, I will give you the name you require. But you have lost something in the asking which was precious indeed. The dead man was Ivoluin Brynan. I hope this satisfies you. If you will forgive me, it is getting late.”
“Goodness me, not the dramatics again,” he groans. He bends down to look at her at eye-level. “Listen. You are not drow, you will never be drow, and you certainly will never be drow by making every interaction some sort of bizarre dance back and forth. I was plain with you with my intentions and I told you already that we have the same goal! What exactly do you think you would gain from being obtuse towards me? What is it you suspect me of, for heaven’s sake?”
“I suspect you of nothing,” Sorrel smiles pleasantly. “And I am of course aware that I have not the honour of one drop of drow blood in my veins. It is of enormous benefit to the Dawnlands that you prefer them unroasted. Everything has turned out just as you desired. I did not mean to be dramatic. There. All is well. Now, as I said, it is getting late…”
Jaezred straightens his back and puts his hat back on. He seems to be content to let her leave, but then: “You wondered why I did not use the ‘tools’ available to me to pry this out of you. Because I don’t want to manipulate or lie to you, you fucking idiot.” There is a faint sliver of pain in his frown. “I lived that life and I have had enough of that. So I came to you with my honest opinion, promising nothing beyond what I can give. That’s all I can offer you. If that is not enough, then good night.”
“Lord Vandree, the tools I was referring to had nothing to do with lies or manipulation, pain or death — they were the things you should know about me by now,” she shrugs. “The sharpest tool you had, you insist on throwing away — the respect I had for your skill and intelligence. I would have expected you to realise how hard-won my respect is, how difficult it would be to gain my loyalty and how the service of one who would follow you to the Abyss for nothing would be a valuable asset, however clumsy she may be. Of course, my debt remains unpaid. You may call on me when required. Good night.”
“You respected me for what you saw I did in the Abyss,” he says quietly with teeth gritted, though not in anger. “But there is nothing respectable about that, and I cannot pretend that it is.”
“Well, it is spent now, so the distinction is academic,” Sorrel gazes into the pool. “It’s a shame.”
“And for all your ostentatious declarations of loyalty, you have twice now met my honesty with deception for no reason. So what is it really that you have, Sorrel Darkfire? Perhaps we are both disappointments in our own ways.”
Jaezred turns around and strides out of the temple, slamming the doors shut behind him.
Two days later, Melissa hands Sorrel a leather pouch and a letter that she says has been left for her. Opening the pouch and tipping it onto her palm, two black stone tokens with a rune carved on the surface come spilling out. Dark House tokens.
The accompanying letter, sealed in wax but lacking any signet, has no return address. It reads:
Dear Miss Darkfire,
Following our conversation at the temple, I have had time to think about your words (ruminating also on what the loss of your respect for me, something I never deserved in the first place, means) and I remember now what you told me right after we returned from the Abyss — you said our bond was deeper than loyalty due to your respect and that from then on, you were someone on whom I could call during midnight to bury a body, or something to that effect. And yet, when I came to you that night with not a cadaver to hide but a simple question, you refused to help me. Perhaps you were waiting for me to invoke your words that night, but if our bond was as deep as you claimed, why did I have to invoke them at all in order for you to do something so easy? I must conclude, then, that your words were empty and I never had your respect in the first place.
I will not have someone whose loyalty is so fickle to be bound to me, for that is the path to ruin. Say all you want about our fates being intertwined, you have seen what I chose in the Demonweb Pits — I will no longer allow Fate to weave my destiny for me. Therefore I now consider your debt to me forgotten and return these tokens to you. Do not try to refuse it. It is already done.
But whilst you are no longer in my debt, I am still in yours. I will not seek out your help though you may seek mine any time, and you can count on me for anything, for my promises do not ring hollow.
Yours sincerely,
J.V.
Following our conversation at the temple, I have had time to think about your words (ruminating also on what the loss of your respect for me, something I never deserved in the first place, means) and I remember now what you told me right after we returned from the Abyss — you said our bond was deeper than loyalty due to your respect and that from then on, you were someone on whom I could call during midnight to bury a body, or something to that effect. And yet, when I came to you that night with not a cadaver to hide but a simple question, you refused to help me. Perhaps you were waiting for me to invoke your words that night, but if our bond was as deep as you claimed, why did I have to invoke them at all in order for you to do something so easy? I must conclude, then, that your words were empty and I never had your respect in the first place.
I will not have someone whose loyalty is so fickle to be bound to me, for that is the path to ruin. Say all you want about our fates being intertwined, you have seen what I chose in the Demonweb Pits — I will no longer allow Fate to weave my destiny for me. Therefore I now consider your debt to me forgotten and return these tokens to you. Do not try to refuse it. It is already done.
But whilst you are no longer in my debt, I am still in yours. I will not seek out your help though you may seek mine any time, and you can count on me for anything, for my promises do not ring hollow.
Yours sincerely,
J.V.
Sorrel reads the letter sadly and considers whether to reply. The gulf of misunderstanding between the two of them seems to widen with every communication. The insult Jaezred has paid her by returning the stones would, in normal circumstances, require violent reprisal. He has dishonoured her repeatedly and under the House Code she should not live with such shame. But she feels, for some reason, no ill will towards him.
He has chosen a difficult path through life and follows it out of love. Perversely, his obtuse rudeness and thundering insensitivity has made her more certain that he is trustworthy. No enemy would send such a letter. They would insinuate and wheedle, play nice and deal in dark ways. Jaezred’s raw need is too obvious — and perhaps resembles her own too closely — for her to see him as an enemy. It is ironic, she reflects, that she withheld the name because she wanted to be sure she could trust him and it is only now the bond she imagined is sundered that she finally knows she can.
She walks back to her room, sits at the simple wooden desk and takes out a sheet of paper. But what could she say? If they were squabbling toddlers their parents would smack them and force them to shake hands. Now they are grown, they have given up such childish things. And yet, how grown up are they really? She is happier communicating with blade and muscle than heart and soul. Lord Jaezred… she has no idea. And probably never will.
She returns the sheet of paper to her desk drawer and walks through the temple into the sunshine.
There is darkness coming. She and Lord Jaezred will face it on the same side. Perhaps that will be enough to repair their bond. In spite of the hurt he has done, she rather hopes it will be. He talks of business and transactions, but his heart is so obvious she could almost hug him. Or stab him. Could go either way.
Sorrel sits on the temple steps and gazes into an uncertain future. One ally lost. Try not to lose any others, Darkfire, she tells herself. You don’t play well with other children but that should probably stop.
