agentlelog | walking in a field of fog

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walking in a field of fog

Who: You and Fayura
When: Today, a week after the Strangers' arrivals
Where: The Queen's Residence and the Old Town Bazaar
What: Q&A
Warnings: n/a

EARLY MORNING, THE QUEEN'S RESIDENCE
The morning is cold and dark. Inhaling the frigid air is so shocking that those who aren't expecting it cough and wheeze with their first breath. No one really wants to make their way to the training field. Even the Queen's court moves sluggishly, but move they do with muttered recriminations against Allairavar. Cold weather doesn't stop training.

A warming spell around the field keeps it warm enough to practice, and bobbling witchlights and steady e-line floodlights keep the darkness at bay. All along one side of the practice area are weapons with blades live and dulled. The court eases onto the field alongside the Strangers with sighs and grumbles aplenty. No one likes practice on chilly mornings, but they like Allairavar's retaliation against tardiness even less.

Everyone has paired off by the time Allairavar strides out of the manor home with his arm around a woman's shoulders. In the harsh e-line lights and softer witchlight, it's clear she hasn't been well and still isn't entirely healed. Sunken golden eyes scan the field, and her expression is vaguely nauseated. She trembles, either from weakness or discomfort, as Allairavar pulls away and calls in two bladed sticks—weapons caught somewhere between sword and ax.

"Let's go," he tells her, and she takes one stick from his hand as court and Strangers alike look on.

Another male follows them in, sleekly predatory in his slow prowl around the practice field. A dangerous look glazes his eyes, and he circles the whole field once before making a second, tighter pass around the marked off area where Allairavar and the woman square off.

Members of the court trade wary looks, sharing them with the Strangers. More than a few murmur things like, "Verim will go for his throat if he pushes her too hard," and, "Should she even be out of bed yet?"

It seems Allairavar's rule for training is absolute. Even the Queen takes part. Under his watchful eye and tutelage, they run through a warm up that clearly exhausts her, but when he asks if they should stop, she snarls at him and pushes on for another five minutes. Only then does she sit off to the side of the field and begin stretching.

As she lifts from a leg stretch, she catches your eye and offers a small, shy smile. "Would you like to stretch with me? Allairavar's workouts are always hardest the first day back," she says softly.

Allairavar's exercises may be hard, but she looks like she's seconds from collapsing from exhaustion. If she spent this last week resting and still looks so wan and thin and weak, her initial injuries must have been severe.

MID-AFTERNOON, THE BAZAAR PAVILION
Snow drifts lazily through frigid air. Though temperatures hover around freezing, the Old Town Bazaar bustles with activity. Slowly, people rebuild homes and shops burned by the Hunter Guild, and for perhaps the first time in the past fifty years, sentiment has turned against the Hunters.

Strangers out and about in the Bazaar hear:

A landen woman, to her friend: It's not right what the Hunters did, burning down our homes, too.

A well-to-do Blood male, at a food stall: …believe what that pompous Grand Master has to say about a Queen of the Blood.

There's some commotion toward the center of the Bazaar, where the Queen has settled at the pavilion with a group of landen and Blood children. Her only guard seems to be the elegant man seated across from her at the pavilion's wooden table, his eyes watchful as the people pass by.

The Queen herself looks unwell. Though she wears a bright smile and her golden eyes glitter with laughter, they are sunken and dark smudges circle them. Her arms are thin, little more than skin wrapped around bone. In spite of the freezing weather, she wears a tunic with wide sleeves that pool around her elbows as she holds up a small plank of wood and tugs at a ribbon embedded in it. Here, in the chilly winter morning, the woman who brought some twenty Strangers across the vast distances of many worlds looks very human, very mortal, and very fragile.

Her eyes meet yours as she looks up, and you feel a gentle brush against your mind. No matter how familiar or strange mental communication is, no matter how disconcerting or easy you find it, the touch strikes you as incredibly polite. *We can talk, if you'd like,* she tells you over a psychic thread.

Should you join her, you find respite from the cold. A warming spell makes the pavilion pleasantly toasty, explaining why no one wears a jacket and, maybe, the Queen's clothes. She's dressed plainly in a loose, knitted tunic and fitted breaches. She wears no coronet and no visible jewelry except for a golden chain that tucks beneath her tunic.

Fayura offers a quick smile in your direction as she guides the end of the ribbon in her hand through the thin strip of wood in a twisting loop. She offers a soft-spoken explanation to the children before inviting them to try—and inviting the Blood to explain the magic to the landens, too.

As the children turn to their task, Fayura turns to you. "I'm glad to see you made it through the Hunters' attack relatively unscathed." She sets her plank down and taps her mug. Steam beings to rise from it and she lifts it to her lips with a sigh. "And I apologize that I wasn't there to greet you." A wry smile tugs at her lips; her appearance is, in her mind, enough of an explanation for why. "How have you found Draega?"

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Jonathan had finished up his training slightly earlier, Allairavar allowing him to train earlier to give him time to escape the rising sun. But he'd lingered a little longer to watch the Queen train, curious about the woman that had bought them here and then, upon seeing her, concerned about her wellbeing and if she is pushing herself too hard. He trusts that Allairavar knows the limits of his Lady, but the man is not a doctor.

So Jonathan watches the training carefully, scenting the air and focusing his senses on the beat of the Lady's heart. It prompts his ever-present hunger to the fore but also allows him to get a sense of her general health. Despite her condition, she seems stable, so he waits until the training is over before making his way towards her.

"Indeed he does push a good deal," Jonathan agrees in response to her comment. "But he also knows the limits of how far he should push. You should trust him more."

The smile on Fayura's face slips. Not into anger, no, but into utter and complete disbelief. She stares at the Stranger not because she's offended, but because in that moment he is so like a Warlord Prince that the lack of caste in his psychic scent utterly baffles her. He should have a caste. He should be a Warlord Prince, with that bossy, supercilious tone.

Except he isn't. And she doesn't know how to deal with that.

Instead of saying something cogent or clever or even remotely meaningful, all she can do is muster up a disbelieving, "I'm sorry?" as she continues to gape at him like a child. Had anyone in her First Circle approached her like this (and she knows it's only a matter of time before they all start trying to fluff her pillows and make her take naps), she would've known precisely how to deal with them. But this? This is beyond her.

Jonathan raises an eyebrow at her response, slightly surprised by it but... while she is a Queen, she does seem to want to be treated as closer to an equal, so he won't ignore his responsibilities as a doctor just to make her feel better.

"You're clearly drained and unfit to be pushing yourself as hard as you seem intent to," he said bluntly, but his voice even and fair. "Prince Allairavar is skilled and knows what he is doing. You should trust him to know your limits while you recover. Pushing yourself too far to prove something is misguided and could cause more damage."

She continues to stare. Her eyes grow wider with each passing second, straining the limits of the physical. Behind her, she feels a flash of uncontained amusement. Male amusement. Verim finds this funny, the prick.

Rising from the ground, Fay draws herself to her full height (which is utterly average and completely unimpressive when coupled with how outrageously thin she is). She swallows a sputter of disbelief.

"I am not pushing myself beyond what the Prince thinks I am capable of!" she finally manages, sounding entirely incensed and a little pissed off. From behind her, Verim flashes Jon an agreeable sort of smile and gestures for him to continue—this kind of pissed off is, apparently, fine. Fay continues, too, snarling out, "Stretching is hardly pushing myself beyond—" She sputters, throwing her hands into the air. "Males."

The Queen's height is even less impressive compared to Jonathan's own, and faced with her irritation he folds his arms and continues to look down at her, every inch of him the unimpressed doctor dealing with a patient trying to insist she can manage. He does note that the other Prince, Verim, doesn't seem to mind this behaviour either, which strikes him as slightly unusual. In London he'd have expected some response for daring to speak with a lady, let alone a queen, in such a manner. But here it seems that it's acceptable to tell Queen Fay that she needs to take care of herself, so long as he doesn't overstep any other boundaries.

As to what those might be he's still uncertain, although Jonathan decides it's best to keep an eye on Verim and take his queues from the other man's reaction. At the very least it might give him some warning.

"The Prince suggested that you stop, did he not?" Jonathan points out in the tone of someone who already knows the answer. "And yet you insisted you push on further. That sort of behaviour is reckless and foolish. Your body is healing, you require rest and to take care of yourself, not more demanding physical activity. As a doctor, I must insist that you sit down after you've finished stretching and drink plenty of fluids."

She sputters more. "I'm stretching! Stretching isn't working!"

Realistically, she's sneaking in a bit more of a workout under the guise of stretching, but she's also very sure that if she starts working too hard, Allairavar will throw her in one of the barrels of frigid water located outside the warming spell on the training grounds. Mmm, maybe he won't throw her. More of a gentle scoop and drop. It's not like she's ever been strong enough physically to throw him off her, and they both know she'll never strike against him with her Jewels.

"I—did you just—" Fay makes a strangled little sound. "You're a Medico!" Because he can't be a Healer, he's not female or from Terreille, but she doesn't know what a doctor is. The kind of fussing he's doing, though. Oh, she knows this kind of fussing. Healers fuss like this, and so do Warlord Princes. It has never occurred to her that a male who knows healing Craft could so perfectly match an irritated Healer for tone. Worse, he's already exhibiting the bossy tones of a Warlord Prince on top of that.

She looks utterly exasperated, but she knows there's no winning her. Silently, she resolves to treat him exactly the same way she would treat a fussy, bossy, snarly Warlord Prince. "I suppose I wouldn't mind some tea," she says grudgingly, scowling faintly lest he think she's given in entirely. Warlord Princes always get more suspicious when a witch caves to them abruptly. "Would you accompany me to the dining hall, Pr—doctor?"

Jonathan stares for a moment, looking for some kind of trap in the sudden acquiescence, but she's clearly annoyed enough that it's likely a grudging acceptance and he's still slightly surprised that neither she nor her guardian have pulled rank on him. His gaze flicks briefly to Verim for confirmation and then to the lightening sky, the first ray of sunlight starting to appear on the horizon.

That decides it for him and Jonathan nods and offers her his arm. "I would like that very much, Lady."

And lest this turn out to be a ruse after all, once they've reached the hall, Jonathan insists that she sit while he locates a tray and sets on it not only a pot of tea but also a plate piled up with an omelette, bacon, and several lightly fried vegetables, all of which he sets in front of her.

"You need to eat and give your body what it needs to recover," he informs her.

She notices his glance toward the sky. Considering some of her acquaintances, it would be impossible for her not to notice or consider what that might mean.

Taking his arm, she lets him lead her into the residence and only groans heavily when he insists she sit. She eases into a chair that Verim pushes in behind her, ignoring the smug satisfaction pouring off him in thick waves. Oh, yes, someone is pleased with Jon's fussing, but that person definitely isn't the one on the receiving end of all that fuss.

Jon returns to her with a tray laden with foods (all of which she enjoys). He's not wrong, but it annoys her that her amiability will be read as acquiescence. Males.

So Fay decides to turn the tables on him. Aside from Verim, there's no one else in the dining hall yet, so she doesn't bother to shield or use a psychic thread to keep their conversation private.

"Do you need blood today?" she asks as she picks up her fork and very slowly, very deliberately, cuts off a little piece of omelette.

Jonathan freezes immediately, pale eyes flicking between her and Verim quickly, then he sits carefully and watches them both. "Allairavar told you, of course."

He should have expected that, but had thought he might get the choice to explain himself first. Now he feels very much like when he first awoke to his new unlife; uncertain who knew of him already, feeling like a pawn in some greater plan. He wasn't fond of it.

"No," he says flatly. "I don't. I am capable of hunting when I need to and I would prefer not to feed on humans. Particularly one who can hardly afford to give any already."

She realizes immediately that she'd been cruel, and regret colors her features. "Forgive me," she says softly. "I wanted to pull the rug out from under you so that I felt steadier. That was wrong of me."

Long though her life will be and has been, it's too short to add cruelty to the world.

"Verim and Loren, as my Consort and Steward, also know because they have to." She pops another piece of omelette into her mouth, chews, and swallows. She's eating in small pieces, but she's eating, and this seems to please Verim. "But you can tell whomever else you'd like whenever you'd like, and if you'd rather tell people you're demon-dead to spare yourself the stigma, the court will support you. The Blood have rituals around the giving and receiving of blood because of the demon-dead." She gives him a stern look.

Something shifts in her eyes. They're still golden, but some of the warmth fades, replaced by steely will and something that can only be described as inhuman.

"If you ever have need for more blood than you can acquire for yourself, you will come to me. You and I will determine whose blood you'd like to have, and you'll go through those rituals with them." The expression fades, becoming kinder and friendlier once again. "But you should probably have a taste of all our blood first, just to see how the power of the Jewels impacts the taste and the, um, kick?"

He couldn't believe he was hearing this. The thought of his condition and what he needed to do to survive should rightfully drive people away. As much as Jonathan disliked being hunted by the Guard of Priwen and their obstinate leader who couldn't wrap his head around the fact that not all vampires were murderers, he could admit that caution and a measure of fear made sense. This acceptance and talk of rituals put him off balance.

But even so, he was a doctor and a scientist first and foremost, and questions and learning were his life.

"What are these demon-dead?" Jonathan asked, curiosity winning out over the insult. "Why would you have rituals of giving blood?"

Ah, Jonathan, welcome to Terreille and the Realms of the Blood, where such things as vampires weren't as alarming as they ought to be.

"The demon-dead are..." Fay puzzled over how to answer as she took another bite of her omelette, thoughtfully chewing. "Well, they're the dead, but they're not dead-dead." She sounded very much like someone trying to explain something so commonplace that explanation eluded her. Water was wet; she could not explain why. Likewise, the demon-dead were dead, but not dead-dead. "They find sunlight difficult if not impossible to tolerate. And don't need to eat or drink. Giving them blood makes them stronger. Did Allairavar mention yarbarah to you? The blood wine?"

"You mean that they're vampires?" The concept was strange to Jonathan, that people could be accepting of what he was and willingly give blood. It still seemed far too easy for it to end badly in his mind, his memories of the vampires he'd met in London too vivid.

"I still don't understand why you would allow them anywhere near you or your people," Jonathan admitted. "It's in our nature to hunt and feed on others, and most vampires kill when feeding and take advantage of others, taking over their minds and forcing people to let them into their homes or to follow them to quiet places to feed."

He frowned, pale eyes cast down to the table. "It would seem that what we are can twist our nature; my... my sister, Mary, was so unlike herself when she turned. She took control of our mother and would have killed her if I hadn't intervened, and my poor mother never recovered from the damage done to her mind."

She offered him a little shrug, as if to say, "Sure, vampires. The words might be different but the concept is a the same." She'd never heard of vampire before him, but what he is does bear a striking resemblance to the demon-dead of Terreille.

"The body dies but somehow keeps going. For some, that's probably unnerving. For others, it's not so strange." The way she spoke seemed to set her firmly in the camp of not-so-strange. "But mostly, the dead stay among the dead. It's more comfortable that way, for them and the living. But they don't have that drive to hunt people. Blood energizes and keeps them going, provides something extra, but they don't need it."

She paused, and her expression shifted. At last, Fayura gave Jon a wary look. "Taking over... minds?" Her voice turned brittle, dangerous. Temper flashed through the room along with a tiny curl of fear.

He wasn't terribly surprised that the revelation on what those like him could do was the tipping point. People unfamiliar with his kind might not realise the true danger of them, that even those fully aware of what they were could easily fall victim, any fight taken out of them by preternatural control.

"Yes," Jonathan admitted, seeing no point in hiding it. "Something about us means we can force others to bend to our will. I've seen other vampires use it in terrible ways, to torture or kill others. I try to use it to help."

A thin layer of frost crept over the glasses on the table. Mugs of coffee ceased steaming. Among the Blood, there were two types of anger: the hot fury of the emotions, and the cold rage of the Jewels.

"Let me be very, very clear to you, Dr. Reid," Fayura said softly, her voice like thunder. "The Blood value the sanctity of the mind. Invading it without permission is tantamount to rape. If I ever find out you have used this power to coerce someone against their will, for good or for ill, I will execute you myself." As with all things, there were degrees of severity to this, but Fayura didn't seem keen on acknowledging any of that. She watched Jon with cold, unblinking eyes and the gaze of someone who knew.

She had been on the receiving end of that invasion. She knew what it felt like.

"Because it is possible you did not know this before, I will forgive any... mistakes you've made until now. But by the Jewels I wear, I will destroy everything you are if you ever do that again."

Jonathan straightened imperceptibly in his chair, his jaw tight and lips twitching slightly as he fought the instinct to snarl and bare his fangs at the perceived threat. Instinct both newer and older than he could understand demanding that he fight, rip out the throat of his enemy and assert himself as the dominant predator.

Instinct that, quite frankly, he felt would only end up with him getting killed.

Instead he sat with unnatural stillness, listening to the Queen's words and noting the level of raw power on display. It was unnerving, and something he would need to be cautious about. While he didn't intend on using his abilities to harm others, there was a line between that and not at all that clearly they disagreed on.

"You may wish to do so now," Jonathan said calmly, pale eyes fixed unblinkingly on her. "I have done so here to prevent someone whose definition of helping was to waste the time of myself and other doctors. And I cannot promise you I will never do so again if it would save a life. I took an oath to heal and save lives, if I can use my abilities to do that, I will."

His feeling served him well.

"There are degrees," she said slowly. "And motivations are not always clear. If you use your power to convince someone not to hang themselves, that is an action to be lauded. If you use your power to convince a very sick, very ill person that they should take medicine that will only prolong their suffering, that is not. Violate someone's sense of self, Blood or landen or Stranger, and your life is forfeit. Act in their best interest, and we will be on opposite sides of a desk having a very long, very unenjoyable conversation about boundaries but I won't turn you into a corpse."

Fayura turned back to her omelette, cutting into another piece and popping that bite into her mouth. She forced herself to relax, visibly fighting against her own nature and her desire to protect those around her. The air grew warmer, and she tapped her mug of coffee to warm her drink.

"Or at least, I won't turn you into a dead-dead corpse." She gave him a fleeting smile.

As the power faded, so too did Jonathan relax and return to something more closely resembling the living man he once was.

"It is a difficult matter to draw a line through," he agreed. "As a doctor, even before what I am now, I would make decisions during the war of who to save and who to leave. Decisions I could never know for sure if it was right or not. Who could say if a man caught in the blast of mortar would live or die, or if I might save a life in the battlefield and leave a soldier to live with pain and suffering, wishing he might have died instead?"

He steepled his fingers and met her gaze with his own unnatural one. "Who could say that someone very sick and very ill might not recover given extra time and care? That their own wish to die might only be the result of the pain they endure? Is the refusal to accept care knowing you will die not similar to placing ones head in a noose in its own way? Both feel death is the only escape, how can we say one is wrong and the other is not?"

"That last? Is not your choice to make," she said softly. "There have been times I have wished to die. In death, I would escape the responsibility of caring for a broken world. That cost of death..." She trailed off, closing her eyes. "Suffice it to say, running from this task would be easier, and there have been many times in my life where injury or abuse could have been my excuse to abandon the course I gave myself. I didn't. I chose to live."

She waved a weary hand. "Do good, Medico. Do good, and while I may have to slap your wrist, I won't censure you." She grimaced at her plate of food, knowing she should finish it but lacking the appetite. Lifting her fork, she forced another bite. "Can I answer any other questions for you? When I finish my breakfast, I'm going to need a nap, and nothing short of an act of nature will stop Verim from bullying me into bed."

Jonathan remained silent, aware that they will likely disagree on this again in the future and it may be better to keep what little good will he'd earned for then.

"No, I will not take up any more of your time, but I thank you for your understanding, Lady." Rising from the table, Jonathan nodded his head to her and then made eye contact with Verim.

"I believe rest is exactly what she needs, along with plenty of fluids and no strenuous activities for some time. Her body needs time to recover, more than she might think."

Fay stared at the good doctor as he did just what a bossy Warlord Prince would do. Ignoring a Queen, he turned to the darkest male presence in the room and said "Why, yes, the Lady has just given us permission to fuss after her, so we'd better take advantage of that before she realizes how badly she's messed that up for herself." And Verim, of course, gave Jon a silken smile and purred, "Thank you for your professional and fully informed opinion on the matter, Medico."

Traitor. Jon was a traitor. She scowled at him before turning deliberately back to her breakfast and taking a knife to a sausage. "Stupid, bossy males," she muttered as she stabbed the sausage with her fork.

Don't worry, Jon, the Queen doesn't hate you. Unfortunately, she's put you squarely in the camp of irritating males who bully witches. +1 reputation with Fayura for your honesty, +1 reputation with Verim for being on his side, and +1 influence with Fayura's Court for your concern over the Queen's health.

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walking in a field of fog

early morning

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