Atrophy — Roleplayer Guild

Ennis

Whatever calm, cool, and collected look Ennis was trying to balance on his face was wiped away quicker than the excited Sir Mauls had bowled over the man he had to assume to be Drosil, judging by the noise of disgust and quiet curse emitted by Vesta as he arrived on the scene, as the Deathcrawler turned and clicked its bloody mandibles at him. His eyes grew wide as the beastly creature approached him, the disrobing wizard giving Ennis a set of instructions that the man did not need—it wasn’t fear in his eyes, but boyish excitement. He had read all about Deathcrawlers when he was just a sickly, bedridden boy. Like a spoiled little princess demanding a pony, Ennis had pestered his folks incessantly for a giant, man-eating centipede. He was forced to settle on the stuffed animal version one of his caretakers had made for him. Mister Leggy was now in the care of his daughter. His face darkened, praying that Nia had been able to assist his family in their flight to the Kirun. He didn’t have too long to brood as Sir Mauls began to feel his face with his antennae or, as Ennis imagined it, gave him Deathcrawler kisses as if the thing was a giant puppy. 

“How wonderful!” exclaimed Ennis to himself as the Deathcrawler moved on to the next lucky person. He turned and gave Vesta a look, grinning like an idiot. Her gloved hand was pinching the bridge of her nose; her head was slowly rocking back and forth. “I think he likes me.”

He was too giddy from his close encounter of the many-legged kind to notice Drosil’s usage of magic. Instead, he kept his gleaming eyes focused solely on the Deathcrawler. Ennis felt something inside of him twist in pain when the pigtailed woman insulted the mighty creature. How can you call him an ant, thought Ennis, a look of shock and befuddlement on his face. He was about to correct the woman, knowing that certainly the only way someone could make such a mistake would only be out of sheer ignorance, when Drosil beat him to the punch. It was then for the first time that Ennis truly paid attention to the man as he lectured the girl on anything and everything about Deathcrawlers. He began nodding along in earnest interest as the man started delving into things he hadn’t even known about in regards to the creatures. He recalled Vesta comparing the man to him. Truly, it had been a compliment to be considered anyway similar to a man of such intelligence. Perhaps he’d teach me what some of those words mean in a more common tongue! Surely, a man as well versed as Drosil would be able to rid this loud woman of her misconceptions regarding one of the few good things to ever come out of Jasi.

”I don’t know how stupid you think I am, but I’m pretty sure that I know what a fucking ant looks like.”

A soft cry came from Ennis as whatever her words had originally twisted in side of him now broken completely. How could someone be so ignorant? he thought, glaring at the woman as he walked over to Drosil and Sir Mauls. He stopped as she yelled something again and, upon noticing it wasn’t towards him, took two long strides and slid up next to Drosil’s side.

“Unbelievable how some people can completely lack manners,” said Ennis. “Personally, I think it’d be best if we let the Prince handle her; I’d love for you to continue on with what you were saying.” Ennis snapped his fingers as he remembered something from his childhood. “Is it true that Deathcrawlers cannot survive in cold or mountainous regions?”

Vesta

Vesta hadn’t removed her hand from her head. Normally, when one drank they had headaches after their buzz had cleared, but all of this was causing her noggin to feel as if it was about to split right open. That self-righteous mage was back, and Ennis was acting like a damn child. Vesta had been mistaken about Alasa choking that woman, no, man because he spoke way too much. She at first suspected the alcohol was playing tricks on her ears before realizing that the man just did not know how to properly form a sentence. All she could hear as he talked was the out of place words. The brat with him yelled like she was a drill sergeant, and it made Vesta worry if that was what she had sounded like back when she was a captain of the guard, barking at her men to work harder. Regardless, all of the noise formed a perfect knot in her head, but they weren’t the true source of her headache. 

No, that pain came when Cyril invoked his princely powers and had drafted them into their ragtag band of misfits. By the time they got to Gurata she feared that there would be a big enough train of imbeciles who could wield a sword following behind them that the Guratans would think that Cyril had come to start an invasion, not an allegiance. Besides, they did not know these people. True, they had defended this village, but it did not mean they had good intentions. She knew this only because she would have fought until she was red of tooth and claw if she had been caught in this damn backwater when the H’kelans had come. Of course, she would certainly not have been able to drive the H’kelans back without some fatalities, herself most likely included. 

For two people to be able to do what they did meant one of two things to Vesta. One, either they were incredibly dangerous in terms of raw power, or, two, they were frauds. H’kela had plenty of spies in Barcea that could have reported the Prince’s route to the North. I have no real proof, thought Vesta, casting a suspicious eye towards Ennis without removing her face from her hand. Still, she felt as if there was some sense in her doubt of the two angels, and she knew that it was wise to never trust a damn Cade, especially one who decided to be a politician. It just all felt wrong to her, like it was a setup. Worse of all, the fucking Prince didn’t suspect a thing. Olain hadn’t raised his boy to soft, but had years under Kori’s rule soften his heart and his head? I love Kori to death, thought Vesta. But she always was too idealistic and trusting for her own good. She had proof this time in the shape of Ennis. It’s fitting for her. It’s not fitting for Olain’s son.

Somebody would have to set him straight, and of course the only one capable of doing that would be her.

“Cyril,” she said, dropping her usual formalities as she touched his shoulder. “I need to talk with you. In private,” she said, before politely adding, “at your earliest convenience.”
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