princess

Pines Holler [Not Accepting]

Willow Fraser | 25 | FC: Kristine Froseth | #f19ac4

🗡 Roses and Daggers 🎕

Time: Evening
Location: The Gossamer
Mentions: @Oso Kilian @Tae Torvi @HylianRose Lucian

---

Marina had always known her brother was up to something—just not dinner with the man who keeps a woman on a leash something.

And she hadn’t exactly been subtle about her opinion. The moment her eyes landed on the scene, her brows rose with such violent disbelief it was as if they were trying to escape the rest of her face entirely. Her mouth followed, drawing itself into a tight, offended frown that would have been unmistakable on anyone else—except Marina, whose face was partially hidden by a ridiculous curled mustache above her lip.

She wore it with the kind of unwavering confidence that only she could summon: not because it looked convincing, but because she had decided the world would simply have to accept it.

Nonetheless, her reality was currently occupied by the fact that there was a woman on a chain.

A literal woman on a chain... Like a dog.

Marina’s mind kept circling, catching on the same detail over and over as if her thoughts were stuck in a loop. She leaned back in her chair and crossed her arms, settling into what she clearly intended to be an air of nonchalance and disinterest—except disinterest did not come naturally to Princess Marina Camilia, and it certainly didn’t come naturally when her brother was across the room fraternizing with a scary-looking man with a chained girl like this was an acceptable way to spend an evening.

Though she sat relatively close to the table, it was not quite close enough. Marnie had angled herself at a nearby table that was partially shadowed by a decorative plant and a column that absolutely did not conceal her as much as she believed it did.

At least the outfit gave her the confidence to commit to the lie. Her frame was only slightly swallowed by the male suit she wore. A very high-quality top hat was perched upon her auburn head. The monocle was, admittedly, a delightful touch, but it did little to help her garner any additional information.

Her lips compressed into a thin line as she continued to stare, and all the while, her frustration was building.

So she moved on to her next tactic.

A pair of opera binoculars emerged from her coat, and Marina lifted them to her eyes and obtained a perfect, crisp view of her targets, but the beauty and detail did not translate into comprehension. Lip-reading, Marina discovered, was a deeply humbling skill to attempt; it might as well have been an ancient language.

Then came the white-haired lady with a GIANT wolf.

Marina could not comprehend why that animal was so huge nor why it was even allowed in a place like this.

Why are you with these weirdos? her mind demanded at Lucian.

At this point she needed ears. If she couldn’t get close, she’d do this the old-fashioned way: bribery.

A waiter drifted past with a tray of champagne flutes, and Marina reached out with two fingers to snag the edge of his sleeve. She gave him what she believed was a charming look—unfortunately filtered through mustache.

“Psst.”

The waiter flinched like she’d jabbed him with her fork. His eyes did a panicked sweep of the room before returning to her face—and then, briefly, to the mustache. “Madam—”

“Sir.” Marina corrected automatically, tugging at the mustache with two fingers like that made it more convincing. “Sir. Look—do you see that roped-off table?”

“I…”

Marina leaned in, lowering her voice. “I just need you to walk by that table—very... casually...—like you’re doing your job, and listen. Then come back and tell me what they’re saying.”

The waiter stared at her mustache and then replied after a moment, “Absolutely not, madam.”

Marina didn’t even blink. “Two hundred gold.”

A strangled sound escaped him as he quickly denied her, “No. Absolutely not.”

“Three hundred.” Marina said instantly, because she had always believed money was a skeleton key.

“No.” His voice rose. “Madam—sir—whatever you are, I cannot.”

Marina’s eyes narrowed and she insisted: “Four hundred.”

“No.”

“Five.”

“No!”

“Six.” She sounded personally offended at this point.

The waiter’s gaze flicked toward the roped section. Marina figured he expected that scarred man to appear behind him and remove his spine through his mouth. “I— I will lose my job.”

“I will buy you a better job.” Marina hissed, “Seven hundred.”

“No.”

“Eight.”

“No. No, no, no.” He began edging backward, tray wobbling.

Marina lifted a hand. “Fine. One thousand.”

The waiter looked like he might faint on the spot. “I’m sorry.” He whispered, eyes wide. “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry.” And then he turned and walked away at a fast pace that was technically still professional.

Marina watched him go, her shoulders slumping; a long groan escaped her chest before she could stop it.

She quickly slapped a hand over her mouth, staring at the roped section as if expecting Lucian to whip his head around and lock eyes with her through the room.

Idiot. Idiot. Idiot.

Recover. Recover now!

She lowered her hand slowly and brought her fingers to her mustache and began to thoughtfully stroke the curled end as if that had been her intention the entire time. Then she adjusted her top hat a millimeter. That wasn't enough, obviously, so she lifted her opera glasses again with purpose.

And then, unable to help herself, she let the opera glasses find her brother again, seated in that corner like a prince at tea with monsters.

Oh, Lucian, she thought, What have you gotten yourself into?

Pines Holler - A Small Town SoL Sandbox RP [NOT Accepting]

I am interested in using Kristine Froseth as my face claim as a heads up c:

Pines Holler - A Small Town SoL Sandbox RP [NOT Accepting]

I’m interested!

🗡 Roses and Daggers 🎕

Time: Evening, Ignis 2
Location: Tough Tavern

_{@Tae@CitrusArms@Potter@Lava Alckon@Samreaper@Tpartywithzombi@ReusableSword}

₱₳Ɽ₮ 3 - ₮ⱧɆ ĐⱤł₦₭ł₦₲ ₲₳₥Ɇ

ⱤØɄ₦Đ Ø₦Ɇ

The room re-centered around the hearth.

Drake hung forward against the post, wrists wrenched behind it in rough rope.

Ox stood near him like a wall, watchful, one hand still dusted with ash from feeding the flames.

By the fire, one of Garran’s men worked the black iron poker in the coals until the tip burned orange-white, turning it lazily.

At the bar, Kalliope moved like she’d been born behind the taps. She loaded the brimming tankards onto a tray and carried them out, setting one down in front of each of them, whispering to them when she had the chance.

The yeasty stink of beer rose toward their noses as she said, “You heard the man. Fast. Clean. Don’t breathe if you don’t have to.”

Then, even quieter, her gaze sweeping their faces to ensure focus, but lingering on Stratya as she said. ”Razor psycho boy’s pistol was a single shot, however he’ll have knives, maybe a second gun, but watch his hands. My guess is he won't use a second gun unless absolutely necessary. It's too quick for him. And the witch? She’s brittle. The magic cost her. Look for the fissure. Now drink.”

Garran’s knuckles tapped the tabletop once as he announced: “Round one. Ox calls it. You lift it, you empty it, you don’t set it down ’til it’s done.”

The tavern’s noise fell away, every patron watching as if their own lives depended on it. “No sippin’. No spillin’. No stoppin’. No throwin’ it back up.” he repeated. His gaze slid over their faces, then flicked to Drake. “You fail—he burns.”

By the hearth, the poker lifted, heat shimmering off the metal. The man brought it toward Drake as if to warn all of them of the consequence that loomed.

“Let’s call this game… “ Garran drawled with a nasty smile, “ Drink or despair…”

Kalliope’s whispers had made sense to Olivia, and she listened intently. "Good advice.” Liv whispered and stared at Kalliope when there was an opening. “Archers and witch bitch need to be a focus. They’re controlling the room and can’t do much without ‘em. Magic comes with a cost; we gotta make her weaker, see if she can spend more of that bullshit.” Her gaze moved briefly to both Marius and Maelen. Their laughter echoed in her mind from a distant time, and she gritted her teeth.

"We need a distraction, and then I can parkour to the rafters and take out the fucking archers. Bow’s a bow, right? I can shoot and fight hand-to-hand combat.” She trembled and took slow, deep breaths.

Half of Kazumin's attention had been split on the conversation, the other half on Drake and Garran. His gaze remained steady and glaring at Garran, unable to forgive them for using Drake as their game piece, and himself feeling he had a hand in his friend’s precariously dangerous situations.

Kazumin grit his teeth with a tsk.* As if sullying this day wasn’t bad enough, but to dirty drinking games…too cowardly to partake themselves too at that, damn chickens..* He huffed through his nose, pushing the detestable smell of heated metal, which reminded him of the times of branding the cattle, and here Drake was cruelly being branded like he was some common barn animal.

Stratya took a steady, careful breath as she eyed the archers Lady Olivia spoke of. She’d hardly noticed her vulgarity. As the Captain then eyed her hefty tankard from the previous drink, she decided she didn’t have time to deliberate, only to plan, and not even the time to share it, “Take th’ stairman.” She spoke as concisely as she reasonably could. The fewer words, the fewer chances to be overheard.

Another gun would be a problem. “I c’n distrract. Th’ gun, tho’,” Stratya’s eyes met with Kalliope’s. With Olivia taking care of the archer on the stairs and Marius so far away, dealing with that would have to fall to Kalliope. Even with a trick or two, Stratya wouldn’t be much use if she got shot.

As the conversation nearby carried on into discussing plans, did Kazu shift his gaze up to the archers, then the witch, the main threats for sure? He leaned towards them. " I’m a fine damn climber myself, and with those crossbows means they ain’t firing till they're certain. Get a distraction going, and I can finesse my way up there before they can so much as blink. Might get a use of those crossbows ourselves if lucky.” The blonde added, prepared to back up and cover any that needed it.

Roman gathered himself for what was to come and what had passed, nodding at the whispered information and the input from the others.

“The mage is mine,” he whispered. “I’ll keep us going. Cause a distraction.” He met the eyes of everyone at the table. The blue in his eyes had begun to shift to a subtle yellow. “On my mark.” Roman gave a brief signal by strumming his fingers, then making a fist.

He knew what he could do; there were many things he could do. Many things that would get everyone killed. Illusions were the best bet for distraction and support to handle this. Now he just had to step back and trust in the others. Try not to get himself killed in a bar fight or let the magic consume him.

"Leave some of the mage for me, Roman.” Olivia’s voice came out as a low hiss. Her eyes burned with fire. "Or, leave the scraps for me, at the very least.”

“You two can have her, and I’ll cover. As long as I get a go at the prick with the gun, can’t let that knife-wielding freak out of our sights, too.” Kazu said through a hushed grimace, thinking back to Kali’s words.” Garran’s asking to get decked too.” He scoffed with a click of his tongue.

Ariella nodded excitedly as they all conversed, completely unaware of the serious nature of the situation, "I can’t wait for my turn,” she whispered to know one. In fact, the whisper was not so softly said but loud enough for those around her to hear in her forced whispered tone.

Charlotte’s eyes drifted between each of those at the table as they spoke. The words seemed to tumble over one another ever since Kalliope had spoken. The things they were saying—all of them felt unreal, like a scene from one of her adventure books, the ones where everyone always knew exactly when to strike and how the danger would unfold.

But this wasn’t a book, and there was no way to know if any of their actions would coordinate with one another. All she could think about was how easily a single wrong movement could turn the room into a slaughter. The thought led her gaze back to Drake.

The sight of him bound there, shoulders hunched forward, helpless, made her throat tighten. Her vision blurred, tears threatening. “What if…” her voice came out smaller than she meant it to, almost as though she were speaking only to herself, “What if they hurt him because of our haste?”

Her eyes slowly slid toward the rafters as Olivia’s words echoed in her mind. “And those aren’t bows… They’re crossbows. They’ll have to reload. If we can make the room surge into chaos somehow after the first shot, they'll have trouble lining up another clean one. There are more patrons here than there are of them after all.”

Then, Kazumin was the first to move. His hand closed around the tankard, and he tipped it back like a man who’d done this a hundred times. There was not a single pause or spill. When the cup finally hit the table, it was spotlessly empty.

Ox shook his head at the man with the poker.

For a moment, the tavern forgot to be terrified about the terrible situation they were in.

A sudden cheer burst out as if the whole room had been holding its breath. Patrons clapped and whooped, pounding tables.

Olivia reached over and high-fived him. Despite the tension, there was a small smile that disappeared quickly. "Just hang on,” Liv whispered softly to the group. "We will get out of here soon enough.”

Roman gave Kazumin a respectful nod at his ability to gulp down a drink. He would fit in well at the taverns back home. From the Captain, there was a similarly reserved response. Her nod was not so much a sign of respect, but simply confirming that things were starting well.

For a moment just before he had downed his tankard, Kazu had blanked as Charlotte’s words of concern rang in his ears, and as did the lack of optimism among the group. His body had acted without thinking, brought back to the run-down dingy of a bar where tankards were chugged almost non-stop, and fights were a daily occurrence. A risky and hectic atmosphere, but most often carried a fun time, where outside problems no longer mattered, and beefs were settled with fists and booze.

But here, all he felt was suffocating dread and demoralizing despair. A sign that they nearly had full control of the room. Something he simply could not sit back and abide by and downed his tankard, visualizing drinking with the boys despite the burning liquor going down like bile down his throat. The thunk of the empty tankard snapped him back in time to see a hand flying towards him, and he reacted with a high-five in response, instinctively recognizing his best friend’s intent.

The unexpected bout of applause worked as a cover to drown their quick action. Settling back in his seat with an acknowledging nod to Roman and Stratya, though, he wasn’t sure if they were all nodding to the same thing, but he went with it, satisfied at having given the crowd a brief respite with the hopes of showing they hadn’t won yet.

Garran’s head turned, and the cheer drowned out immediately. He lifted a hand, and the room shrank around the gesture.

“Shut. Up.” Garran snapped. His gaze traveled around the room, lingering until every last grin died.

A satisfied smirk etched his lips briefly, seeing Garran have a wrinkle in his twisted fun. How he longed to see the smiles wiped from their smug prick faces; they chose to play dirty, so it was only fair to play in kind. When the little opportunity presented themselves that is and turned to give the rest of the table a quick thumbs up.

Next, Olivia lifted her tankard and began chugging alcohol. The memories of being on the streets refilled her mind. The old familiar guilt that haunted her dreams and nightmares had been worse than the hangovers she had endured. When she was done with her tankard, she slammed it down and stared down Garran and Ox.

Pain in her mind began to pierce through her skull, and she gritted her teeth. White-hot anger burned through her worse than the alcohol. Her mind buzzed from the magic effects, fury, and desperation, and then the readmittance of guilt. Poor, innocent Drake. The fury burned brighter inside of her until it would become an inferno. Her hands began to tremble from fear and fury, and she could not stop her legs from bouncing. Every muscle, ligament and tendon was taut and ready to spring into action.

A few people clapped from somewhere near the bar. It came reluctantly after Garran had shut them down last time. Still, it was impressive that the first two who had drank had succeeded so well.

A man on the balcony gave a low whistle through his teeth as Ox’s attention sharpened fully onto Olivia, shoulders squaring as if he’d been waiting for an excuse to move. Then he gave a nod to the man once more and said, "No pain for the damsel in distress just yet, Merrill."

Pride and a hint of concern were in his eyes, seeing Olive down hers with little struggle, to his relief. Not that he ever doubted her, but while she could always drink like the best of them, the trembling rage was palpable. A miracle she managed to hold herself back, though feared that wouldn’t last long.

"Yes, focus on me, you bastardly ugly looking punkass troll.”

“ Easy, no sense getting them riled up with you. Temper that fire with thoughts of breaking Ox’s fat troll nose.” The cowlicked Kazumin whispered with a tightening grip of his tankard, thinking of watching that hideous face bleeding like a faucet.

Captain Durmand found it too early to celebrate. The rest of the tavern did not feel the same weight on their shoulders, the same responsibility over the situation, even lasting this long. She desperately wanted to act, but knew she could not conquer the entire room herself. With only a ragtag band to fight alongside her, she needed a plan and coordination. None of her allies here were her soldiers, ready and trained to fight, or even lay down their lives. Worse, they were nobility, even high nobility. She could not lose them. The one death was enough.

She’d seen the change in Roman’s eyes. Could she let him cast again?

It had been some time since Stratya last chugged a pint like this. She was out of practice, it showed. Despite what might be thought of her starting too quickly, she was more keen to enjoy her drinks, nobility weren’t usually the type to drink this way. That was another reason Stratya wasn’t celebrating. She was happier that Olivia had done so well, presenting yet another surprise. That noble girl could drink, swear, and fight, apparently - though she’d yet to see the last from the lady. If only she were the only point of concern.

By the end of her chug, Stratya had found the flow of it, her vessel returning to the table with a conclusive thunk. Still no additional marks for Drake. They just had to hold the line.

The pint felt heavy in his hand; it wasn't just the weight of it, but what it would mean to fail this drinking game. To fail them. The guilt any of them would feel from being responsible? No, he wasn't going to think about that. Drinking was part of his culture, and he would not disappoint his ancestors. He just hoped that by the end of this game, it wasn't just going to be Stratya and himself left standing.

He hefted the mug in his large hand and, like a well-practiced strike, gulped it down with little effort. The taste and the smell did little to distract him from his goal. Outwardly he was stoic, hiding any look that might give away the fact that he was planning something.

His fingers rhythmically tapped across the table, a fast pace that began to slow with the next round.

Ariella squinted at the tankard as if it had personally offended her.

“Oh. My turn?” she slurred softly, blinking once, twice, as if the room might come back into focus if she gave it time. It did not. Instead, the fire leaned sideways, the faces doubled, and Garran looked like he’d grown an extra chin. She choked back a giggle at the sight of it.

She wrapped both hands around the mug anyway, knuckles whitening. The beer sloshed dangerously close to the rim. She squinted back down at the tankard as if trying to size it up before conquering it.

“Well,” she murmured to no one in particular, tilting the mug, “this is already the worst family game night I’ve ever attended, so let’s not half-ass it.”

She drank.

A sharp, traitorous inhale caught in her chest, and suddenly the beer went the wrong way entirely. Ari’s eyes went wide. She coughed, nearly choking on the beer

“Okay..”cough”...okay, hold on,” she wheezed. “That one tried to kill me. That’s not on me.”

She took another large sip.

She choked again, louder this time, face flushing red as she tried to suck in air and failed for a horrifying second. Tears pricked at her eyes, half from reflex, half from sheer indignation.

She finally managed a breath and laughed immediately after, hoarse and unsteady, even as she wiped her mouth with her sleeve. She visually became more intoxicated as she nearly fell out of her seat.

The sound of Ariella’s choking had pulled the attention of the tavern.

Around them, bodies stilled in the same flinch. A few patrons looked away, not out of pity, but because they already knew what came next.

The scar-mouthed man, Winston, near their table came to stand behind Ariella. One hand clamped her shoulder and held her upright in her seat with a possessive grip His gaze slid to Drake bound at the post, then back down to Ariella with satisfied cruelty.

“There it is,” he murmured, as if she’d proven a point for him. “All that name and breeding and you couldn’t even manage your brother’s safety.” His mouth twitched, and his fingers dug in hard enough to bruise as he bent to her ear and sneered, “Some sister you are. You nobles are pathetic. ”

Ox turned like the verdict had already been decided, and swung his bulk toward their table and let one word drop. “Fail.”

A ripple went through the tavern: chairs creaked as people shrank back.

Burning fury rushed through Olivia. At first, it was as though a train had roared by. Liv did a doubletake to glance around, but there wasn’t any. Her hands trembled with rage and she clenched her fists. How dare they? She was clearly intoxicated. She breathed in and out of her nose slowly while her anger pulsed through her.

Drake’s foot stomped loud enough to draw the attention back onto him. ”The only pathetic ones are the ones ganging up on a drunk woman like yourselves. My safety is not hers to manage.” His eyes narrowed at Winston as he man-handled his sister by the ear. ”But forgive me. I forget that you all don’t know the first thing about proper familial etiquette. So bring on the bloody ‘punishment’.” Drake’s eyes turned to the person holding the iron rod with a rare look of rebellious fury in his eyes, and the man stared back emotionlessly as laughter roared from those around them.

At first, things had been going well with both Roman and Stratya handling their chugs with no problem. Hardly surprising, a man of his size could handle his drink, and one he would delight in challenging to a drinking game under better circumstances, while Stratya demonstrated a skilled yet controlled manner, such as the manner soldiers drank in.

But Ariella..she was already in a pretty drunken state, but no mercy or understanding was given, even when it was clear she was barely in any state to continue drinking. Seeing her choke and gag after that initial windpipe start was torture to bear; a reminder of his first days of drinking, the awkward choking and humiliating laughter. His face burned with fury at the scar-mouthed man who appeared behind the woman; his cruel words and bruising grip were uncalled for, treating a lady in such a shameful, harsh way.

The hand gripping the tankard caused a few cracks, and his legs twitched with the urge to stand. A surprised stomp echoed out, making him flinch, killing the urge to stand, instead directed towards Drake’s direction, hearing the man demand that they get on with it. He frowned through gritted teeth, resigned to what was about to happen; gulping with a nervous twitch of his nose, respect momentarily held for the man in his furious gaze.

The man with the poker then made his way toward Drake, only to be paused mid-step by Garran lifting his hand. The gesture was a lazy halt of two fingers, but it froze movement again. He nodded once, in the direction of Charlotte Vikena—who still had her face buried in the tankard, her head only slightly thrown back.

Charlotte had lifted her tankard the same moment others did, because she had meant to do it right. She’d even braced herself as the others had: shoulders squared, chin tipped back. But the first swallow had been unsuccessful, as if a wall had formed to block the liquid.

The lingering aftershocks of her earlier panic were still tormenting her body. Things had only worsened when Ariella choked; Charlotte’s stomach tightened so hard it made the next swallow impossible.

So she did the only thing her body would let her do without betraying her: she kept the tankard over her mouth, face buried in it, head thrown back just enough to sell the motion, while she let the smallest trickle slide in at a time. She disguised her sip as a chug while the others had drunk, hiding her pauses behind the rim.

She forced herself to swallow, then forced herself to swallow again, eyes stinging. The tankard was still too heavy, and it was taking too long. Garran noticing had been inevitable.

“Lady Vikena,” Garran regarded her mildly, “you’re takin’ your time.” His mouth curved in a way that promised nothing good as he observed her.

Charlotte’s throat worked as she tried to push another swallow down. “I—” she managed too softly to be heard, and then her breath hitched as her body refused the next gulp.

That was when Winston leaned in from his spot, and before Charlotte could even lower the tankard to speak, his free hand slid over the rim. Then he simply tilted it, forcing the mouth of the tankard up and the beer down.

Charlotte’s head tipped back with it, trapped by the angle. The liquid surged faster than her throat could manage, and her eyes flew wide. A cough jerked her body.

“Chug,” Winston snapped, “like you mean it.”

Charlotte gagged, and foam slipped past the rim anyway, streaking her chin as she fought not to choke. More tears sprang hot from her eyes, not from sadness, but from the sheer panic of her own body betraying her in front of them.

Winston let the tankard drop back into her hands as if he’d been “helping.” His mouth twisted with satisfaction. “There,” he said, louder now, so the nearest tables could hear, “that’s what happens when snobby nobles try to cheat a working man’s game.”

"Awfully rich to talk about ‘cheating’ when you’re the ones making all the rules.” Drake hissed as he witnessed the twisted game play out.

Ox turned like the verdict had been waiting in his throat all along.

“Fail.”

“That’s two burns for Lord Edwards.”

Garran flicked his gaze to the man with the poker. “Give him hell.”

Olivia’s hands nearly hit the table with rage. All she could see was red. Liv bit her tongue so hard it bled. A few sparks nearly emitted from her hands. They fucking dared to do that to Lottie? Liv couldn’t breathe for a moment. Murder was all she could see. She eyed the knives on the tables, and then slowly glared viciously at Winston, and began imagining stabbing him repeatedly in her mind’s eye. She was shaking from head to foot, not with fear, but with rage. The alcohol burned, but her anger burned brighter, like the sparks that burned down her mother’s bakery and her home. The urge to react was almost impossible to ignore, yet she knew she had to keep her wits about and remain healthy enough to fight.

Across the table, the heat of anger burned differently for Stratya, kept contained and under pressure. The frustration that she could not shoulder their drinks, that she yet sat and played along, and so many layers of outrage burned bright in her chest. Her muscles yet itched to strike. Her mind kept cycling through the night’s victims. Drake, and the injured. And the dead. These people were proving themselves no different to bandits on the plains. Unlike the Black Rose Company, however.. these ones came right out in the open. They were right there, waiting to be crushed.

To be forced to see Ari mistreated had been difficult enough for Kazumin, yet what Winston dared to do to Charlotte was wholly abhorrent, all while the sick bastard reveled in torturing the two for their twisted amusement. Before it was a struggle, but now he was trembling like a heated bean ready to pop with a burning face to match. Such cruelty should never befall any women and they dared to lay hands on Charlotte.*

Hrngh….manhandling Char like that…just you wait…..by night’s end you’ll be choking on your own rotten blood.* Bloody murder, the cowlicked blonde scowled. Crack! Beneath his crushing grip, the tankard shattered in his hand, leaving a small gash along the lower palm, though he paid it no heed; the anger and beer pulsing in his veins dulled the sensation. A pain that vastly paled compared to what Drake would be forced to endure.

Meanwhile, Roman’s posture did not betray his inner thoughts or the anger threatening to envelop him. His hand, however, did. He paused its ever-slowing thrum to dig his fingers into the table—a gesture he released as quickly as it came. He would not give in to rage, no matter how much that voice pushed him to kill them all. The red wake would not stop at just these brigands or the occupants of this bar.

Instead, he shifted his focus inward—into his thoughts, into his magic. Deep breaths pulled and released. He let himself gather his magic, letting it call to him, letting the voices of the gods be heard. He felt the pull of the magic around him, the strings of the weaver taut and loose. Swirling shadows licked at his boots, and magic pooled in the air like a thick, humid day.

Then the poker pressed deep into the skin on Drake’s back, and there it stayed—hissing as it burned through the cloth of his jacket until the smell of scorched flesh filled the air.

It was unlike anything Drake had experienced before. The bravado he showcased earlier took a backseat as the searing iron pierced through layers of cloth and then skin–a sickening sizzle hissing through the air as his body tensed against the post. For a moment, it felt like his joints might give way to the force of his futile attempts to escape the pain.

And then the man twisted the tool, ripping the outer layers of Drake’s skin as he branded him fiercely. Somehow, the retreat of the red-hot poker was even worse than its descent. After what felt like an eternity, Drake’s lips parted, and a guttural and piercing wail filled the tavern. Every ounce of air in his lungs escaped in a primal shout of misery, his eyes rolling up and his body slumping back against the post. Drake dared not rest his freshly cauterized wound against the wood and began breathing heavily as he saw the man sink the iron tool back into the coals.

That brief pause gave him the reprieve he needed. Kalliope’s words from earlier flashed in his mind. Drake played a loop of sentimental thoughts as he felt his focus fade. He thought about his family and the legacy he had to uphold. His mind flashed to think of his friends throughout the city, and the values he needed to protect. A smile graced his face as Drake imagined Thea, the woman he loved so dearly. The soft way her hands had touched him made him gently flex his fingers against the conversely rough and uncaring ropes that bound him.

Then he felt a laugh crawl up his throat.

A defiant laugh, that slowly built as he saw the poker raised again for its second sting. Garran's brows furrowed in displeasure as his gaze snapped to the bound man. ”Ahhh. I forget myself sometimes. I just realized the funniest thing.” Drake took the moment to stand up properly, his posture fixed from the wracking pain from earlier. ”You can take all the skin you want off my back. It won’t change anything. I’m just a man.” Drake paused, his voice dropping into a more sinister tone. ”But so are you. So enjoy this power grab while it lasts. Because once this tavern realizes they outnumber your motley crew about six to one, you won’t seem as scary anymore. Then the good guys get to make their move. And you know what’s scarier than a crooked man with a knife?” The poker was raised and pressed against Drake’s hip, another scorching sizzle filling the room as he grit his teeth. He barely pushed past the pain as he spoke through clenched teeth.

"A good man who's been pushed to his limits.” Drake sucked in his breath as the heat burned through his clothes and seeped into his core. His knuckles turned white from clenching his fists fiercely. He let the burns take shape, and did little to resist the poker’s trajectory–for he had made his peace with this fate of his.

As Drake spoke, Ari had looked into the bottom of her cup as the last of the liquid started to slosh around the bottom of the stein. She was completely oblivious to the situation as the smell of flesh singed the air. She looked around the room, confused as the world around her continued to spin.

Her attention drew back to her brother, ”Why is Drake strapped to that chair?”

And what had reached Kazumin first was the smell…The horrid and stomach-gurgling stench of burning clothes and flesh. He could only help but gulp as some of the red drained from his face, forced to relive all the animal brandings. The sound of their whimpers and cries, the sting of stinging fur intermingled with burning flesh, which had been unpleasant but tolerable. Where the room once reeked of piss and booze, it now smelled inhumanely pungent with burning human flesh, and the thought of it being Drake nearly made him hurl had he not once again shown his immense bravery and strong heart. His inspiring words, despite the overwhelming pain. It broke his heart to see the man having to fight alone and working so hard to keep a brave face for them.

“ And there’s no man finer than you are right now, Sir Drake! Now, someone replace this flimsy mug so I can continue to drink to his good name!” Kazu said, slamming the broken tankard against the table with a renewed grin, wanting to back him up, disregarding any potential blows his little stint may earn him.

Meanwhile, there was something disturbingly familiar to the captain about the odor. The little bit off the mark might have been all that spared these bandits from early wrath. What was it with brigands and burning things? Did the kind of people who only knew how to consume see themselves in it? Different though it might have been, it was still repugnant. Stratya was glad not have food in front of her, though perhaps she would be gladder to have yet eaten, instead.

Just nearby Stratya was Roman Ravenwood, the color drained from his face as that stench hit him. That burning smell of flesh, the sound of hot iron against skin… the screams. In his current state, he couldn't push the memories out of his head fast enough. Instead, they nearly consumed him, threatening to throw him back into that abyss. His shoulders sagged, and his head dropped, nearly breaking his concentration; he looked as though he were going to either hurl or pass out.

The memories came back in flashes: first smells, then sounds, then everything else. A village burning, the dead and slaughtered—men and animals alike, young, old, and everything in between. The streets ran red with blood. Just him in the middle of all of it… just him and his bloody sword.

He would not let that happen here, not again. He would not let himself give in to the red wake ever again.

Anger steeled his resolve once more. He raised his head, his yellow eyes locking with Olivia's as the gears turned and his plan shifted. “Burn the witch,” he mouthed slowly to her. With a slow blink, his eyes shifted to Kazumin, then to Stratya. “I’ll get Drake.”

It was hair. Somehow, Roman had reminded Stratya of what was missing. Perhaps the image, in her mind, however brief, of the woman burning had brought the thought to mind. Burning hair was not part of the odorous cocktail assailing them, and she did not care to add it. It was understandable that their emotions would be riding high, but decisions made so rashly often did not make the most of a situation. She mouthed in response, “Burn later.”

“Hey! Let my brother go.” Ariella suddenly nearly leaped out of her seat as she swung her stein towards the men, thinking it was nothing more than a simple prank, and Winston roughly yanked her back into her chair by the hand he had on her shoulder.

“Not so fast. Took you long enough to care about him, stupid girl."

As those at the table reacted with revulsion, so did their red-haired barmaid of the night. The hiss of the iron hadn't been just a sound; it had crawled straight into Kalliope’s bones and set up camp. The stink followed, thick and nauseating: scorched wool, roasted flesh, the kind of scent that made most people retch. For Kalliope, it was something else entirely. It was a key, old and rusted, grinding open a lock she’d tried to bury deep.

She stood with her fingers locked so tight around the brass tap that the metal bit deep, leaving little half-moons in her skin. For a split second, the tavern vanished, swallowed by a hungry, orange blaze. The air thickened, turned to choking soot, and the scream in her ears wasn’t Drake’s. It was her own, younger, raw and useless, before she’d learned to turn fear into a weapon. She remembered the heat peeling her cheeks, her nails scrabbling at a door that refused to give. “Kahrem!” her mind howled into the black. “Kahrem, get out! Please!”

She dragged in a breath, the air thick with Drake’s pain, and let it burn through her, locking the beast in its cage. Not yet. To steady her hands, she took inventory: the six-inch stiletto snug in her boot, the curved spine-blade pressed against her back, her favorite dagger riding her hip, and the blackened steel bodkin masquerading as a hairpin, just waiting for a skull to split.

She swept the room, cold and methodical, tallying up the makeshift arsenal: the iron-bound oak tray for a buckler, the leaded-glass decanter for a mace, and, if she could reach it, the little jar of tanner’s lye tucked low on the shelf. That one was for Marius, a promise of liquid fire to the eyes.

Her grip eased, one finger at a time, until her hands moved with that old, dangerous precision. She poured the next round, eyes flicking everywhere. She saw Maelen’s sway, the crossbowmen lounging in the rafters, and the exact distance to Ox’s throat. Nothing escaped her.

“Round two,” she whispered to the rising foam, her voice a low, vibrating promise of ruin. “Let’s see who breaks first.”

🗡 Roses and Daggers 🎕

Time: Evening
Location: Dungeon

---

“The first time I watched a man purchase my mother, I was small enough to fit beneath the bed.”

The words fell and did not echo.

Alibeth’s gaze did not drop in shame. If anything, it sharpened, as if she were giving them an educational lesson. “He did not so much as look at me when he came in. He stepped over my little brother as though the boy were nothing more than a discarded coat. And when it was finished, he left a coin on the table before he shut the door behind him.”

Her fingers, still folded in her lap, tightened together. It was the only sign the memory had teeth that bit into her through this very day. “People would call my mother vile, and then still knock on her door in the dark.”

Wulfric's expression was unreadable, his brows furrowed as if in concentration. Auguste hung his head, and Anastasia's gaze lowered with emotion. Alibeth watched them register the information and said, “I'd give you all a prettier version..." Her mouth curved in warning. “But you are too old for fairytales.”

“I was born in the Varian Kingdom...Not in a place like Breoven...” Her eyes flicked, briefly, to Wulfric. “I was born in a place that swallowed us all whole... You couldn't even call it a town, really.”

“Towns have names people are proud to say aloud. Towns have a square, a church, a market where the bread is still bread... We had roofs that sagged like tired shoulders. A river that ran black in spring from all the churned earth, and then froze over in winter so hard you could walk across it and still not escape.”

She paused, and when she spoke again, her voice softened.“My mother had more children than she had years of peace.” She did not say who the fathers were, and she did not need to. The implication sat like rot. “Some were born already losing the fight,” she continued, gaze fixed somewhere past the torchlight, “small lungs, thin bodies that seemed to resent having been called into the world at all. And some learned...far too young...that hunger will turn even a good child into a thief… not because they are wicked, but because the world will not feed them for being virtuous. There were nights we slept stacked in one bed. You learn the weight of a body when you cannot afford blankets... And you learn to hear the difference between a baby’s hungry cry and a baby’s dying one.”

Anastasia’s breath hitched, and Alibeth’s eyes slid to her daughter—amber to amber. “Do not make that face, Anastasia.” she murmured. Then she shifted her hands, unfolding them slowly, palms up. “My mother tried... She tried to keep us clean... She tried to feed us before herself.”

Her voice remained steady, but the memory rose behind it all the same: a woman kneeling over a washbasin until her knuckles split and bled into the water; a woman smiling too brightly up at looming silhouettes; a woman turning her head to cough into her sleeve so her children would not see the red splatter.

“She was kind in the way drowning people are kind,” she continued. “Not gentle... Desperate. The sort of kindness that gives all of it itself away piece by piece, because it has nothing else left to offer the world.”

Her gaze lowered, just briefly, to the iron collar at her throat as if acknowledging its bitter irony. “And she was trapped.”

Alibeth did not let silence grow sentimental. “My father was not a customer... He was around with all the frequency of a hurricane—months of absence, then suddenly a storm at the door... My twin sister Polina and I were his alone.”

She described him to them as a tall silhouette with brown hair and eyes that did not soften. “He brought food and medicine when he could. He taught me to read before he taught me to pray. Not because he wanted me educated. Because he wanted me armed.”

She turned her head slightly, as if seeing him in the torchlight. “Words are weapons,” she quoted. “Ignorance is how evil breeds.”

“Whenever he came, my mother became quieter.” Alibeth said. “Not because she feared him. Because she feared what he represented. And I—” Alibeth’s mouth tightened. “He taught Polina and me how to wield a weapon... How to keep our wrists aligned, to keep our balance. To cut cleanly and without hesitation. He trained us for the world he intended to leave us in—because he knew he would."

And then, inevitably, she returned to the point that explained everything she would later become.“I learned that love is not enough.”

Auguste’s jaw tightened as if he wanted to argue, and Alibeth raised a hand to silence him as she assured him, “I loved them.” she said. “Every one of them. Even the ones who stole from me. Even the ones who blamed my mother for the shape of their lives. But love did not prevent them from a life with rats in the walls and fleas in their bedding.”

Her eyes lifted to Wulfric again. “That is what raised me.”

“And then,” she said softly, “Polina and I found the book.”

---

🗡 Roses and Daggers 🎕

FLASHBACK

John & Charlotte

Part 3

Time: Ignis 1 Afternoon
Location: Sorian Park

---

The library’s hush gave way to the loud symphony of the Sorian streets as they stepped outside once again. Warm afternoon light spilled across the street. After a brief stroll, stone gave way to greenery as they crossed into the broad expanse of Sorian Park.

Winding paths curled beneath canopies of trees. Families lounged on picnic blankets, vendors gave out treats from stands, and children raced between flowerbeds. The smell of warm bread and grass mingled in the air.

At the center of it all rose the great stone fountain. And situated quite prominently beside the fountain was a neatly painted sign that read: NO SWIMMING.

Charlotte slowed, eyes sweeping across the fountain’s rim. Faint chalk smudges trailed along the edge: little doodles and half-wiped markings only a child’s hand could have left.

“If Maurice was right,” she murmured, fingertips brushing the traces of chalk, “then they must have been here.”

Her gaze drifted to the sign, then back to John, inviting him to draw the next conclusion.

John observed the hints. It was easy to conclude that they really were there because of the chalk they carried, and it most likely was the case, but any kid could have made this as well. But the no swimming sign. Really determined kids meet the law. Didn’t seem like an awfully unpredictable scenario.

”I’d probably ask one of the frequenters like we did with Maurice.” John suggested, his fingers gesturing towards the vendors. ”If we have any guards here, we can ask. It might get us closer to the truth.”

It would be rather hilarious if the ‘No Swimming’ sign was added today just because of the kids. That’s how it works often times.

Charlotte gave John an approving nod, her expression brightening with purpose.
“Yes, of course. Someone must have seen them. Let us inquire!”

She glanced around, then noticed a uniformed park guard making his rounds near the path. With a wave of her hand, she called out: “Excuse me, sir, might we trouble you for a moment?”

The guard paused his stride and glanced toward them with a face that suggested he had been through the ringer the last week. “Afternoon. What can I help you with?”

Charlotte stepped forward. “We’re searching for a missing boy named Steven. About ten years old, blonde hair. We believe he may have come through here yesterday.”

Recognition flickered instantly across the guard’s features. “Oh—those three.” He planted his hands on his hips with an exasperated sigh.
“Aye, I remember ’em. Tried climbin’ into the fountain like it was a public bath!”

He jabbed a thumb toward the NO SWIMMING sign. “Ran over, told ’em to scram. Too young to be out unsupervised anyway. Told ’em all three the same thing—‘Off you go, home!’” He shook his head. “They weren’t havin’ it. Kept mumblin’ about bein’ determined to swim. Complained about the beach bein’ too cold, so they wanted to try here.”

The guard continued: “One o’ the boys ducked into the bathroom while I was lecturin’ the other two. They left while he was in the bathroom. When he came out, I told him the same—‘You too! Home!’ He wasn’t happy about it.” He scratched his cheek thoughtfully and shrugged. “Kids that age get ideas in their heads. There’s no stoppin’ ’em.”

”Right?” John, per usual gossiping etiquette, nodded along and added friendly, non-committal opinions here and there. ”Parents really need to drill lessons into them nowadays.”

He tipped his cap politely. “Hope you find ’em. They looked awful set on trouble.” With that, he continued down the path.

”Thank you.”

Charlotte watched him go, then turned to John with a thoughtful crease between her brows. “If the beach was too cold, and the fountain forbidden… then where would those boys go next? And the one that got separated…” Her gaze lowered as she had been thinking, and then locked on a strange chalk drawing by the fountain.

She crouched, lifting her skirt slightly off the damp stone. “Doctor…Look here.”

The first thing in John’s mind was that these kids were talking in languages too cryptic for his liking. What in a 10-year-old’s mind compelled them to communicate like this?

”From my best guess, these two triangles seem to be the two kids that the guard lectured, while this drawing is the one who hid in the bathroom.” John crouched down by the drawing, theorizing the second thing that came to his mind. ”The two goes right, and the one goes left.”

The third thing, however, were the numbers, and that one…

”Ugh, I have no idea what the numbers mean though.” John tilted his head back and forth. ”What do you think?”

All the while, he looked up and around to see where the kids may have gone.

”Only Steven was missing? Or all three of them?” John probed further. ”Could the one going to the bathroom be him?”

Charlotte tilted her head. She had been staring at it for some time before she finally spoke up, “I suspect,” she began softly, “that the two boys who ran off left this as a message for the one who stayed behind in the bathroom.”

She crouched to tap the scribble at the corner—the faint A equals 1.

“This here is the key,” she murmured. “If A is worth one, then the numbers in the code must correspond to other letters of the alphabet… ”

”Then the second letter is A.” John recognized instantly, while counting the letters in his head as his fingers slowly fan out with each count. ”Fourth is E, Third is K and first is L. Lake.”

“Lake…” Charlotte echoed, as though testing the word for weight. Then her eyes brightened. “Both Maurice and the guard said the boys were utterly determined to swim, no matter what.” She straightened, brushing the pale stone dust from her palms. A genuine smile followed. “Very well done, Doctor.”

John’s head perked up and looked in the direction of the Lover’s Lake. ”The forest before the Lover’s Lake could be a place the kid can easily get lost under.” John theorized. ”Let’s waste no time.”

On the way, John turned to Charlotte, his instincts from familiar instincts compelled him to advise.

”If there are guards posted there, tell them there may be a missing boy in the forest.” He said. ”They don’t have to help, just keep them on high alert.”

“A very good thought,” Charlotte agreed, already adjusting her pace to match his.

🗡 Roses and Daggers 🎕

FLASHBACK

John & Charlotte

Part 2

Time: Ignis 1 Afternoon
Location: The Sorian Library

---

And so, they left the clamor of the Tough Tavern behind. The streets of Sorian carried them quickly toward the city’s great Library, which was very close by.

The great dome above was lit up with bright sunlight, fractured into shards of gold through stained glass. Rows upon rows of books towered around them, their spines catching the green glow of lamps situated on the coffee tables. Leather chairs sagged under the weight of guests lost in the world of their books.

The vastness of the hall seemed to hush even the sound of turning pages as Charlotte, satchel in hand, stepped onto the marble floor. “Oh, it’s still glorious,” she breathed, her voice hushed in reverence.

John, having been here a couple of days ago, had his awe suppressed, but he did look around a couple of times. Say what one will about Caesonia, they knew how to build beautiful buildings.

He led the way to one of the librarians, one facing the entrance.

”Good day sir. Did you happen to be here yesterday afternoon?” John asked. ”Do you remember a kid coming in here? He is ten years old, with…” He looked over to Charlotte, hoping she would fill in the rest of the details.

The man at the desk was an older fellow, his thinning brown hair stuck out in tufts as if he had been wrestling with somebody and had lost.

Charlotte stepped forward, her smile gentle. “Good day, sir. We are searching for any information regarding a missing boy. His name’s Steven; he is ten years old, and he has blonde hair…. He may have come in yesterday afternoon.”

The man blinked, then shook his head.
“Yesterday? Oh, no, no, that wouldn’t have been me. I was off shift. The one you’ll want—that’ll be Maurice—he should be along shortly to relieve me.” He lifted a weary hand toward a cart groaning under the weight of books. “While you’re waiting… if you wouldn’t mind lending me a hand with these, I’d be much obliged. Seems I’ve let them pile up again. Would you please put these away in the proper shelves?” He gave a sheepish smile.
Charlotte glanced sidelong at John, the corners of her lips lifting. “I suppose that would be alright, seeing as we have to wait anyway. ”

John rubbed his nose bridge and sighed. This was free labour. An unknown fact about John was that he was part of a movement that pushed for a recently passed law to pay salaries for extra. It only applied to government workers for now. He was, once again, reminded that the rest of the world didn’t have the same standards as the Varians yet.

”Sure.” He answered curtly. If anything, it’d be better to be on the good side of the librarian if they were going to get help from them.

He came over to the cart, glanced at the content quickly, then held up a hand to Charlotte.

”Let’s reorganize first. This is a mess.” He leaned down and took out two books, one of which was named ‘Turn Right at Aunerva’ and the other named ‘Constellations’. ”This is astronomy.”

He pulled out a few more books that sounded like novels, one of which happened to be written by Crystal, one of the renowned romance novelists in Caesonia. He stopped there for a second.

Charlotte’s eyes lit up the moment she noticed the word Constellations on the cover of one of the books he had been sorting.

“Oh!” she exclaimed, her excitement bubbling over as she brushed a stray hair from her cheek. “I’ve always loved studying the stars. There’s just something so endlessly fascinating about them… worlds and lights so far away, yet always above us. Sometimes I stay up late just wondering what might be out there— who might be looking back.”

”It is a very calming topic to learn about. Mysterious and, well, doesn’t concern our lives too much.” John said, having already noted to borrow that book by Crystal later.
Charlotte had returned her attention to the task at hand, and had begun to organize another few stacks of books regarding historical and religious topics. Her hand paused on a worn spine titled The Astral Arcana, and her expression softened. “Have you ever heard of the Path of the Astral Arcana? It’s a belief from Kimoon.”

“They say each person is born beneath one of twelve celestial deities, and that our souls are spun from stardust by divine hands. When we die, we return to the heavens to watch over those we love.”

A nostalgic smile touched her lips, and she closed her eyes as she spoke. “It may not be the most logical belief,” she admitted with a faint laugh, “but I used to write letters with my grandmother about it.”

John’s serious demeanor softened considerably. ”There is also a scientific hypothesis that we evolved from star stuff, over eons past that the word ‘forever’ hardly describes it.” A thoughtful look accompanied his supportive smile. ”I will hold judgment on its validity. But these guys may be onto something.”

She leaned a little closer then, her voice lowering into a playful whisper. “I could look up yours, you know,” she teased lightly, “What month were you born?”

”Germa.” John chuckled. He was no religious type, but fun is fun. ”Which burning sphere in the sky am I descended from?” He asked in jest.

Charlotte blinked, visibly delighted. “Germa?” she repeated, tilting her head as if she needed to acquire the memory from a shelf in her brain. A small hum escaped her lips before she brightened. “Oh! That would be Indra the Thunderous Storm Sovereign.”

She brushed her fingertips along the edge of the book as though tracing a constellation itself. “His constellation is shaped like a thunderbolt. They say those born under Indra are passionate and brave, though perhaps a little quick-tempered.” Her lips curved into a shy, teasing smile. “ Would you say that suits you?”

”Hmm.” John listened with flattened, amused lips. ”Passionate, sure. Brave, not necessarily. Quick-tempered…well…you be the judge of that.” He said, in a manner that was self-aware and self-deprecating.

“I certainly will be on the lookout for that temper.” She replied with a giggle. “...I was born in Ventu… that’s under Lóngwei, the Azure Dragon Guardian.” She hesitated, then added, “Lóngwei is said to embody courage and protection, defending the vulnerable and upholding honor.”

Charlotte’s smile wavered. “I’m not entirely sure it suits me,” she admitted quietly. “I haven’t felt very courageous as of late… and I certainly haven’t done the best job of protecting those I care about.” Her voice trembled just a little, but she quickly drew in a breath and straightened, forcing a small smile. “But I will get better.”

”I beg to disagree on one point actually, my lady.” John replied almost instantaneously. “One is courageous when they need to. That’s what my mentor told me. And so far from what I’ve seen, you’ve shown it at the right time.”

“As for defending the vulnerable.” John’s upbeat demeanor shifted suddenly. Though he tried to keep it casual, there was a hint of melancholy, as well as something personal, in there. “Sometimes, life deals you terrible cards, and solace in trying your best is…well…the best we can do.”

Charlotte’s expression softened, then dimmed entirely. Her gaze drifted toward the endless rows of books, though it was actually elsewhere beyond sight. The hush of the library seemed to press closer as the silence enveloped them momentarily.

“I don’t think I have done quite enough as of late to defend those I care about,” she murmured. “My friends have run into terrible trouble, and I’ve been rather powerless to stop it.”

Her hands came to rest upon the cart, fingertips brushing the wood as though it might lend her steadiness. “I think I’ve done something to help—but…” she hesitated, her voice catching, “…I don’t know if it will be enough, considering the scale of the opposition we’ve created. “ Her brows lifted, her lips curving into a frown. “...That perhaps, I’ve somehow created.”

John’s eyebrows elevated. His expression shifted from sympathy to a myriad of different worries and fears the moment Charlotte mentioned it. More than what Charlotte might expect.

Charlotte’s shoulders lowered, “If I’m honest…” she added, “…I scarcely even know what’s truly going on anymore to even explain it to you. Every time I think I’ve understood, the ground shifts beneath me again.”

For a long moment, the lamplight glimmered in her downcast eyes, reflecting the weight of it all. Then her lips parted once more. “I should have done more, and I need to find a way to do more still.”

She was thoughtful for a moment after her lament before she gave him an apologetic smile. “Forgive me,” she said softly. “I’ve gone on rather a lot, haven’t I?” Her eyes found his again, warmer now despite the weariness behind them. “I don’t mean to turn gloomy conversation upon you, Doctor.” Then, she gathered a few books in her arms, finally, and moved to a nearby shelf to one by one return them to their rightful place.

“Somehow created?” John muttered under his breath as he watched Charlotte from a distance. That one line had engraved in him much fear and dread. Fear of history repeating itself.

“The thing you created.”

And dread that it came from Charlotte.

“Is it…supernatural?”

John half-regretted saying what he said. There was no good way of phrasing it without indirectly implying witchcraft.

“Forget what I said. Let’s finish our work and get back to finding little Steven.” John dismissed, as he also shifted through his pile of books and put it on the shelves neatly.

Charlotte hesitated, her fingers lingering on the spine of a book before she finally spoke again, more quietly this time. “No, it was a force of opposition,” she said at last, clarifying. She finished up her task at hand and stepped toward him again. Her tone was thoughtful as she elaborated. “An enemy, really.” She drew in a breath, then admitted. “The Black Rose company.”

For a moment, she seemed to weigh her next words carefully. “You mentioned how life can deal terrible cards, Doctor…” Her voice softened, yet it was tentative. “Forgive me if I overstep, but…” She paused before asking, “…have you dealt with the supernatural before? Is that, perhaps, what you meant?” Her curiosity slipped through despite her better judgment.

And before her eyes, the man stood cross-legged with his arm resting on one of the book pile, looked back at her with his head inclined slightly. A mysterious, confounding expression formulated - a diluted combination of affirmation, sadness, and fear. It would be hard to understand it, as John reached into his chest pocket.

”No, but I know someone who does.” He said rather suggestively. ”See, she sees the world a little differently from others. The supernatural is evil, but worth learning more about, if only for the sake of wiping them off the face of the earth.”

Charlotte stilled, her mind traveling back to how Duke Petit had spoken at the meeting. She thought of the hunter who had barged into the banquet with a witch on a chain. She had been told all about that afterward — every chilling detail. Her heart gave a small, painful flutter, but she dared not let her feelings show visibly.

The doctor’s hand unfurled to a small white fountain pen, elegantly embroidered with golden cursives, radiating a strange aura that itched curiosities. Then just as quickly as he opened it, he closed his hand and put the pen back.

Her gaze drifted down to the pen in his hand. Such a harmless little thing… and yet, the air around it was obviously different. It radiated something she could sense, something she should not have been able to feel at all.

”That’s all.” He shrugged. ”If curiosity itches you, come to the nurse corps.” John tapped the books on the cart. ”Let’s finish this job already.”

Then came a whisper in her ear. It was not quite a voice, not quite an echo but still she heard her name clear as day:

“Charlotte…”

She froze.

“Charlotte, Charlotte, Charlotte…”

And little did she know that the voice also called for John. “…John…”
John’s response was a simple tick of the tongue, looking more annoyed that the voice would even try to intimidate him this way.
The sound drifted from a shadowed corner between the shelves, where lamplight faded into a thick pool of darkness.

Then came an interruption that made Charlotte nearly jump out of her skin: “Apologies for the delay! I’m Maurice — afternoon shift reporting in! I was told you two had a question for me.” An elderly man shuffled into view, his arms full of books he had no business carrying at his age. Maurice looked as though the library itself had kept him in service far too long: a stooped back, a thinning sweep of white hair that refused to stay combed, and spectacles smudged so thoroughly one had to wonder how he saw anything at all.

His simple waistcoat strained around his rounded middle, and his steps were careful. He blinked up at them owlishly, breathing lightly through parted lips.“Oh—oh dear, did I frighten you?” he asked, winded, “We don’t get many jumpy visitors, unless someone’s dropped a stack of dictionaries.”

Charlotte forced a smile despite her pounding heart. “No, you’re perfectly alright,” she assured him softly. “We’ve been waiting for you.”

John stepped ahead of Charlotte, letting her take a breather. ”Good day, Mr. Maurice, we are looking for this fellow named Steven. He’s 10 years old, blonde hair, and is thought to be here yesterday afternoon at around 3-ish.”

John’s eyes occasionally dashed between the origin of the voice, Charlotte and Maurice.

”He hasn’t been home since yesterday. We hope you’d know something about it.”

Maurice’s brows lifted behind his spectacles. “Steven… yes, yes, I remember that one. Came in just yesterday afternoon. There were three boys, all of them dripping water everywhere, the rascals. Sand on my floor, mud on my tiles, oh, it was a whole affair.”

He waved a hand vaguely at the returns desk. “The lad brought back a book—just on time, mind you—and said the beach water was ‘so cold it could kill a whale.’ His words, not mine.” A chuckle wheezed out of him. “But he was absolutely determined to swim that day. Told his companions that if the sea was too cold, then the fountain in the Park would do just fine instead. A stubborn little trio, that.”

John raised his eyebrows at that. Really determined huh?

He paused to catch his breath, blinking between John and Charlotte.“They ran off in a great hurry through the doors. Still dripping, too. I remember thinking whoever cleaned the fountain would have their hands full.”He leaned slightly closer, lowering his voice, “Children do get such ideas in their heads. If they fail in one place, they simply try the next.”

Charlotte dipped her head in gratitude. “Thank you, Mr. Maurice. You’ve been tremendously helpful.”

The old man beamed as though he had just solved the case himself.

Charlotte glanced lightly toward John, offering a nod that was essentially an unspoken shall we? before turning back toward the doors.

The doctor politely bowed to the librarian before heading off to Charlotte, his hand gesture said after you.

🗡 Roses and Daggers 🎕

FLASHBACK

John & Charlotte
Part 1

Time: Ignis 1 Afternoon
Location: Tough Tavern

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The sun bled across crumbling roofs as Charlotte Vikena tip‑toed around a puddle, the hem of her simple sage‑green dress fluttering just above her ankles. It was a far cry from her usual finery. In her arms, she cradled a tattered satchel, the leather worn thin at the seams.

The Tough Tavern’s mismatched shutters rattled from the drunken laughter within as she leaned against the wall a moment to catch her bearings. Then she went inside.

The so-called good doctor hadn’t appeared in public for a while, but when he did, he looked no different than what was expected of him: some variations of the casual suit and breeches. For today, it was dark blue and black respectively. But at the same time, who would even notice him? This city was known for its short-term gossiping. His ruckus the other day would have already been piled up by other nonsense the people entertained themselves with. John was banking on that to hopefully get some peace and quiet.

He entered the Tough Tavern and ordered a cup of lemonade. As he sat with his back leaning leisurely against his chair, he noticed Charlotte. He looked at her and tilted his head a couple of times to see if she’d notice.

Charlotte turned her head, sensing the gaze upon her. Her expression softened, and a gentle smile blossomed on her lips. Without hesitation, she approached him.

"John," she greeted, her voice warm as she came to a stop beside his table. "It truly has been far too long." After a pause, she added, "I don’t believe I saw you at the banquet the other night. I hope you’ve been keeping well?"

John’s lips formed a flattened smile, his gestures hinted at stuffs but it was indiscernible to whether it was good or bad. ”Things are good. Peace for once after days of chaos after chaos. I can’t believe how much drama can just spring out of nothing here.”

He gestured toward the seat in front of him, his demeanor was relaxed and his voice equally warm. It was evident he trusted Charlotte, and was not putting up an act. ”How have you and your father been? Is there anything interesting you are doing?”

Charlotte took the offered seat with an appreciative smile. "Believe me, I completely understand," she replied with a soft, humorless yet knowing laugh. "Things have been rather strange, to put it lightly. But I suppose we’re doing better than the queen, at least. I’m not sure if you've heard, but she was arrested for witchcraft at the banquet." Her voice lowered slightly, her expression turning serious. "Things are tense, to say the least. Do be careful, John."

She paused thoughtfully before continuing. "As for myself, right now I'm helping a woman I met at the tavern here. Her son went missing yesterday, and she's beside herself with worry. I thought it the least I could do, given the circumstances."

John feigned a shocked response. ”Really? For witchcraft. The queen herself too? That’s…wow.”

In truth, it was the talk of the entire Society meeting the entire morning. It also did come from a place of genuineness, since he was quite surprised that Edin did what he did. Could he finally give this recreant twat of a king some credits, to actually arrest his own wife, favoring the state’s divine law over his own emotions? But now that he wanted to work openly with Varians to deal with the potential ‘infestations’ of magic in Caesonia, it was very important that they didn’t reveal too much. In truth, this was long due, and Caesonia was finally starting to realize it.

”For sure, thank you. Really cannot escape drama in this country, though.” He let out the same understanding and humorless laugh, adding onto it some sarcasm.

But that was a problem for the corps of physicians to decide together, not with this lovely lady.

”Oh okay, that’s very kind of you. What happened, if you don’t mind sharing? I may be able to help in some way.”

“Yesterday afternoon young Steven went down to the beach… Just for an hour, he told his mother—only he never came home.” She set the satchel on the table and unfastened the buckle. “I found this in the road just outside the tavern caught on a loose nail. It has his name on it so I believe it may belong to him… I hoped it might tell us where he meant to go.”

She tipped the bag and let a few items spill gently onto the wood:

• a torn scrap of paper with LIBRA scrawled across it in charcoal
• seashells
• a small red rectangular cloth with fringes on each end
• a piece of chalk
• folded note: “2:30 beach — J & T bring towels

Charlotte glanced up with a small smile. “It isn’t much, is it?”
”Hmm, I’ve worked with less.” John said, as he picked up the items one by one to examine. ”One good thing is, when there’s not much clues, there’s not much you can go wrong.”

The gears began spinning in John’s head. It was more than apparent that the main clues were the torn paper with the word LIBRA, and the folded note. The note did say beach 2:30, which was indeed the time and place Steven was said to be going. But the satchel was found outside the tavern. It seemed odd that he’d just let a satchel fall off him like that.

”From my experience, we follow the most obvious clues first. Any idea who the J & T’s are?” John said. ”Might have to ask his mom. And how young is Steven?”

“He’s about ten, I’d say,” Charlotte said gently. “J and T are likely local children. And these—” she tapped the shells, “—confirm they did make it to the beach.” She lifted the red cloth, considering it for a moment, then she smiled. “It’s a bookmark. Seems we’ve a little reader on our hands.”

Charlotte shook the satchel gently, grains of pale grit scattering onto the table.

“There now,” she murmured, brushing the sand with her fingertips. “More proof of the beach. But for whatever reason, he left the beach. This satchel was outside this tavern...”

”Alright, fair reasoning.” John’s hand rubbed his cheek and chin. He’d like to hear more about these local kids. He felt like if they agreed to come to the beach with this kid, they would have been friends, and the reason why Steven left the beach would have lain with them.

The chalk and red cloth felt like personal effects, nothing indicative of his intentions, albeit he could not rule that out definitively.

”What was he doing that morning before he went to the beach? Was there any notable event that took place at the beach that day.” John asked before considering the next obvious clue: the LIBRA note written in charcoal.

“I am not certain... I suppose nothing notable since the mother did not mention.”

”LIBRA huh?” He put his thinking cap on, but got nothing yet.

Charlotte tilted her head thoughtfully and tapped her chin, turning the scrap over in her fingers, “LIBRA… It could be a nickname, or short for something, as the paper looks torn.”

”Libra…” That clue snapped something in him. ”...ry. Library. Is there one nearby?”

If that was true, it could explain where he was going after he left the beach. Still not much information, but it was a step forward.

Her face lit up and she beamed at John. “Yes there is… And how very clever of you to see that, Doctor. And with this bookmark, no less, how perfectly it fits!” She picked up the cloth and waved it in the air. Then, she tucked it back into the satchel as she gathered the rest of the items. Rising finally, she extended her hand toward him, eyes sparkling.

“Come, let us visit the librarian together. I daresay we may be the ones to untangle this web.”

”Oh, that was a b-.” Only now did John connect the dots to that red piece of cloth. And right after an immediate feeling of uncanny that he didn’t know cloths were used as bookmarks by lower-class folks. For the first time in his life, it occurred to him that he might be more in common with the bourgeoisie than the common people, despite his low-born origin. But then again, cloths were used for literally anything with the folks there.

”Anyway I’m invested, and I have some time today.” John said, finishing as much of his drink as he could, then heading over to pay for both their drinks.

”Let’s go.” He headed back to Charlotte once she was ready too.

And so, they left the clamor of the Tough Tavern behind.

🗡 Roses and Daggers 🎕

Time: Evening
Location: The Dungeon
Interactions:Alibeth, Wulfric, Auguste
Mentions: @Oso Kilian
Attire:Dress and Hair

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Wide amber eyes followed Kilian’s departing figure, the echo of rattling chains still ringing in her ears. The heavy door’s echo rolled through the air of the dungeon until it was swallowed by silence. Pressed to the wall just beyond the corner, Anastasia held her breath as if any sound from her might call him back.

Only when the guards settled again, and his footsteps vanished, did she move. She slipped back to her mother’s cell and, there at the bars, her knees simply gave out. She sank onto the damp floor, pink skirts pooling around her. Her braid had loosened in the dungeon’s thick air, platinum strands clinging to her cheeks. The princess stood out in the dark, stone hall, as if a pink blossom had dropped into the gutter.

Her hands wouldn’t stop trembling. She curled them into the fabric of her dress just to keep them still.

Inside the cell, her mother sat in the corner, in the same dress she had worn to the banquet, her expression too calm and too still, as though she’d already accepted the gallows.

“I confess, I am rather surprised to find you here instead of out reveling in the Drunkard’s Day chaos, Anastasia… It is one of your favorite holidays, after all.” The queen’s tone was dry as parchment, and Anastasia did not bother to answer.

For a while, there was only the sound of the drip of water and the crackle of torches.

Anastasia’s voice finally broke the silence in a whisper, “Why… why have you done this, Mother?”

Alibeth’s gaze moved over her daughter, over the bowed head that refused to look up at her. “You know why, Anastasia.” Her brows furrowed, and her eyes narrowed. “Your brother has always been skeptical. If I could not prove the existence of magic, he could not take the measures required to protect himself, the kingdom, and our family. A warning without evidence is dismissed as hysteria. A demonstration is remembered—”

“No. That—” Anastasia’s fingers dug harder into her skirts. Her voice broke, then surged back. She pushed herself to her feet. “That I understand.”

Alibeth’s brows lifted. It was the first hint of surprise she had seen in her mother that day. Anastasia finally met her eyes, and the queen’s expression softened at the sight of her daughter’s trembling lips.

“I understand, mama…” The princess's voice was soft despite the rawness she had previously displayed. Tears spilled freely now. “When Auguste told me, he was so, so gentle. He wanted me to know what happened, but he didn’t want me to hate you for it.”

She laughed then; it was a short, cracked sound that hurt to hear. “Maybe you never understood me. But I have always understood you. I know you just wanted to protect us.” The softness in her eyes hardened. “What I don’t understand,” she went on, “is why you think you need men like that—” She jabbed a finger down the corridor where Kilian had vanished, disgust curling her lip. “—to take responsibility for our protection. Why would you call them here? You have no idea what you’ve done.”

Her voice climbed, pitch edging toward panic. “It's not just that girl he's dragging around on a chain, mother! Did you not stop and think who else you might be condemning to their deaths? ”

The question hung between them a moment.

Inside the cell, Alibeth did not flinch. Her hands rested neatly in her lap, fingers interlaced. “Of course, Anastasia.” Her tone was almost gentle now, as if she were correcting Anastasia. “There are always more. There always have been..." She held Anastasia's gaze with an intensity that scared her. “And they all must die if our kingdom is going to prosper.”

“Why!” The word tore out of her in a shout of fury. “Why does it always have to be blood? Why does it have to be you doing it?”

Her hands flew up, fingers shaking in the air as if she were grasping at something she couldn’t quite hold. The next words came out before she could stop them, dragged from the deepest part of her fear. “What happens when they find out about Callum?”

For the first time, Alibeth’s composure cracked. There was a tangible pause, her shoulders stiffened... There was a flicker in her eyes that Anastasia had never seen before.

“…Why Callum?”

Anastasia stared at her, tears shimmering on her lashes, “Because Callum uses magic,” she said, “My little brother. Your son. And you have just painted a target on every witch in Caesonia—on him—on who knows who the fuck else! If you've used it for a reason that made sense to you, why is it so hard to think that others have done the same thing?”

She took a small, shaky step closer to the bars, until there was almost nothing between them.

“You've always talked like you know more than anyone else. You claim you do all this to protect us,” Anastasia's pupils were wide, her pupils dilated, unfocused as she asked, “but how are you going to protect Callum?”

Alibeth’s hands had tightened in her lap, knuckles pale. There was shock visible in her expression, and something that might have been fear. “Are you certain?” she asked at last, “Not rumor. Not tavern gossip. You know?”

Anastasia’s lips trembled. “I know,” she whispered. “I’ve seen it...”

A breath left the queen as if she had been struck. When her gaze returned to her daughter, “You have felt what magic is, Anastasia. You have seen what it does. You watched Darryn dissolve into something unrecognizable. You have felt its evil when you faced that child with the ‘dark energy’ you described. You know this power destroys those who wield it. Your brother will walk the same path if he is not stopped before it is too late.”

She leaned forward,“You are asking me to protect him from the consequences of what he has chosen to become. I am trying to spare him from something far worse than any hunter.”

Anastasia stared at her, disbelief flooding in where fear had been. “Spare him?”

"Where is he, Anastasia?"

“I don't know. I haven't seen him since the banquet." Anastasia snapped. “Father says he knows where he is and isn't worried; but frankly, the rest of us are."

Footsteps echoed at the far end of the hall. Voices that were muffled at first, then clearer as they drew nearer. The particular cadence was unmistakable. Wulfric. And Auguste too.

Anastasia flinched, wiping at her cheeks too late. When she turned, the two princes were already coming into view.

The guards straightened at once, bowing their heads.

Auguste’s gaze went first to his sister: skirts damp, hair a mess, eyes red-rimmed. Whatever smile he had prepared for her died instantly. He crossed the remaining distance in a few strides and dropped into a crouch at her side without a word, one hand coming to rest at the small of her back.

Wulfric’s eyes flicked from Anastasia to the queen inside the cell. He took his place just behind his siblings.

“Auguste…” Anastasia’s voice came out ragged as she leaned into him, fingers clutching at his sleeve. Pointedly, she avoided acknowledging Wulfric.

Alibeth’s gaze swept over her sons. “How good of you both to join us,” she remarked. “Since fate has chosen to gather you here, it is only fitting that I tell you finally who I really am... and from where I came from.”