[P] Learn to live without Fear

[Reinhart]

To hold my tongue except when I try to pray...

Heat. Sand. Solis. Reinhart has traveled farther than he anticipated in his latest bout of restlessness. His eyes sweep upwards, tracing the line of banners of the Solis that hang listlessly in the still air. Arid. He thinks to himself. It is a fitting word for Solterra. Reinhart does not remember the last time he stood at the grand entrance that led to the city in the desert. Months. He thinks again, confirming the timeline in his head. The ashen man with a crown of horns atop his head has not been here since the incident with his father. Since he lied through his teeth about being a good son. He has been a good son, but it will only last so long. Winter in Solterra was an interesting experience, there was a notable absence of snow here. There was only a lingering chill in the air. It was cooler than the summer in Solterra. Reinhart pulls his gaze from the proud banners of Solis, he pushes his way into the markets of the Day Court.

He ogles the wares splayed out by respective vendors. Some take greater care in arranging their wares than others. This tells Reinhart that those wares are more valuable. Whether that is true, or simply that the vendor takes great pride in their wares, is unknown to the thief. He stops when an item catches his eye. It is a simple item, a band of woven silver that one might wear upon their nape. Reinhart assumes the identity of Ezra, it is an effortless transition for the oblivious magician. His molten eyes swirl in a fascinating pattern, his tongue dips itself in silver for good measure. Quick words. He thinks. That will get me what I want. His thoughts dissolve as he dons his most charismatic smile to the woman behind the table.

The woman looks up, he sees how infectious his smile is when she returns one. The woman murmurs a greeting to him in dulcet tones. Ezra's smile widens. He dips his head to the shopkeep. "Well met." The words flow from his tongue as effortlessly as water trickling down a hill. His voice is thick like honey, it rumbles with fondness. "Might I ask to try on that delicate silver throat band you have there? I would greatly appreciate if you were the one to fasten it with your elegant touch." He continues on, his words flowing quicker this time. Reinhart does not feel the magic that radiates from his body in plumes and bursts. "You must have an elegant touch to sell such delicate wares, and each one so unique and beautiful. My sister or mother would love this silver band, we've got similar tastes and sizes you see." The words flow faster from his pink and soot smattered lips. 

The woman responds agreeably with the thief, and obliges his request. Her oohing and awing make his ears twitch appreciatively. "Do you have a mirror? It feels so snug. Wonderful. It's perfect." He rambles on, the words gushing like water escaping the crack in a dam. She turns away to grab a mirror, and he is gone. Reinhart disappears into a large group walking by as if he is a leaf swept away by a coursing river.

 

Notes: AL;DJFL;EJ JASK, I thought it might be interesting if Jask caught him stealing something >__> | Words: 546 | Tags: @Jask

... try to breathe words out, But I’ve got nothing to say

[Jask]

“And I, infinitesimal being,
drunk with the great starry void,
likeness, image of mystery,
felt myself a pure part of the abyss.
I wheeled with the stars.
My heart broke loose on the wind.”

His scripture says nothing about actual morality.
Hatred, yes. Danger, yes. The swift approach of the end of all things--of course. But it does not even attempt at right or wrong or the complicated and often messy philosophies of other countries.

And why should it? The Circle exists to subdue or to kill, and there is no room for morality in genocide.

Solterra knows enough about genocide, probably - its streets are lined with the scars of old kings, cut into each limestone brick and stacked high on the wall. Jask can almost feel it in every ragged canopy, in the dry, warm breeze that pulls at his hair. If he could feel anything at all it would be the deep ache of this country, one that has no time to heal from tragedy to tragedy, martyr to martyr.

If he feels his heart clench it is the echo of something he may have felt, the same way that a mask becomes a face if it is worn for long enough.

It is beautiful in its own way: shop counters glitter with priceless jewels either fished up from the earth or drawn out of the pockets of travelers. This particular smell of spice is unique to the desert, turning the wicked atmosphere somehow even sharper, giving everything an edge of red or brown like clay. Even now in the dead of winter it is hot, and the spice sits in his lungs -- but it is perhaps not so hot, just in a way that rests on his shoulders like his robes, heavy in a comfortable way, solid like very few things are.

A voice like the droning of insects draws his attention, something that swims out of the crowd only because it goes on, and on, and on, and when it has stopped there is a distinctness to its absence, like the punchline to a very long and boring joke -- and the laying aside of laughter in its wake. He is drawn to the face only because it is attached to the voice.

He wonders if Reinhart will cringe when he sees jask staring, with two eyes as red as the blood moon and one like the sky itself, milky and blue. The red of his horn glints like a threat in the light.

He is unmoved, as ever
--and unmoving. As still as a spider in waiting.

Waiting,
Waiting,
Waiting.

@Reinhart

[Reinhart]

To hold my tongue except when I try to pray...

He feels the eyes before he sees them. His head turns and searches for watchful faces in the crowd. He scans the faces in the sea he has disappeared into. Reinhart finds them, red. Red-handed. The eyes of a dragon. A banner spills behind the mane, but his nape is decorated with a short, choppy cut. The watcher is bound by a collar, it is a curious thing. More curious than the red eyes that stare at him accusingly. Reinhart shakes his head as if to shake the sand from his disheveled, ashen mane. Reinhart is suddenly very aware of how dry the air is, and how tight the silver choker on his neck is. Two collared men stare each other down in the streets.

It feels like an eternity before he makes up his mind to approach the iron stained man with those blood-red eyes peering outward. He smacks his parched lips together and moves in time with the crowd. Closer. Closer. Closer he draws to the man. His tongue drips mercury and silver stars. Reinhart offers the man a lopsided grin, and the twinkle of his eyes. His magic whispers and flickers. It aches to coil around this man, who Reinhart wants to forget what he saw today. Smooth. His magic flares to soothe the watcher. "Belong to a special sect of guards with that neckpiece of yours? It's well made, fits you well. Almost as if it's tailored to your flesh. What does the average day in Solterra look like?" The rapid words flow from his mouth. The oblivious mage and the man forged from iron. 

"Say, you're the first one I've seen with a neckpiece like that. What sort of get up is that for? A special guild among the guards? It could use a bit more red! The colour suits you. Your whole look screams Solterra. Fit for the desert." The silver tongue praises the stranger. He presses towards the man to ignore the lawlessness that has just taken place. It is no small feat, and it may fail. Perhaps this idea to approach a potential guard in a foreign domain was not his best one.

 

Notes: I love Jask a ton  | Words: 356 | Tags: @Jask

... try to breathe words out, But I’ve got nothing to say

[Jask]

“And I, infinitesimal being,
drunk with the great starry void,
likeness, image of mystery,
felt myself a pure part of the abyss.
I wheeled with the stars.
My heart broke loose on the wind.”

There it is.
Fear.

He sees it often. A zealot is often stacked high with the monsters, stalked by the wide, wet eyes of the apostate and profane. They do not know, of course - that he is full of no more than holy silence and the quiet hymn that he hears in the back of his throat, rising each morning with the sun and slowing to a droning crawl as the sky turns from blue to red to violet to black in succession. He has never understood their fear.

(Fear is a body begging to live. Fear is a soul at war with its consequences.

Fear is the only reaction to the Circle's religion and the only reaction of its congregation to everyone else - someone has called them a snake, rotted from the inside, with many heads. Some have said their god is unjust at the best of times and sadistic at the worst.

Jask would agree, with a voice that drips with admiration. Jask would say "my god is unjust and sadistic" like someone might pray. Jask would ignore his trembling lips and the tears carving ruts in his cheek.)

It comes toward him, fear and charm and a smile that he mimics as best as he can, like a child's drawing of a smile that evokes the thing but is not the thing at all. The choker glints like his horn, like a threat in the hot white light of the desert. When Jask blinks the heat stings his eyes. He is still wrapped in unnatural stillness, only the rise and fall of his ribs to betray his life for what it is--there, if barely.

There is no accusation in his voice, no suspicion. Just a smile that is not a smile and a man that is not a man.

Jask stares at him for a long moment, reading his words even after they have been said. He must look like some alien thing walked out of the void, picking apart syllables in search of some meaning he can't find. "My name is Jask," he says, as if it answers the question, "I don't know. I'm not from here, I'm from far away."

There is still that fear, and stench of it, the words coming out fast. Reinhart's magic touches his skin and he is soothed--which is to say that Jask is unchanging, as still and empty as ever, as calm and as quiet as the day he was blinded. Maybe his smile widens, just a little. Maybe it looks genuine in a way that, on him, looks entirely ingenuine. Maybe, maybe, maybe.

When your life is a trance, what's another on top of it?
"It's to keep me, and everyone else, safe." Jask says, closing his eyes in prayer. "To banish evil."

@Reinhart