[P] you are jealous of tragedies

[Renwick]

❖
Night guide you, lad — past those sorrow fields & sombre marshes — to a kinder end.

D

enocte by night is a sight to behold, a wonder glimmering in the deep dark. Her song the raucous laughter of her denizens, full and freer than birds on raven coloured wing. Through cobblestone streets they dance, and skitter and slink. Maids draped liberally in foreign fabrics glistening under pale moonlight, mercenaries cloaked in weathered leather, nicked and scarred. Vials of strangely glowing potions strapped to their belts, smelling strongly of mint and other more obscure scents.

Speaking in hushed whispers, glancing this way and that, eyes all the colours of the deep earths dearest treasures. A constant source of motion, a world within shadow, one cannot truly comprehend the depth until they drink deep of ink dark waters. So many souls, twinkling in a humble reconstruction of the stars overhead.

Down by the docks, Renwick makes conversation with the sailors and thieves both. Jovial, their faces made less harsh by flames dancing within iron wrought braziers. Down here there is only the smell of brine and salt water, occasionally winds bring them the smell of good ale & other delectables he imagines are imported from far off places — or homebrewed specialities peddled for adequate coin. Only occasionally, though, but it's powerful enough that even a most iron stomach wavers uneasily. Brine and sweet fruits aren't the most mouth watering blend, he's sure they don't go down a treat either.  

Have you seen a woman.

Ah, gold eyes glint with a telltale light. All at once, Renwick's & three other pairs of eyes flick to settle on their newest guest. For a moment silence reigns, until his temporary companions disperse, one last glance spared between the horned stranger and the knight, their hooves clunk and fade heavily on water logged and barnacle covered wood. Until it's just them, illuminated by fire, entertained by waves crashing against wood and stone.

Have you seen a woman, with moonlight in her hair? A visage of smoke across water, touched by shadow at her edges.

Part of him wants to play along, he's in a good mood. Wolf-kind and fullbodied, a shot of absinthe chased by bourbon. Or the good kind of beer the lords only ever call for on the most grandiose of self-proclaiming occasions. This man is a stranger to him, coming from whatever beaten path life has decided to take him on to their humble slice of eden obscura. Looking for a ghost, a figment of a woman in a visage of red. You would have more luck searching for a grave than anything tangible here.

Denoctian's who don't want to be found, never will be. Spectres in the night, wisps on the moors before dawn.

It would be kinder to tell him to kill this little starling in it's nest, wing too broken to mend.

"Alas," He starts, mulling over his words with a precise kind of care. His urge to be cruel in his amusement flickers and finds stability. Campfire instead of a spark. "that seat has long grown cold, I'm sorry lad." Between them silence settles in comforting drapes, Renwick is content with it. Long stretches of silence filled the ramparts of the Brotherhoods ancient and crumbling castle, hewn from mountain rock, blood and sweat. He can go hours without saying a word.

Content until he's not.

He is a man whose as sociable as the sun burns bright, and a man who suddenly remembers that he has a great yawning dislike for silences that do not always have to exist between bodies.

Renwick props a cloven hoof on the very tip of it's midas point, leans a little more toward the brazier's warmth while the sea air nips cruelly at his haunches. Lamenting collections of better yesterdays isn't his usual cup, even if he sips from it often, but it's better than nothing. "Was she special to you?"

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