The Fading Embers (open to Victor, Laszlo, Seven)

[Victor Lark]

That smile he had tried so hard to avoid glared at him like fresh varnish on an ancient wall. He thought to frown at the failure, but as he dropped his mug so did he meet those hard, happy eyes. Victor’s mouth returned the gesture as his drink-infused mind searched the table for another game. It had never been one of falling clothes and selfish truths; the stories were the ebb of shallow waters, the bare flesh a welcome distraction. To continue the real game, the game of faces and masks and exposures, he would have to do more than berate and challenge their guest. That truth was something he had learned long ago, as often as he forgot it.

The wavering candle light and the crackling hearth did little to soothe the gooseprickles that rose on Victor’s back, and he wondered if it could possibly mean anything but a draft. His colleagues’ words wandered to his ears as he caught himself staring, but he did not bother to remedy the faux pas.

“Ravok,” Victor answered, without taking his eyes from Ulric. There was no pride in the association, and yet he smiled. “He’s a Ravokian, is all. When you’re born up there, those are the stories you have to tell.” There was living in Peace under rule of Chaos, caught between the stone of religion and the flailing fist of treachery. There was no friend to trust, or to love; sanity and loyalty were weaknesses few could afford, while they pretended they did. But how could he say that to someone who had never seen it?

His heavy head turned to Ned’s chair, curling his toes around a foot he could only assume was Seven’s. “No doubt he worships Ionu first, and the rest of the gods second. Anyone else is a blasphemer.” The ale in his blood recalled obligatory prayers and altars, loud supplications and hushed duplicities, with little reverence. “He might give a shyke about Rhysol and sky goddesses, but probably not two. We call on who we need, when it suits. And the gods will ignore him, until they decide he’s worth something. At some point he’ll find himself lucky, and he’ll be appeased by their existence.” It did not matter who this man really was, not yet. One day he would learn, but for now the assumptions were the strategy.

He grinned at Laszlo, his nude shoulders. “Everyone wins.”

[Ulric]

Hefted, the mug just hung there like a rock. 

Ulric’s eyes prised over the surface, his lips jerking at every imperfection. The rim was chipped. There were scrapes and dents. The ruddy glow of the fading embers limned it with pocks, and tiny, flinty flecks. There was a sermon in there somewhere, he thought. That’d have to wait, for he didn’t care to delve any further. That’s the end of that, he grunted, subjugating his disgust so he might drain the dregs. They went down badly, and he nearly gagged.

There was a fuzzy feeling at the back of his head.

Dragging the back of a hand over his lips, Ulric quashed a grimace, forcing a mocking grin. “There’s to blasphemy, violence, and liquor,” he gave a rough laugh. Then skewed his jaw, regarding the nub of melted wax before him. That’d turned out nicely, in an undulating tundra that you could always resurrect if you’d only the will, a length of wick, and the proper mold. “Ah, and then there’s whores,” he uttered, as if grudging their incidence on any list of vices. “The girls that don’t talk back, at least. They all cease in the end. That’s mostly because of the teeth. They get cuffed around frequently enough, lose too many yellow beauties, the men won’t lust after them any longer. That, and their tits begin to droop like bags of sand, then their peaches go rotten. Then what d’they do?” Ulric jerked his chin at each of them in turn. Seven, in his scrounged aggravation of fabric and garnet shivers. Laszlo, with his gleaming amethysts and boozy display of audacity. Victor, face chiseled of falsity and fanciful cunning. “Think on it, boys. Think long and hard, why don’t you. That’s when you realize, there’s nothing quite as dismal as an aging whore.”

Abruptly, he cracked his knuckles, making the chair scrape out from under his rising posterior. There was a furl of fingers, clasping at adjacent folds of leather, and a jingle of coins. They sluiced over the timbers, leaping smears, cracks, and specks of wax. “That’s just what you think,” he intoned with a scowl, looking at the lark. “There’s only losers, y’see. They’ve already scrawled your fate, so it’s back to the muck for you, and shyke if you’ve got anything to utter that’d make a whit of difference. Maybe this night, maybe twenty years from now, but the crows’ll pluck out your gimlets and flay what’s left of your decaying skin, and then beetles’ll crawl through the holes in your skull. That’s fine, though. That’s just how it goes, but you’ve got to figure, a man only lives on through his name.” Harshly, he tugged his maul from the table and slung it back into its loop of leather. “Though they forget even then.”

Grimly, he jostled back his spiky mane, and a loud, raspy chuckle erupted from the depths of his chest. And faintly, beyond the plaster and high, banded beams, a flock of tawdry crows plunged in a discord of shrieks.

Just waiting.

[Fallacy]

XP Award! Name:Laszlo XP Award: Rhetoric- 3 Hypnotism- 2 Interrogation- 2 Storytelling- 1 Lore: Insulting Another Ulric: An Oaf Stupid Games Confession Notes: Name:Victor Lark XP Award: Rhetoric- 3 Interrogation- 1 Drinking- 1 Storytelling- 1 Lore: Insulting Another Suggesting Drinking Games Confession Everyone Wins Notes: Name:Seven XU XP Award: Rhetoric- 3 Interrogation- 1 Drinking- 1 Lore: Insulting Another Ulric: Just a Fisherman What sort of Game? Confession Hating the Game Notes: Did not grade Ulric's posts, seeing as he is no longer around Any questions or concerns about the rewards gained please send a PM