Cut Off the Blood Flow

[Laszlo]

Holding onto his glass with both clawed hands, Laszlo looked up at Duvalyon with a chagrined expression, as if caught in a lie. Hesitantly, he took the Symenestra's offer, stepping over and setting his tall, willowy frame into the other cushioned seat nearby. This didn't seem to immediately relax him, as he passed the next moment pensively staring into the clear liquid in his glass. It had surprised Laszlo when Duvalyon requested he bring two glasses instead of just one. This was a night of staggering firsts for the usually aloof and reticent Symenestra: some transparency, a request, a genuine show of gratitude, and now they would drink together? Laszlo would gladly oblige him, but he needed a moment to process the rare state Duvalyon was in, just to be sure that he wasn't reading the man incorrectly. When there was no immediate scolding or lectures, the Ethaefal felt secure enough to answer. "Don't get yourself killed, Duvalyon." Laszlo downed his drink and paused to weather the burn in his throat, while its spicy scent rapidly filled his nostrils. Afterward, his entire posture seemed to relax. It had been months since he'd had a drink, when a season ago he'd been accustomed to several glasses of ale every night. The liquor was happily received in his gut, and a wash of relief began to quickly set in. It felt like using Hypnotism after a long dry spell, only slightly less toxic. "I know I'm in danger of sounding like your mother, but just please don't. We'd be lost without you, and besides, Dor would find me and likely peck my eyes out. That wouldn't be a good look for me, Duvalyon." He turned the glass in his lap between his fingertips, his long nails clinking gently against the side. The claws didn't look sinister to him, tonight. During Laszlo's time as a bartender, they had been an invaluable utility, both strong and versatile. These pale hands had been his allies, making life that much easier for him. Occasionally, the Ethaefal looked down and saw the catching claws of a monster. Other times, the Symenestra would look down and just see hands. "If you're in this much pain, perhaps you should stay in tomorrow instead of going to the Pavilion, and let yourself heal." Laszlo glanced up again finally, searching for whatever rebellious resolve might form in the corners of Duvalyon's features—the only place a facial expression would manifest. "I have to make a stop at the Shinyama tomorrow anyway for Sakana. I can run a message to them." A transparent lie, though the offer was undoubtedly genuine. Laszlo narrowed his eyes then, for the first time appearing slightly critical. There was a warm edge to it, but one could tell his confusion was attached to a string of quelled emotions. "Why in the name of the Gods were you outside the city, anyway? Seriously. That sounds like something only I'd be foolish enough to do." Nauseating concern welled within his chest. Duvalyon was alright, wasn't he? The man looked positively beaten down. What if the Symenestra was only putting on a brave front, and would be dead by tomorrow? It would explain his relative candidness, if these were his last moments alive.

[Duvalyon Hellebore]

"I'll try to spare you the inconvenience of my death," the Symenestra answered. "And don't worry about Dor," he smirked with a dose of rue, "Happily, it will slip from her feathered head the moment she gets bonded." Duvalyon resumed his seat in the desk's chair, having a feeling Laszlo's concerns might take a while. He moved almost like a human, but the pace looked strange on him. The bruising on his face was beginning to settle into particular shades and shapes, detracting from his typical air of self-possession. When Laszlo suggested Duvalyon avoid work, the Symenestra bristled and leaned forward in his chair, a physical reaction he immediately regretted. He let his body settle and relax before addressing the offer. "Amusing, Laszlo. I would have taken you for a better liar." Shaking his head, the medic affirmed his obvious unwillingness to shirk work and duty. "If I am here tomorrow I will be forced to believe you hypnotized me into compliance." His voice descended into a growl that better matched men twice his age, and he looked away. "I can't stand being idle." Laszlo's last questions brought his face back to center, but only for a moment. "I told you," he intoned cryptically, "I can't stand being idle." He wasn't going to relinquish that errant reasoning that lured him out of the city. It hadn't been very far, just enough to range in perceived solitude. A lesson learned. Maybe. "I inherited it from my father," he confessed, trying to entice Laszlo from the previous line of questions. "And my grandmother claims his father was the same." A low fragment of a laugh escaped him, one hand went to clutch his side unconsciously. "She also said she knew you. Or the other--you--thing-- Vethis." Duvalyon was struggling with the concept himself, and flatness of his voice said he wasn't particularly pleased with what he did understand. "Which I find horrifying. Even moreso since she said you were a teacher."

[Laszlo]

Leaning back in his chair, Laszlo continued to fumble with the glass in his lap, pushing the pad of his thumb over some crusted stain on the outside that hadn't been properly washed off. It could have either been dried fruit juice or traces of one of the Symenestra's 'meals'. "Hypnotize you?" Duvalyon's mind was much too stubborn and observant. Pushing thoughts into his head would be a challenge, without a doubt, like trying to hammer in a nail with the flat of his palm. Even Laszlo knew his limits. "Gods, I think it'd be easier just to use rope. I'd probably end up choking on blood if I tried either. By all means, do as you will. I won't stop you from limping to work." Again, out of nowhere, Duvalyon began talking about his family, his father and grandmother this time. It was never for very long, and before Laszlo could get a word in, the subject shifted onto something much less personal (for him anyway). Even when living in Kalinor, Duvalyon had never mentioned much about his family and Laszlo knew virtually nothing about them, but for the barest details about his father and sister (one was the head physician at the Purging and the other wasn't completely insufferable). They must have been on his mind more often lately, now that he was far away from his home. Laszlo felt privileged whenever Duvalyon chose to share these small snippets of his personal life with him, even if it was likely more because he was the closest thing to an actual Symenestra within the medic's immediate vicinity. He would never say as much, of course. There was a visible reaction to the name Vethis, seen as a tremor in Laszlo's features. That name had a bitter flavor to it now, reminding him of the lies and facades in Alvadas, and the uneasy acceptance within the Orthilia Web in Kalinor, which by now had been revoked. He had childishly clung onto that name two years ago, his former life, until he'd squeezed every last drop of meaning out of it, then tossed it away. Like most periods in Laszlo's short life, it was something he'd rather forget. So few Ethaefal ever got to learn about their previous lives. It was unfortunate that Laszlo had only come to regret knowing anything about his. "Strange, isn't it?" Laszlo agreed, after a lengthy hesitation. Whatever emotions Duvalyon had stirred by bringing up his former identity appeared to have been batted away. "That I was actually a real person, once. At least, then, I was ruining lives on purpose." It was unclear, but he was probably referring to Vethis' surrogates and perhaps their families. "Nassanye said…" Laszlo paused, remembering that Nassanye had died days after he'd left Kalinor for the first time. She had been an old woman to him, in this life, but he knew that half a century ago she had meant so much more to him. He had never been able to see it. "Nassanye said I wasn't a very good one—a teacher, I mean. Self-absorbed and terrible at communicating, if that makes you feel better. Really, it makes sense if you think about it. They say you learn more from mistakes than successes, and I seem to excel at the former. Imagine the things you could learn about, watching me. "Gravity, for instance." It hadn't escaped Laszlo's notice that Duvalyon had dodged his earlier question, refusing to reveal what business he had outside the city. Although the Ethaefal was not suspicious of his motives, by any means, he inwardly noted Duvalyon's hesitance. He wouldn't ask him about it again, not at this very moment, but he might press the Symenestra again if the opportunity presented itself. "I don't… I don't really consider that person as being me." Laszlo could still remember reading Vethis' writings at the Cribellum. It was surreal, reading accounts he had absolutely no memory of, but hearing his own voice in its wording. It made him feel more amnesiac than reincarnated. "There's more to a life lived than the core of a man's soul." Vethis' legacy, the Orthilia Web, were not altogether very impressed by the Ethaefal. As Duvalyon moved to hold his side, Laszlo's eyes flicked warily over to him—perhaps even bringing the Symenestra's attention to his unconscious motion. The Ethaefal spent another moment watching the injured Duvalyon in the spread of heavy silence, not unlike the way he oftimes regarded Abalia and her swelling womb. Though Laszlo continued on talking of other innocuous things, his thoughts hadn't left the Symenestra's wounds. "You were talking about me to your grandmother?" Interesting that Laszlo had direct dealings with the Hellebores in a previous life. "Goddess, we aren't related, are we? Just think if you were my nephew."

[Duvalyon Hellebore]

"You came up." A bland description of the conversation. "Kalinor is a small city," his only elaboration before Laszlo continued. "Nephew," Duvalyon said dully. "How droll." Laszlo's Symenos was good, but he would be inclined to wonder if "droll" wasn't quite the word the Symenestra intended. "No. We're not related." And even if they were, Duvalyon would have lied about it. A hierarchy of blood and customary respect would have distorted the dynamic between them. "And I don't think of you as Vethis, either," there was a sardonic twist to his previously humorless mouth, "Not ever." He shifted in his seat. It felt like a Tsana had closed its long snout around his chest, a distinctly unpleasant feeling. Duvalyon focused on his quiet breathing, a distraction from the sensation. "Your evening aspect is a momentary costume to me. I prefer the horns," he admitted. While Duvalyon was devoted to his race and its capabilities, Laszlo's Symenestra shape did not resonate with him. It was a foundational element of why the medic was loyal to the Ethaefal, and an effective catalyst for his initial willingness to be hospitable, but further acquaintance pulled Duvalyon's focus from the gray disguise. The concept of "Laszlo" was wholly rooted in the creature that Syna sculpted and the fall corrupted. Everything else was an adequate farce. "Do you ever find disparity of thought or inclination between the two shapes?" Gods be merciful, was Duvalyon actually curious about something Laszlo had knowledge of? It had always been obvious that Symenestra was a student of sorts. Laszlo had commonly caught him reading, or fascinated by disconcerting items he would bring home from the Purging in various states. His conversation had an analytical flavor, but rarely stayed on pedantic topics, as if he assumed they had no charm for any but himself. The silence on the subject might have been an initial courtesy. Ethaefal were strangers to both time, body and custom; they did not need reminders of their isolation in the baffled questions of others.

[Laszlo]

The question was unexpected, but by now was just one surprise of many, so Laszlo didn't flinch at this one. It still was in Duvalyon's character, at least, to keep the conversation off of himself. Normally, the Ethaefal had the same aversion, but tonight could be an exception for his friend's sake. The poor man was in pain, and though the degtine had gifted them both with a mild watery feeling, it could only do so much. Distraction was the only other anesthetic around, for the moment. Knowing that his Symenestra seeming was a 'costume' to Duvalyon was a little disparaging, but it was the harsh truth. The distance between Laszlo and his irrevocable connection to that race was seemingly permanent—a quiet sense of longing that could never be fulfilled. He had been one of them once, and it was alarming to think that a Symenestra could actually lose his ties to his own race. Vethis had never seen this coming. It was more than a mask. This body was genuine flesh and bone, and if Duvalyon cut him, Laszlo would bleed Symenestra blood. Yet Laszlo had to remind himself that before a Symenestra, he was Ethaefal. Lately it became easier to forget that he was truly a son of Syna, and that he didn't belong here. Race shouldn't have mattered. Only after a quiet moment of thought did Laszlo finally answer, speaking to his feet. "I'm not sure. It's frightening to think that my shape can have any power over my mind or identity. As if I'm a puppet." Hyacinth eyes slid upward, looking past Duvalyon at the wall that separated their rooms. He could approximate where Abalia was sleeping. "I notice that there are certain things I'm more prone to, depending on which face I'm wearing. Patience, in the daytime. Passions, at night." That was evidenced by their previous encounters. Outbursts from Laszlo during the daytime were actually quite rare, but at night he could more frequently become idealistic and eager to make a fool of himself. There was also the question that had been sitting with Laszlo for a while—the act that killed Abalia. Would he have succumbed to his desires if he were in his matutinal state? "I don't know whether it has to do with whoever Vethis was, if I'm closer those memories, or if I just feel more mortal. As if there are things I need to do before I grow old and die." Alvadas pushed to the front of his thoughts, and again he thought of Seven and Victor and the life he'd had with them. Everything was so different now. They felt like childhood friends. But what about Roxanne and Siofra? Both of their deaths had occurred in the evening, and Laszlo had watched them transform from women into corpses. Yet even as he sat here now, one of a pair of Symenestra in a room, it had felt like those deaths were someone else's memories. He wasn't the same person, anymore. "Alvadas loved it, I think. The dichotomy, if there truly is one. The city itself must have thought, ah, here is an Ethaefal. A boring bit of perfection in the day, but at night—what's this? A Symenestra? How delightfully corruptible." A short laugh rolled out of him; he'd amused himself. 'Perfection' might have been pushing it, just a tad. Any perfection that existed in him was left behind when he fell. The weight of his existence had tainted him from the first day he breathed. Duvalyon might have thought him a little mad, talking about Alvadas as if the city were a living thing. Laszlo knew that it was, though (he wasn't conceited enough to assume that he had ever drawn Ionu's personal attention). If Duvalyon had ever been there for an extended amount of time, then he undoubtedly understood. "Everything terrible happened at night." Laszlo turned his empty glass in his hand ruefully. "I miss the ale, though. It never ran out."

[Duvalyon Hellebore]

"Perhaps it is easier for you to be corrupted because in evening you can entertain the thought your goddess divine has looked away." Duvalyon seemed indifferent towards the idea, even though he expressed it. Laszlo's brand of morality raised obvious concern only when it turned self-destructive. While uncomfortable to endure, Dvalyon's disapproval hinted at tones of goodwill, triggering when a protective older sibling's would. Part of the Symenestra's ire was rooted in a belief the Ethaefal had a greater capacity to be upright. Their souls had been exalted because they were thought worthy of the gods of light, so some righteous quality must have been cultivated in them. To sink as low as other mortals was to abandon a birthright eons in the making. "Even humans prefer darkness for transgressions, as if it will hide them. An idea I understand but cannot feel." He shrugged, "It is all the same to me. Evening has no moral taint, only a logistical advantage." They both had the freedom of superior sight, but Laszlo knew what it was to move in the dark, the dizzying feeling of the unknown pressing close. Duvalyon could only speak of shadows that had different colors and depths. The Symenestra's body was beginning to settle in with the pain; the initial shocks of a broken bone wearing off. A string of swears passed neatly through his head. He pressed his lips together slightly. "Alvadas sounds like a drunken adolescence." Speaking of drunken, Duvalyon helped himself to the flask's remainders. There was only a gurgle or two left for his glass. He sipped it, letting the liquor fill the cuts on his lips and in his mouth with cold fire. The more pain he felt, the greater his hatred for his attackers. He knew they had reason to detest his kind, but that was no salve to his mounting loathing. Even Duvalyon could indulge irrational responses. It would prove a useful emotion to revisit when faced with his next harvest. If he believed in the simplicity and brutality of humans, the process would be easier. His father equated surrogates and their ilk with cattle and lived quite happily. Duvalyon had not reached that level of indifference, knowing full well they were rational and occasionally enjoyable creatures. The younger Symenestra chose to harvest not out of his hatred for other races, but out of love for his own. Whether the elder or younger Hellebore was more dangerous remained to be seen. "How did she appear in the midst of this?" Names were unnecessary. "She" was always Abalia.

[Laszlo]

The morning and evening both held an irrevocable spiritual meaning for the Synaborn Ethaefal, who in fact worshipped the sun. There was more to daylight for Laszlo than simple illumination, and in the absence of it, he found himself longing for sunrise again. Duvalyon may have been right, but Laszlo didn't like that idea. Then again, even the centuries old Sakana had a distaste for his evening form. A mirthless laugh came as a response to Duvalyon's observation about Alvadas. Laszlo would have been interested to see how the medic would cope in a place like that, if Lhavit was this hard for him. Duvalyon's question hung in the air, and as Laszlo realized how complicated the answer was, he winced. It would be impossible to explain Abalia's involvement without giving details about Victor and Seven's murder of a Kelvic, which Laszlo had reluctantly condoned until his allegiance went to the girl over his friends. Another thing for Duvalyon to disapprove of. The Symenestra had a strange approach to the concept of slaying another sentient being. To kill another Symenestra was unthinkable, and to kill a passing visitor to the city was deplorable. Surrogates, however, were barely people at all. They were used and tossed out like refuse. She was only an animal. Laszlo could still remember the sound of Seven's voice. Many other Symenestra might even agree. "Abalia didn't deserve any of this." The glass grew too warm in Laszlo's hands, so he leaned over and set on the floor near his chair. He would collect the glasses and his flask again whenever he left the room. He settled back in his chair again, staring at the far side of the apartment through Duvalyon's open door. The sitting room beyond was so empty and unused. There was some unattainable memory active in the back of his mind that wanted to see someone's shadow moving across the wall. "The short version of the story is that her Kelvic died, and she was lonely. I pitied her, and she had a strange fixation on Symenestra. I had to explain to her what an Ethaefal was." Laszlo wished terribly that there was more degtine. "But that makes it sound like I did nothing wrong but love her. The truth is that it's a miracle she finds the restraint to keep from killing me in my sleep." He wondered what sort of taverns or pubs might exist in Lhavit. Had he seen any? "Her Kelvic was viciously murdered by a pair of sadists. Men I thought to call my friends, at one point. The co-owners of my tavern lured the Kelvic, Roxanne, into their room and…" The Ethaefal swallowed, realizing that his brow had furrowed and his violet eyes were glaring. He shook his head and tried to relax his features. "I heard her screaming from downstairs. The door was locked. I compelled Victor to open it. They were killing her. You wouldn't think one person could hold all that blood inside them. Well, no, what am I thinking? Perhaps you would." Laszlo realized that sounded more abrasive than he intended. "I don't mean… well, you're a doctor. You see things. "I digress. "Her death was legally sanctioned by Alvadas laws. She lost a bet, so her killers were immune to any consequences. Two days later, Abalia comes into my bar and asks after her friend. I lied and said I knew nothing. What else could I do? Regardless of what I told her, she wouldn't get her friend back. And I wasn't cruel enough to be honest." Amethyst eyes slid toward the wall, in Abalia's direction. "She wouldn't leave me alone after that, and not for my lack of trying to push her away from me and the tavern. Abalia had a special affection for Symenestra, because of a past lover." Snapping from his story, Laszlo briefly returned to the present and crossed eyes with Duvalyon's burgundy gaze. "Another tried to take her for a Harvest, but couldn't convince her to leave Alvadas. He broke her heart when he spared her." Wherever he was, Laszlo wondered if he would find the present situation quaintly interesting. He sighed. "The rest is history, really. She wore me down, the truth came out, found out I lied to her. She said she hated me. I'm still not sure if she really trusts me. Probably shouldn't. Somehow she forgives me for everything. So there you have it. Since Roxanne died, she's kept the company of only murderers and liars. "She's a saint. I want to save her life, Duvalyon. It's wrong for her to die this way."

[Duvalyon Hellebore]

"It is always easier to ruin someone that loves you. No fulcrum is stronger." Duvalyon was thinking of faces turned upward in that terribly trusting way. They never looked so easy to exploit as in those bare moments. Like their flesh and breast bones were water he could pass his claws through without effort. Talons could tear heartstrings before she recalled the need to breathe. Being loved was a power more profound than being feared, this he knew. He shrugged at his own reactions, suddenly cruel with indifference. The world's inequality was a song he had heard a hundred times before. Wishing and wringing of hands would not alter Abalia's unkind sentence. "She is good in many ways." Most meaningful to Duvalyon was her obvious love for the unborn child. He had only seen an Azo mother once before who did not possess vitriol for the baby within her. They had handled her with a rare sort of reverence. His people would have called Abalia blessed if they heard her endearments for her executioners. "I will do all I can, but that may be precious little." He had spoken the next admonishment before, airing it to families stooped with ongoing grief. "Prepare yourself, if such a thing is possible." Duvalyon had scarce appetite for company to begin with, and it had now spent itself. Laszlo had split himself open on the table and Duvalyon could see maladies and tumors only hinted at before. They were beyond his capability to fix. He could only make wide cuts and crude stitches let the body spare what it would.

[Laszlo]

Prepare yourself. Laszlo swallowed quietly, his mouth tasting suddenly like bile as the flavor of the alcohol had dissipated. The cathartic purging of recent memories—which he realized he'd shared with no one else since leaving Alvadas—had brought carefully repressed emotions close to the surface, and now Duvalyon had dealt him a hidden, and perhaps unintentional blow with "prepare yourself". Harmless words of advice, to anyone else, but to Laszlo they resonated with a much more powerful implication. In all likelihood, the child would be Symenestra, and Abalia would die. Whether or not he was truly in love with the human or felt indebted and obligated to protect her was an enigma he didn't much care to consider. The grief he would feel over her death itself, over being alone again after all this time spent barely leaving her side, would leave him with an emptiness that compared to his fall. But it was knowing that he was her murderer that caused him the most pain. She forgave him for it too, it seemed, and that almost made it worse. The only thing that could possibly prevent her death, and Laszlo's sin, was Duvalyon's expertise and care. Not for the first time, Laszlo wondered if choosing him for help had been the best route. He was not the most skilled or most practiced doctor at the Place of Purging. His penchant for taking in strays and placing honor before convenience made him more available than any of the others. Getting someone else to help, however, would have probably been impossible. They could have tried kidnapping and threatening someone into helping. Probably wouldn't have gone this smoothly. For a long moment, Laszlo said nothing. He was caught in a maelstrom of his own thoughts and fears, crushed by the growing weight of his own self-loathing. He was an Ethaefal. He was supposed to be Syna's divine chosen. After everything he'd done—just in his first years of living!—how could he have ever proven himself to Her? He wished he could remember. "Yeah," he said finally, still mulling over his empty class. The brevity of his response felt inadequate against the span of silence it had broken. The false Symenestra rose out of his chair. Two strides brought him nearer to Duvalyon, and his clawed hands gracefully lifted both the flask and the doctor's own glass. "I'm going to go see how she's doing," he said as he balanced the items in one arm. He managed it surprisingly well without breaking anything or killing anyone. "Thanks for drinking my liquor. It's a relief to know you're a being that actually eats and bleeds." Sometimes he wondered if Duvalyon was spite incarnate. The Ethaefal left the room, bringing the glasses and flask to a wash basin across the flat. Glass clinked against metal amid shifting water. Taking advantage of Duvalyon's open door, before the injured Symenestra could painstakingly move himself to close it, Laszlo sent a wish for his friend to sleep well, not that he could on broken ribs. "And I'll check on you in the morning, just to be sure you didn't bleed to death internally overnight. Please don't, though. You'd be difficult to replace." A pause. "I doubt there are any other Symenestra doctors in Lhavit."

[Quasar]

Laszlo: Skills Awarded Skill XP Observation 2 Storytelling 2 Interrogation 1 Lores Awarded Duvalyon Has Feelings Too The Wondrous Taste And Effects of Degtine Accepting Harsh Truths Duvalyon: Skills Awarded Skill XP Medicine 3 Observation 1 Rhetoric 1 Lores Awarded Taking A Racist Beating Alvadas Events Between Laszlo and Abalia The wondrous Taste And Fffects of Degtine Additional Notes: Very good character development, I can see their friendship is growing, even though the circumstances are grim. Laszlo gets observation for noticing Duvalyon's change in composure, Storytelling for explaining what happened in Alvadas, and Interrogation for managing to get some answers from someone as tight-lipped as Duvalyon . Duvalyon gets medicine for treating his own wounds, observation for seeing the difference between a true Symenestra and the Ethaefel Laszlo, Rhetoric for cleverly steering the conversation away from topics he didn't want to discuss . If there are any questions or concerns regarding the grading, feel free to PM me and we can work things out.