[Perhaps, she was not as wise as she once thought.
Every time Marianna walks through the door, the witch, her employer, stops her for a bit, clasping her hands in her own, worry lines decorating her forehead. She never forced Monts to stay, never berated her for her choices. But she did ask her to come back. Come back safely, come back in one piece, come back as Monts. Her trips were becoming longer and whenever she returned, she found it took time to return to being the girl who lived in the sun, loved her grandparents, joked with the customers at the cafe, and found pleasure in the sights, scents, and sounds of the simpler things in life.
Lately, she's trying something new. She understands her humanity so thoroughly already and there are facets she hasn't uncovered yet, but it hasn't been enough to contend with her inherent inhumanity that would never leave her, much to her human despair. It was a long time in the making, but she finally has found an outlet; it was not an immediate thing. There was mostly casual and friendly curiosity and then an opportunity for more... More what though?
Well, right now, Monts is just Monts. She's covered in a dark cloak over her period-appropriate dress as she walks along the leaf-covered path with her strange companion. The lanterns that dot the road are sparse and shine with a dull light, but it is enough to be able to make out a large mansion in the distance. She points at it, looking at her friend. ]
What do you think it'll be this time? Skeletons or ghosts? Or both? I'm thinking both.
[She puts down her hand, humming with anticipation. Monts has her usual candor around the Hunter, never showing fear towards the darkness that they encountered during their "casual" strolls with each other. ]
Or ghosts that are shaped like skeletons?? Ok, I'm getting too specific here.
[Perhaps Vincent had lost his humanity an age ago, gone in the Hunter’s dream — no, given up, handed away like an offering. The day that all changed within and without him, the day where he had been reborn as something new. Young, powerful; ancient, frail.
And perhaps he is only a shell of a human, now, like wearing a facade of his old form the way a businessman dons a new suit. And he is fine with that, he knows that nothing is the same as it once was, and that is how it should be.
But there are moments when he believes that his old humanity still lingers—like a stain, or like a pinprick of light in the night?—when he walks down ill-lit paths and humors strange conversations with a young woman with whom he isn’t sure how to categorize. Like him, yes, but not. A friend? Well. Certainly it is the human part of him that thinks such a thing is possible.
Even so, he is all politeness and straight-backed posture as he moves astride her. His grin is a glint of white in the moonlight.]
Your imagination fails you, Miss Monts. Who is to say that great mansion looming before us is not the monster itself? Come to swallow is up as we willingly walk into its maw.
[He hums, amused. Adjusts the weapon neatly slung at his hip — Simon’s Bowblade, a relic from that old life abandoned. He, too, a friend? Once, perhaps.]
Pfft. You know what? That sounds more likely than all three of my guesses combined. Point to you, Vincent.
[At some point, they had become friends; Monts is certain enough to solidify it as fact. When they had first made contact at the Grind, there was vague unease for neither knew what to make of the other. Now it is a friendly co-existence, with whatever humanity is in them as a buffer.
Monts walks up to the large iron gates that are already open ajar. She pushes it gently, boldly walking up to the front door.]
Well, we'll never know until we go inside. I don't know about you, but I'd like to take a break from our walk even if it involves napping in the belly of a beast.
[Before knocking on the door though, she turns to the Hunter, smiling serenely.]
And even if the whole thing screams of danger... You won't let anything happen to me, right?
[Interesting, he thinks, that the gates are already open and ajar, as though they had expected the company of two visitors prowling in the night. It would not be the first time Vincent’s slipped past cold, iron bars, venturing into territory unknown, but it will be the first time with the warmth of company at his side, a sort of assurance of camaraderie no matter what curiosities they find within.
Most curiosities to him, these days, are banal and barely worthy of mention. Human things, mortal worries — all of it seems so distant, and almost humorous that they had once been so pressing. But there is something mysterious about this place, that calls to him the same way the Great Ones call from the stars or the sea, the voice of beckoning. He finds his curiosity heavier than usual; he wonders if Monts feels the same.
Still, the grin doesn’t disappear, just a slender thing on his lips, crescent as a gentle scythe.]
Of course not. My blade and my bow—and my blood—as always, is yours. I should not think to put you in danger, though—
[He tilts his head up, takes in the facade of the mansion.]
I wonder just what resides in a place like this. It feels lonely to me.
[She beams at his assurances of her safety. Maybe she didn't even need to ask. He has yet to fail her on that front.]
As always, you are quite the gentleman. I'll continue to be in your hands then.
[With that shameless assertion aside, she turns away and knocks on the door three times. She takes a step back replying to Vincent's observation.]
A lonely feeling... It is a mansion in the middle of nowhere. Kind of a pity for whoever lives here really.
[There is a minute pause before it creaks open and they are met with an elderly gentleman dressed in a suit, a manservant possibly. He eyes the strangers before him warily, but is not so unwelcome that he doesn't greet them.]
"Travelers? It is rather late... But hello to both of you regardless. Is there something you need?"
[Monts interjects smoothly, with natural ease and charm.]
Yes, my friend and I would like a room to stay in tonight if it's not too much trouble.
[Yes "a" room.]
If this is a problem for you or the master of the mansion, we're more than willing to go on our way...
[The manservant shakes his head hurriedly as if afraid to offend.]
"Oh, no, no. The mistress and her family are quite hospitable. Please, do come in..."
[He steps back sinking into the darkness within that is barely penetrated by the low lights of gas lanterns and candles. There is a decorated hallway and furnishings, but it feels hollow.
[Vincent clasps his hands behind his back, shoulders straight and proper but wonderment still marring his brow. He’s quiet as the exchange takes place—always one to let Monts take the reins, as she’s more than eager to do—though that same brow pinches more when success basically falls into her lap.
His nods his head in amicability, though the manservant seems gone as quickly as he arrived, like slipping into shadow. Stepping in, he gives her a questionable sort of look, expecting her to follow.]
Only one room? Miss Monts, you will give our hosts a very strange impression of the reasoning why we should seek solitary respite from the outside world.
[In other words: scanadlous. But honestly, Vincent is used to it now, and he cares less than when he was fully human. Besides, there are stranger things afoot. He peers into the deep corners of the mansion, wondering if they shall be greeted by the masters of the home. A lady and her family. No lord?]
But more curious, still… that they should open their doors so willingly to traveling strangers in the deep midst of night. Yes, quite strange. Do you not think we are stepping right into trouble?
[Or maybe it’s the whole point of why they’re here. Monts whims are gravitating things, and Vincent finds himself prone to humor them. Maybe that’s a problem, though he hardly thinks so.]
Oh, I don't know. He didn't even blink an eye when I asked so I think we're in the clear.
[Monts steps inside hardly looking bothered by her "scandalous" request and she's aware that he isn't opposed to it either. She idly replies to Vincent as she looks at the lavishly patterned rugs and vases that sit in obscure corners.]
I'd be silly if I tried to say it wasn't at all suspicious. Although... To his credit, I don't think the servant is trying to pull a fast one on us.
[As if on cue, the manservant returns, holding a lamp by its handle, gesturing for the guests to follow him.]
"I have informed the mistress of your presence. She is... Not well enough to welcome you herself, but she means no offense, truly."
No offense taken.
"Then please, allow me to take you to your room."
[The manservant is polite, but there seems to be a hurried flourish to his movements and his eyes dart back and forth as if expecting to be taken by surprise.]
"Let us be quick. But move silently as well."
[And before Monts can speak up, he starts to walk in one direction, upstairs, his lamplight becoming a yellow dot in the darkness.]
... It looks like he's more concerned than we are for ourselves.
[He gestures for Monts to follow, to trail behind the light that the manservant carries as he descends up the stairs. Vincent moves in long strides afterwards, eyes glancing at the corners of the foyer once they near the top, another habit not quashed from him just yet — the awareness of a Hunter to be leery, though in this case it is bolstered more by intrigue.
Once he’s in earshot, he finds himself asking lowly:]
The mistress of the house is ill?
[Naturally, this would pique his interest. Yharnam was a place of wretched sickness born of defiled blood; before that, when he was still mortal, a time that feels so far that it might be a dream, he had been deathly ill, brought to that terrible city by way of necessity.]
[The manservant pauses biting his lower lip before taking out a handkerchief to wipe at his brow.]
"The mistress and her children... Ah, it is not my place to say and as long as you stay behind closed doors..."
[Monts looks at him carefully before gently urging him.]
You don't have to say too much. Just enough so we're aware. No judgment on our part.
[He's silent as he leads them further down the hallway.]
"The lady and her children are afflicted with... Well, we always called them 'spells.' You see, by and large, they are a perfectly dignified noble family. But these spells... Their flesh... They bloom..."
[He shudders, not wanting to think any more of it. Monts feels the back of her neck tingle, her skin crawling with anticipation.]
"Her children, they will bloom and leave the house. The villagers all keep their doors locked until sundown so I am letting you both stay against my better judgment, but the mistress, she... She will stay. She will wander. We need to hurry."
[And with that, he gestures over to the companions, opening a door with an old key. There is an unused but clean guest room that has its own bathroom, stylish furniture, and a single large bed.]
Vincent thinks of lumenflowers blooming, reaching for the cosmos. He thinks of the minds of those afflicted with knowledge, whose skulls would soften and unfurl like flower petals, or swell like a cloud of fungus. To bloom, for Vincent, is not a word of mystery — he had learned it meant transformation, an awakening, and now it is inherently known in his bones. In his self that had been reborn, held gently in the hands of the Doll, to bloom and blossom one day further.]
And I suspect we are requested to sequester in our room, then, for the sake of remaining well away from the lady of the house?
[He waits for Monts to enter first before following, perhaps more unfazed by this new information than he should be. But he has certainly encountered worse, and to feel threatened by this unknown individual, afflicted by an unknown spell, would be like a wolf feeling threatened by another wolf stalking the halls.]
[The man nods as he steps aside for Monts to enter first. She walks in, pulling the hood of her cloak back, studying the room.]
"Just for tonight good sir. This spell should not last long, but they are known to wander for days on end. If it comes to that, by the second day I will leave you a message and you must find your way back on your own instead."
[Monts glances at Vincent looking tense. He wasn't entirely wrong about his guess then; they were in a sense in the maw of some beast, albeit one that walks around as some creature this man didn't have the courage to describe.
What was sadder, Monts thinks, is that he didn't have the heart to speak with spite, just tiredness and resignation.]
... Alright. Can you let us know by a note if her spell passes over by tomorrow as well?
[The servant nods and ushers Vincent inside.]
"I will lock myself up as well. I'm sorry there is not much time left, but if I find an opportunity, I will give you supplies to make your stay more welcome. You did say just one night after all."
Mm. We don't usually stay in one place for long to begin with.
[Rare that they stay someplace overlong except when necessary. Though Vincent must admit that he feels that old Hunter’s itch, the want to wander the witching hour in search of what violent mysterious lay in the night — though now, it is no longer for the sake of survival, only the strange desire to experience, explore, to know, that drives him.
All the same, though, to the servant—]
We may be your guests, but if you have need, do not hesitate to call upon us. I am well-equipped to handle many a baleful night, and it has been long since I’ve last taken up arms.
[There's a noise on the other end of the hallway and his head jerks back in fear. Without another word, he closes their door, and both of them are left with the sound of a key locking the door. Hurried footsteps slowly fade away until all is quiet.
Monts moves over to the doorknob, twisting it (lightly mind you) to confirm...]
Well. Locked up for the night. Not that getting out would be an issue for either of us, but a key would have been nice.
[Speaking of comfortable, Monts is removing her cloak and draping it across a chair. The dress she wears consists of long sleeves, but her shoulders and collar are bare, making it easy to see the black flower-shaped halo resting on the back of her neck. It shimmers and writhes, but remains in its spot.
Monts takes a seat on the edge of the bed even giving it a bounce or two to test how comfortable it is.]
Actually... Now that I think about it... Vincent, do you even sleep these days? I can imagine that isn't a necessity, but if you're in a humanoid shape...
[Throughout the years, Amelia experienced many changes as she integrated herself with the world around her and finally reached the physical maturity that eluded her for a long time. She had to switch out old habits for new and found other methods to live her life effectively and take care of herself without having to cause worry to her close friends. The Witch King's visits to his protege had lessened in the last decade to the point where the witch felt independent and probably fine living on her own with the people in her beloved town to keep her company.
Currently, however, she isn't alone and hasn't been for a while.
She's beginning to think that the situation at present is a lot like when she was with Briar. After living by herself for so long, having another living body in her house had started to become routine. But that routine was shattered and the slow process of rebuilding herself began anew. She hadn't thought about Briar in a while either. He had always been gentle, if cheeky, curious and willing, and beautiful. He was a beautiful boy who showed her a beautiful world worth living in despite the pain and imperfections inherent in it.
The only thing she could do now was to use what he gave her and pass it on to others. That being said... She's got her work cut out for her in this case.
It's evening and after returning home from school, she's set her things down and tries to assess her mood. For once Amelia doesn't want to bury herself in work. It had been meeting after meeting that day and the voice in the back of her head that tells her to take care of herself finally reaches her. So what can she do? Read a book? That's always available. Try a new recipe? Maybe later, there's already food in the fridge...
She suddenly recalls one of her classes, a group of students using study hall to play card games with one another instead. When she had passed by, they jokingly asked her if she wanted to join in. Amelia declined of course, she was a teacher, she was proper.
... Maybe, just maybe...
The witch peeks her head out of the hallway and glances back and forth looking for her housemate.]
[It’s not Booker’s usual greeting, but smoke’s coiling from his breath when Amelia pokes her head into the room, caught with a cigarette lit and pinched between two fingers. It’s not his usual greeting—especially with someone he likes (complicated), or someone who’s let him live in their home, universe-straggler as he is (gratitude, less complicated)—but he knows that indulging himself in a smoke indoors is probably not all that indicative of a proper houseguest, no matter how long he’s taken up residence in the teacher’s home.]
Sorry, didn’t expect you to—
[He turns, opens the nearest window, breaths out the rest of his breath in its direction and lets his cigarette hand hang off the sill. The cobbled-together guilt of the red-handed.]
Ain’t going anywhere. [A truth that’s hung steady between them so far. His smile’s tired and wan.] Welcome home. You needed somethin’?
[Amelia raises a brow at the vagrant cigarette and wrinkles her nose at the heavy tobacco scent as Booker tosses it out the window.]
Well. As long as that didn't land in any of the flowerbeds...
[She steps out of the hallway and holds up a deck of cards.]
Change of routine. Let's play something. Your choice.
[Her delivery is direct and composed even if the specific request may seem a little out of the norm. To some, Amelia may sound demanding and expectant, but for her it's what helps cut through the vagueness of most situations when she interacts with people and it's definitely what's needed now when it comes to her and this man from the early 20th century. As far as she's concerned, what is between them is barely even half-resolved.
Truce (noun) (ˈtrüs)
Definition of truce: A respite especially from a disagreeable or painful state or action
Amelia's need to restructure and regroup makes her scramble for strict definitions and labels for what is going on with the both of them. But as much as she could force the issue, experience lets her know that could make things spiral.
This particular strategy was taught to her by Adam when it comes to problem solving between people; breaking the ice. Let yourself be vulnerable. Have fun.
... When was the last time she played games of any kind?? Anyway, she's moving to the kitchen table and plopping herself on a chair.]
[He can’t be sure if it didn’t land in a flower bed, but foresight is for people a lot wiser than him. Booker raises a hand to close the window, idly, brow quirking as he watches Amelia hold up something very familiar to him — a deck of cards.]
What’s this all of a sudden? Got an itch to gamble?
[The change of routine is a random one, it makes him wonder if something happened during the workday to drill the notion of card games in her pretty little head. But Booker is more than well-familiar with cards, having lost an ample amount of money on them in those days past, when he used to gamble away his savings and his hopes as a way to cope. He’d like to think he copes a lot better these days: by holing himself up in a universe that doesn’t belong to him, whiling away in a witch’s abode, pretending nothing’s grown and blossomed weird between them.
Because Booker would describe it as something a little less innocuous as a truce: awkward, is more like, the kind of awkward where two people don’t really know what to do with themselves, and turn their heads in the hopes of looking past the elephant in the room like it isn’t there. Far as he’s concerned, they’ve been doing a good job of it — why break the spell?]
Yeah, I’ll play. [In fact, he’s already rounding the exit of the hall and meandering into the kitchen, taking a seat beside her. He leans one elbow against it, taps a finger idly on the surface.]
How about… Blackjack? [Easy enough, works with two people.] You know how to play?
No gambling. I think we ought to keep this low stakes; nothing more than keeping tabs on the number of wins and losses between us.
... I'm afraid I'm not familiar with how to play Blackjack at all.
[She admits it with a degree of hesitancy. Her friends, Adam and Michael have pointed this out about her too; Amelia doesn't like presenting herself as lacking in knowledge. She's over the worst of that particular flaw, but there are leftovers of her more useless pride.
The plastic case the deck is housed in is a bit dusty. She wipes it off with a napkin before cracking it open and taking out the cards, glossy and unused, practically new. The witch pushes the stack of cards over to Booker.]
And that also means I don't have any skill in shuffling a deck. So... All yours.
Keeping track of wins and losses. Right, nothing to lose, other than pieces of your pride.
[He gives her a look, though it’s mostly grounded in teasing humor — he knows what she’s like. Booker won’t care if he loses a handful, because his pride was something he gave up a long time ago, but he also knows that if he’s working as dealer, the house has the advantage. The cards aren’t as kind to the other side of the table.
But Booker takes the offered cards, bending them a little to test their sturdiness. With deftly calloused fingers, he works to cut the deck, then shuffle it easy as you please, the edges of cards coursing past his touch in a way that’s almost comforting. Like he can almost forget the associations these cards and their royal faces dredge up: long nights of losing money, of coming back home three sheets to the wind, of feeling like shit the next day. Of course, Amelia’s presence promises that no such tragedies will happen, that this is more for her than for him, and so he says nothing. Shuffles while he mutters:]
Blackjack’s easy. Easy to lose money on, too, but we won’t have to worry about that. Basic rule is that you’re going to want to add the cards that I deal you up, and you want to get to twenty-one. You probably won’t, though — the point is to get as close as you can without going over. That’s a bust.
[He explains the rest of the rules, the turn order, the keeping one card face-down and then calling out for another card or choosing to stay her hand. They start, and her first hand is decent enough, adding up to fourteen. Not that he can see it; not that it matters if he does.]
[Amelia had been paying attention to Booker's hands shuffling the cards while listening to his breakdown on Blackjack, nodding along with his explanation as he deals her a hand and she looks at her cards, quickly adding up the total.
But then Booker's very easy question distracts her and she looks up at him blinking.]
Why?
[Why...
Because I want to talk to you normally again. Because we've resolved nothing and I've never been in this situation before. Because I like being with you and I think this is a first step to fixing that something, because, because because...
Another life lesson that she has already learned is not to shovel on so many words lest they lose their meaning in the process. Amelia is pretty sure she's keeping a straight face when she answers him.]
Because it's something I've never done before. Or if I have, I've completely forgotten about it and I might as well add it to my ever-increasing repertoire of various skills to surprise others with.
... And because I think it could be fun. I think.
[She sounds unsure, not because the game itself wouldn't be fun, but Amelia and the concept of 'fun' is muddled due to her intense work ethic.]
[Amelia’s got a good poker face, he thinks. Maybe it would have been better for them to play that, instead, but Booker sees something churning in those eyes all the same — something that reveals a little more than the simplicity of the answer itself. Like there’s another reason they’re sitting here, him dealing cards and playing games like it’s nothing. Maybe it’s an attempt to pretend at normalcy; maybe it’s an attempt to move on from a mistake. Either way, he won’t shatter it by trying to pry open those words and find the real workings beneath.]
You trying to impress someone with Blackjack? With your newfound card shark skills?
[It’s a funny thought, but he’d pay to see it. Amelia manipulating the cards with slender fingers, a half-turn of her wrist. That serious look as she took every dollar from each unsuspecting player as good as if she were robbing them blind.]
Not a lot of people play this for fun, you know. It’s usually about the winnings that come from a good round of luck.
[His hand shows a face card. The other is face-down, and he doesn’t bother to look, unconcerned for his hand until she’s decided on hers.]
I don't know about impressing someone. What's important that the impressing is done in the future.
[For now, she is new and unspoiled at this. She runs through all the rules in her head again before deciding her next move. Maybe it's risky, but she wants to see if she can make her number go higher.]
Mm. Hit, please.
[What's a bit of fun without a bit of risk?]
My point being... I'm new at this. I have years on me, but I've only started to make them count.
[Booker deals her another card; it's a four of clubs.]
Always going to be something you're new at, no matter how long you've lived.
[He leans back in his seat, wishes he still had his cigarette. Or at least a glass of whiskey to nurse, keep him warm.]
Lots of people say that, you know. Wanting to make the years count, but you know what I think? There's nothing wrong with living quietly, peacefully. 'Long as you're happy, what does it matter?
[Not that he's against playing a round of cards to sate her curiosity, though. But what Booker would have given, in those years past, to have just lived quietly. So much would have been different.]
I'm a witch, Booker. My life is 50-50 when it comes to living peacefully one moment, then resolving some unnatural sputter the next.
That said... My students have told me that I'm a little stiff. [AKA no fun.]
If I loosen up a bit, it'd be for their benefit as much as mine.
[And with the card she's been dealt, that should make her hand total eighteen. That's pretty decent she figures.]
No more cards for me. Or it's "stay?" Yes, that should be right.
[And as if making sure there are no odd pauses that could be filled up by other stray thoughts, she suggests:]
Pretzels or jelly beans? A bit random, I know, but I understand the habits of smokers. You can smoke when I'm not close by, but there's no harm in replacing it with something else either.
[Right, no more cards for her. Looking at her hand, he figures it might be a decent one. Still, Booker clacks the edge of the cards together in one hand against the table, idly straightening them as he thinks on what she’s offering.]
I’ve gone past the stage of oral fixation, you know.
[It’s the nicotine now, something that can’t be swept aside by chewing something else between his teeth. Even so—]
But what, you want me to walk around with a pocket full of pretzels or jelly beans? [He smiles a little.] Like a kid or something.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
formidable) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
sunfloras2020-12-26 11:29 pm
𝕓𝕖𝕙𝕚𝕟𝕕 𝕔𝕝𝕠𝕤𝕖𝕕 𝕕𝕠𝕠𝕣𝕤
Every time Marianna walks through the door, the witch, her employer, stops her for a bit, clasping her hands in her own, worry lines decorating her forehead. She never forced Monts to stay, never berated her for her choices. But she did ask her to come back. Come back safely, come back in one piece, come back as Monts. Her trips were becoming longer and whenever she returned, she found it took time to return to being the girl who lived in the sun, loved her grandparents, joked with the customers at the cafe, and found pleasure in the sights, scents, and sounds of the simpler things in life.
Lately, she's trying something new. She understands her humanity so thoroughly already and there are facets she hasn't uncovered yet, but it hasn't been enough to contend with her inherent inhumanity that would never leave her, much to her human despair. It was a long time in the making, but she finally has found an outlet; it was not an immediate thing. There was mostly casual and friendly curiosity and then an opportunity for more... More what though?
Well, right now, Monts is just Monts. She's covered in a dark cloak over her period-appropriate dress as she walks along the leaf-covered path with her strange companion. The lanterns that dot the road are sparse and shine with a dull light, but it is enough to be able to make out a large mansion in the distance. She points at it, looking at her friend. ]
What do you think it'll be this time? Skeletons or ghosts? Or both? I'm thinking both.
[She puts down her hand, humming with anticipation. Monts has her usual candor around the Hunter, never showing fear towards the darkness that they encountered during their "casual" strolls with each other. ]
Or ghosts that are shaped like skeletons?? Ok, I'm getting too specific here.
no subject
And perhaps he is only a shell of a human, now, like wearing a facade of his old form the way a businessman dons a new suit. And he is fine with that, he knows that nothing is the same as it once was, and that is how it should be.
But there are moments when he believes that his old humanity still lingers—like a stain, or like a pinprick of light in the night?—when he walks down ill-lit paths and humors strange conversations with a young woman with whom he isn’t sure how to categorize. Like him, yes, but not. A friend? Well. Certainly it is the human part of him that thinks such a thing is possible.
Even so, he is all politeness and straight-backed posture as he moves astride her. His grin is a glint of white in the moonlight.]
Your imagination fails you, Miss Monts. Who is to say that great mansion looming before us is not the monster itself? Come to swallow is up as we willingly walk into its maw.
[He hums, amused. Adjusts the weapon neatly slung at his hip — Simon’s Bowblade, a relic from that old life abandoned. He, too, a friend? Once, perhaps.]
no subject
[At some point, they had become friends; Monts is certain enough to solidify it as fact. When they had first made contact at the Grind, there was vague unease for neither knew what to make of the other. Now it is a friendly co-existence, with whatever humanity is in them as a buffer.
Monts walks up to the large iron gates that are already open ajar. She pushes it gently, boldly walking up to the front door.]
Well, we'll never know until we go inside. I don't know about you, but I'd like to take a break from our walk even if it involves napping in the belly of a beast.
[Before knocking on the door though, she turns to the Hunter, smiling serenely.]
And even if the whole thing screams of danger... You won't let anything happen to me, right?
no subject
Most curiosities to him, these days, are banal and barely worthy of mention. Human things, mortal worries — all of it seems so distant, and almost humorous that they had once been so pressing. But there is something mysterious about this place, that calls to him the same way the Great Ones call from the stars or the sea, the voice of beckoning. He finds his curiosity heavier than usual; he wonders if Monts feels the same.
Still, the grin doesn’t disappear, just a slender thing on his lips, crescent as a gentle scythe.]
Of course not. My blade and my bow—and my blood—as always, is yours. I should not think to put you in danger, though—
[He tilts his head up, takes in the facade of the mansion.]
I wonder just what resides in a place like this. It feels lonely to me.
no subject
As always, you are quite the gentleman. I'll continue to be in your hands then.
[With that shameless assertion aside, she turns away and knocks on the door three times. She takes a step back replying to Vincent's observation.]
A lonely feeling... It is a mansion in the middle of nowhere. Kind of a pity for whoever lives here really.
[There is a minute pause before it creaks open and they are met with an elderly gentleman dressed in a suit, a manservant possibly. He eyes the strangers before him warily, but is not so unwelcome that he doesn't greet them.]
"Travelers? It is rather late... But hello to both of you regardless. Is there something you need?"
[Monts interjects smoothly, with natural ease and charm.]
Yes, my friend and I would like a room to stay in tonight if it's not too much trouble.
[Yes "a" room.]
If this is a problem for you or the master of the mansion, we're more than willing to go on our way...
[The manservant shakes his head hurriedly as if afraid to offend.]
"Oh, no, no. The mistress and her family are quite hospitable. Please, do come in..."
[He steps back sinking into the darkness within that is barely penetrated by the low lights of gas lanterns and candles. There is a decorated hallway and furnishings, but it feels hollow.
Monts turns to Vincent, giving off a low hum.]
Lucky us! Let's go inside.
no subject
His nods his head in amicability, though the manservant seems gone as quickly as he arrived, like slipping into shadow. Stepping in, he gives her a questionable sort of look, expecting her to follow.]
Only one room? Miss Monts, you will give our hosts a very strange impression of the reasoning why we should seek solitary respite from the outside world.
[In other words: scanadlous. But honestly, Vincent is used to it now, and he cares less than when he was fully human. Besides, there are stranger things afoot. He peers into the deep corners of the mansion, wondering if they shall be greeted by the masters of the home. A lady and her family. No lord?]
But more curious, still… that they should open their doors so willingly to traveling strangers in the deep midst of night. Yes, quite strange. Do you not think we are stepping right into trouble?
[Or maybe it’s the whole point of why they’re here. Monts whims are gravitating things, and Vincent finds himself prone to humor them. Maybe that’s a problem, though he hardly thinks so.]
no subject
[Monts steps inside hardly looking bothered by her "scandalous" request and she's aware that he isn't opposed to it either. She idly replies to Vincent as she looks at the lavishly patterned rugs and vases that sit in obscure corners.]
I'd be silly if I tried to say it wasn't at all suspicious. Although... To his credit, I don't think the servant is trying to pull a fast one on us.
[As if on cue, the manservant returns, holding a lamp by its handle, gesturing for the guests to follow him.]
"I have informed the mistress of your presence. She is... Not well enough to welcome you herself, but she means no offense, truly."
No offense taken.
"Then please, allow me to take you to your room."
[The manservant is polite, but there seems to be a hurried flourish to his movements and his eyes dart back and forth as if expecting to be taken by surprise.]
"Let us be quick. But move silently as well."
[And before Monts can speak up, he starts to walk in one direction, upstairs, his lamplight becoming a yellow dot in the darkness.]
... It looks like he's more concerned than we are for ourselves.
no subject
[He gestures for Monts to follow, to trail behind the light that the manservant carries as he descends up the stairs. Vincent moves in long strides afterwards, eyes glancing at the corners of the foyer once they near the top, another habit not quashed from him just yet — the awareness of a Hunter to be leery, though in this case it is bolstered more by intrigue.
Once he’s in earshot, he finds himself asking lowly:]
The mistress of the house is ill?
[Naturally, this would pique his interest. Yharnam was a place of wretched sickness born of defiled blood; before that, when he was still mortal, a time that feels so far that it might be a dream, he had been deathly ill, brought to that terrible city by way of necessity.]
What has overtaken her?
no subject
"The mistress and her children... Ah, it is not my place to say and as long as you stay behind closed doors..."
[Monts looks at him carefully before gently urging him.]
You don't have to say too much. Just enough so we're aware. No judgment on our part.
[He's silent as he leads them further down the hallway.]
"The lady and her children are afflicted with... Well, we always called them 'spells.' You see, by and large, they are a perfectly dignified noble family. But these spells... Their flesh... They bloom..."
[He shudders, not wanting to think any more of it. Monts feels the back of her neck tingle, her skin crawling with anticipation.]
"Her children, they will bloom and leave the house. The villagers all keep their doors locked until sundown so I am letting you both stay against my better judgment, but the mistress, she... She will stay. She will wander. We need to hurry."
[And with that, he gestures over to the companions, opening a door with an old key. There is an unused but clean guest room that has its own bathroom, stylish furniture, and a single large bed.]
no subject
Vincent thinks of lumenflowers blooming, reaching for the cosmos. He thinks of the minds of those afflicted with knowledge, whose skulls would soften and unfurl like flower petals, or swell like a cloud of fungus. To bloom, for Vincent, is not a word of mystery — he had learned it meant transformation, an awakening, and now it is inherently known in his bones. In his self that had been reborn, held gently in the hands of the Doll, to bloom and blossom one day further.]
And I suspect we are requested to sequester in our room, then, for the sake of remaining well away from the lady of the house?
[He waits for Monts to enter first before following, perhaps more unfazed by this new information than he should be. But he has certainly encountered worse, and to feel threatened by this unknown individual, afflicted by an unknown spell, would be like a wolf feeling threatened by another wolf stalking the halls.]
no subject
"Just for tonight good sir. This spell should not last long, but they are known to wander for days on end. If it comes to that, by the second day I will leave you a message and you must find your way back on your own instead."
[Monts glances at Vincent looking tense. He wasn't entirely wrong about his guess then; they were in a sense in the maw of some beast, albeit one that walks around as some creature this man didn't have the courage to describe.
What was sadder, Monts thinks, is that he didn't have the heart to speak with spite, just tiredness and resignation.]
... Alright. Can you let us know by a note if her spell passes over by tomorrow as well?
[The servant nods and ushers Vincent inside.]
"I will lock myself up as well. I'm sorry there is not much time left, but if I find an opportunity, I will give you supplies to make your stay more welcome. You did say just one night after all."
Mm. We don't usually stay in one place for long to begin with.
no subject
[Rare that they stay someplace overlong except when necessary. Though Vincent must admit that he feels that old Hunter’s itch, the want to wander the witching hour in search of what violent mysterious lay in the night — though now, it is no longer for the sake of survival, only the strange desire to experience, explore, to know, that drives him.
All the same, though, to the servant—]
We may be your guests, but if you have need, do not hesitate to call upon us. I am well-equipped to handle many a baleful night, and it has been long since I’ve last taken up arms.
no subject
"... I see. If need be then..."
[There's a noise on the other end of the hallway and his head jerks back in fear. Without another word, he closes their door, and both of them are left with the sound of a key locking the door. Hurried footsteps slowly fade away until all is quiet.
Monts moves over to the doorknob, twisting it (lightly mind you) to confirm...]
Well. Locked up for the night. Not that getting out would be an issue for either of us, but a key would have been nice.
[Speaking of comfortable, Monts is removing her cloak and draping it across a chair. The dress she wears consists of long sleeves, but her shoulders and collar are bare, making it easy to see the black flower-shaped halo resting on the back of her neck. It shimmers and writhes, but remains in its spot.
Monts takes a seat on the edge of the bed even giving it a bounce or two to test how comfortable it is.]
Actually... Now that I think about it... Vincent, do you even sleep these days? I can imagine that isn't a necessity, but if you're in a humanoid shape...
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
𝕥𝕙𝕖 𝕘𝕒𝕞𝕖𝕤 𝕨𝕖 𝕡𝕝𝕒𝕪
Currently, however, she isn't alone and hasn't been for a while.
She's beginning to think that the situation at present is a lot like when she was with Briar. After living by herself for so long, having another living body in her house had started to become routine. But that routine was shattered and the slow process of rebuilding herself began anew. She hadn't thought about Briar in a while either. He had always been gentle, if cheeky, curious and willing, and beautiful. He was a beautiful boy who showed her a beautiful world worth living in despite the pain and imperfections inherent in it.
The only thing she could do now was to use what he gave her and pass it on to others. That being said... She's got her work cut out for her in this case.
It's evening and after returning home from school, she's set her things down and tries to assess her mood. For once Amelia doesn't want to bury herself in work. It had been meeting after meeting that day and the voice in the back of her head that tells her to take care of herself finally reaches her. So what can she do? Read a book? That's always available. Try a new recipe? Maybe later, there's already food in the fridge...
She suddenly recalls one of her classes, a group of students using study hall to play card games with one another instead. When she had passed by, they jokingly asked her if she wanted to join in. Amelia declined of course, she was a teacher, she was proper.
... Maybe, just maybe...
The witch peeks her head out of the hallway and glances back and forth looking for her housemate.]
Booker? You there?
no subject
[It’s not Booker’s usual greeting, but smoke’s coiling from his breath when Amelia pokes her head into the room, caught with a cigarette lit and pinched between two fingers. It’s not his usual greeting—especially with someone he likes (complicated), or someone who’s let him live in their home, universe-straggler as he is (gratitude, less complicated)—but he knows that indulging himself in a smoke indoors is probably not all that indicative of a proper houseguest, no matter how long he’s taken up residence in the teacher’s home.]
Sorry, didn’t expect you to—
[He turns, opens the nearest window, breaths out the rest of his breath in its direction and lets his cigarette hand hang off the sill. The cobbled-together guilt of the red-handed.]
Ain’t going anywhere. [A truth that’s hung steady between them so far. His smile’s tired and wan.] Welcome home. You needed somethin’?
no subject
Well. As long as that didn't land in any of the flowerbeds...
[She steps out of the hallway and holds up a deck of cards.]
Change of routine. Let's play something. Your choice.
[Her delivery is direct and composed even if the specific request may seem a little out of the norm. To some, Amelia may sound demanding and expectant, but for her it's what helps cut through the vagueness of most situations when she interacts with people and it's definitely what's needed now when it comes to her and this man from the early 20th century. As far as she's concerned, what is between them is barely even half-resolved.
Truce (noun) (ˈtrüs)
Definition of truce: A respite especially from a disagreeable or painful state or action
Amelia's need to restructure and regroup makes her scramble for strict definitions and labels for what is going on with the both of them. But as much as she could force the issue, experience lets her know that could make things spiral.
This particular strategy was taught to her by Adam when it comes to problem solving between people; breaking the ice. Let yourself be vulnerable. Have fun.
... When was the last time she played games of any kind?? Anyway, she's moving to the kitchen table and plopping herself on a chair.]
You in?
no subject
What’s this all of a sudden? Got an itch to gamble?
[The change of routine is a random one, it makes him wonder if something happened during the workday to drill the notion of card games in her pretty little head. But Booker is more than well-familiar with cards, having lost an ample amount of money on them in those days past, when he used to gamble away his savings and his hopes as a way to cope. He’d like to think he copes a lot better these days: by holing himself up in a universe that doesn’t belong to him, whiling away in a witch’s abode, pretending nothing’s grown and blossomed weird between them.
Because Booker would describe it as something a little less innocuous as a truce: awkward, is more like, the kind of awkward where two people don’t really know what to do with themselves, and turn their heads in the hopes of looking past the elephant in the room like it isn’t there. Far as he’s concerned, they’ve been doing a good job of it — why break the spell?]
Yeah, I’ll play. [In fact, he’s already rounding the exit of the hall and meandering into the kitchen, taking a seat beside her. He leans one elbow against it, taps a finger idly on the surface.]
How about… Blackjack? [Easy enough, works with two people.] You know how to play?
no subject
... I'm afraid I'm not familiar with how to play Blackjack at all.
[She admits it with a degree of hesitancy. Her friends, Adam and Michael have pointed this out about her too; Amelia doesn't like presenting herself as lacking in knowledge. She's over the worst of that particular flaw, but there are leftovers of her more useless pride.
The plastic case the deck is housed in is a bit dusty. She wipes it off with a napkin before cracking it open and taking out the cards, glossy and unused, practically new. The witch pushes the stack of cards over to Booker.]
And that also means I don't have any skill in shuffling a deck. So... All yours.
no subject
[He gives her a look, though it’s mostly grounded in teasing humor — he knows what she’s like. Booker won’t care if he loses a handful, because his pride was something he gave up a long time ago, but he also knows that if he’s working as dealer, the house has the advantage. The cards aren’t as kind to the other side of the table.
But Booker takes the offered cards, bending them a little to test their sturdiness. With deftly calloused fingers, he works to cut the deck, then shuffle it easy as you please, the edges of cards coursing past his touch in a way that’s almost comforting. Like he can almost forget the associations these cards and their royal faces dredge up: long nights of losing money, of coming back home three sheets to the wind, of feeling like shit the next day. Of course, Amelia’s presence promises that no such tragedies will happen, that this is more for her than for him, and so he says nothing. Shuffles while he mutters:]
Blackjack’s easy. Easy to lose money on, too, but we won’t have to worry about that. Basic rule is that you’re going to want to add the cards that I deal you up, and you want to get to twenty-one. You probably won’t, though — the point is to get as close as you can without going over. That’s a bust.
[He explains the rest of the rules, the turn order, the keeping one card face-down and then calling out for another card or choosing to stay her hand. They start, and her first hand is decent enough, adding up to fourteen. Not that he can see it; not that it matters if he does.]
So why’d you want to do this?
no subject
But then Booker's very easy question distracts her and she looks up at him blinking.]
Why?
[Why...
Because I want to talk to you normally again. Because we've resolved nothing and I've never been in this situation before. Because I like being with you and I think this is a first step to fixing that something, because, because because...
Another life lesson that she has already learned is not to shovel on so many words lest they lose their meaning in the process. Amelia is pretty sure she's keeping a straight face when she answers him.]
Because it's something I've never done before. Or if I have, I've completely forgotten about it and I might as well add it to my ever-increasing repertoire of various skills to surprise others with.
... And because I think it could be fun. I think.
[She sounds unsure, not because the game itself wouldn't be fun, but Amelia and the concept of 'fun' is muddled due to her intense work ethic.]
no subject
You trying to impress someone with Blackjack? With your newfound card shark skills?
[It’s a funny thought, but he’d pay to see it. Amelia manipulating the cards with slender fingers, a half-turn of her wrist. That serious look as she took every dollar from each unsuspecting player as good as if she were robbing them blind.]
Not a lot of people play this for fun, you know. It’s usually about the winnings that come from a good round of luck.
[His hand shows a face card. The other is face-down, and he doesn’t bother to look, unconcerned for his hand until she’s decided on hers.]
no subject
[For now, she is new and unspoiled at this. She runs through all the rules in her head again before deciding her next move. Maybe it's risky, but she wants to see if she can make her number go higher.]
Mm. Hit, please.
[What's a bit of fun without a bit of risk?]
My point being... I'm new at this. I have years on me, but I've only started to make them count.
no subject
Always going to be something you're new at, no matter how long you've lived.
[He leans back in his seat, wishes he still had his cigarette. Or at least a glass of whiskey to nurse, keep him warm.]
Lots of people say that, you know. Wanting to make the years count, but you know what I think? There's nothing wrong with living quietly, peacefully. 'Long as you're happy, what does it matter?
[Not that he's against playing a round of cards to sate her curiosity, though. But what Booker would have given, in those years past, to have just lived quietly. So much would have been different.]
no subject
That said... My students have told me that I'm a little stiff. [AKA no fun.]
If I loosen up a bit, it'd be for their benefit as much as mine.
[And with the card she's been dealt, that should make her hand total eighteen. That's pretty decent she figures.]
No more cards for me. Or it's "stay?" Yes, that should be right.
[And as if making sure there are no odd pauses that could be filled up by other stray thoughts, she suggests:]
Pretzels or jelly beans? A bit random, I know, but I understand the habits of smokers. You can smoke when I'm not close by, but there's no harm in replacing it with something else either.
no subject
I’ve gone past the stage of oral fixation, you know.
[It’s the nicotine now, something that can’t be swept aside by chewing something else between his teeth. Even so—]
But what, you want me to walk around with a pocket full of pretzels or jelly beans? [He smiles a little.] Like a kid or something.
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)