[flashback] to claim sanctuary. (closed)

[Caelum]

it's empty in the valley of your heart the sun rises slowly as you walk away from all the fears and all the faults you've left behind but I will hold on hope and I won't let you choke on the noose around your neck I'll find strength in pain and I will change my ways and I will know my name as it's called again - mumford & sons - Timestamp: 9th of Summer 504 AV The Bright-Eyed Mariner slipped past the lip of the sea with Syna's sun, winking out from sight while stars were starting to spangle and the moon faded in with fierce consciousness. A stranger was left standing in the diamond quality of light dusk brought, the weathered boards of the Passenger Quay beneath half buckled boots. Others might have stood with neck craned to watch their ship shrink on the horizon, but the man with a strange, serpentine swirl of muted light making a target of his countenance did not. Rather he shouldered every shred of what he owned anymore in the world, ducked his head and walked right into the heart of Denval without looking either left or right. There was no weapon at his hip or strapped to his back, nor was there the white wash of robes belonging to the Opal Order who had claimed him. Rather he looked like any one else with his head down, his stride somewhat abbreviated due to a healing injury gained and then saved from while on the high seas. A seagull flapped past, startlingly low, and the warehouses boomed with unloading of Zeltivan goods. The sign hanging from the eaves of the Stranger's Welcome creaked in a breeze blessedly cool, softening the heat of fresh summer that in the past collection of minutes seemed to have increased despite the fall of night. Denval was peaceful, protected by all of those shouldering mountains its citizens occasionally considered a prison. It looked comforting to the latest arrival, reassuring as a wall between the hunter and the hunted. It was not cage, but fortress, and he took over long to stand just without the doorway of the tavern where he hoped to acquire food and the direction of a night's lodging staring at it. At them. At the mountains that cut this place off from the rest of the world, that put it on the fringe of the sea and the end of forgetting. Mura had not felt the same. It was too close. Too open. Only there within Rak'keli's temple sanctuary had he felt for a moment, just the bliss of a split second, remotely safe and a little bit less broken. Those walls had begun to close in, however, despite the presence of calm that swept the Konti's isle. Too many people. Too many ships. A word dropped in the wrong place, at the wrong time and by the end they were begging him to go, those sensitive ladies, for he would wake them in the night with the screaming though they slept streets away. Maybe, he thought while stepping backwards in preparation to turn toward the tavern door, he should see if there was an empty house. Fellow inn patrons had a habit of complaining which often caused his own stay to be shortened.

[Tabarnac]

The glass of the little porthole windows of the Stranger's Welcome were not of the finest quality, cloudy and occluded with bubbles and striations, but they allowed spots of a warm glow to spill out into the night. When the dog days came, they would be propped open to allow for marine breezes to cool the drunken inhabitants, but for now they merely resonated with the raucous good time going on within. The door slammed open and a gruff man strode out as if he owned the place, which he did, smoking some pungent herb or another wrapped up in paper. His eyes alighted upon Cian's figure walking slowly up the quay and he laughed a smokey laugh and walked out to meet him, gesturing him closer. Oleg was a force of nature, and soon enough Cian had a strong arm clapped around his shoulder, ushering him toward the tavern door. His dialect, Cian would find, was purposefully flattened into something closer to a universal Common than most of his people spoke, hence why he was so successful with the strangers who became lovers of Denval after a while. "A stranger! I love strangers, s'why my place is called the Stranger's Welcome. This is it right here, and you'll have to come in and try the degtine... O-ho!" In the light of the open doorway Cian's face gleamed with Rak'keli's handiwork. "You're in luck," he said, pulling Cian in and then pushing him toward a table peopled by a red-headed woman and a dark-haired man, she striking in the way that a perfectly balanced sword was beautiful, and her companion the sort of melt hearts, especially when his strange, hazel gaze settled on someone. When their eyes met, Cian felt suddenly dizzy, or perhaps it was that he needed to reclaim his landlubber legs. Oleg's insistent nudge between the shoulder blades sent Cian stumbling toward them. "Cap'n, you'll want to speak to this one!" Oleg called, bustling off with his burning herb to pull out some of his better distilled spirits for the occasion. But the stumble became a true fall, and everything seemed to make even less sense to Cian when the landing was not soft, but yielding, warm, and -- you are home a voice seemed to say, somewhere in that darkness within where one might imagine their soul resided. The first thing he saw was a vivid red chain tattooed across a tanned chest, only to look up into those hazel eyes again, haunted eyes. "Oh, Oleg," said the woman. The man said nothing, but he spoke volumes.

[Caelum]

The tavern keeper whom over the next stride of Cian's life he would come to know and well had managed to at once steady and disorient him. Yet he fell in step with Oleg when hauled, willingly to enter and willing to follow when leadership proved worthy; and at the moment's tip when words were about to fall from his lips in reply, he found himself falling instead. Words dropped not uttered and the rest of him followed, room spinning with a slice of soft clamoring voices of souls still in sanctuary. Unexpected arms caught him, cushioned and cradled him even as his bag thudded with a rattle of those precious glass vials stored within. The top of his consciousness gasped for oxygen, too buoyant before the tether of a thing not unlike cultural memory communicated to him -- home. This was not home. Home was far, far off and run from, he chased from it, a thing existent now in past alone for the locale to which it was tied had turned on him with what seemed as unstoppable a force as the color change of leaves in Bala's fall. Yet for this series of unanswerable seconds he felt home beat in his chest in rhythm with his heart. Shadows scored the eyes that finally picked themselves up, opening from a wince of physical pain and metaphysical confusion. The toe of his boot scraped against the floor of the Stranger's Welcome, trailing the dust of a barren road, as he absorbed the aching beauty of the stranger's face. Oh, Oleg. He shuddered out an exhalation and felt the lighted black kisses of Yahal whisper against the flesh of his left hand, for a moment seeming to shimmer with all the colors of dawn before quieting again. He swallowed while being divinely fortified, knowing all too well that what held him together this far was the grace of the gods who had marked him alone. "Oops," he drawled deadpan, the courage of his innate comedy coming to his aid as he tried with surprisingly reluctant limbs to untangle himself back to his feet. "Sorry for that," he went on, ducking his head and wobbling for a moment. Hands brushed at the thighs of his trousers and equilibrium was restored in a crouch as he went fishing under the table where his bag had skidded. "I guess I haven't found my land legs yet. Long, ah, journey --" He dragged his bag out, rangy shoulders a bit huddled. An ironic twist had taken his mouth as he gave a jerk to the bag strap and pushed back up to his feet with the shoving out of a breath against the lance of pain at his side. He might have busted a few stitches, but he was in a place to be seeing to that soon, he figured. Hoped. He held on to a great deal of Priskil''s light, begging at her dainty feet. He blinked widely at the dark eyed man with the god haunted eyes and at the flame haired woman who sat in a sea of her dignity. Remembering to try on a smile, he finished, "I didn't spill any of your drinks, did I? Here, I'll buy you a round for the trouble."

[Tabarnac]

The chained man leaned in as if pulled by some intangible thing and brushed his lips across Cian's, a welcome, but hiding a heat obvious to the healer. His eyes were thoughtful as Cian extricated himself, what had yielded to slow his fall had strength enough to grasp and hold, but a stranger's need was an intimate thing, and one didn't want to scare away the newcomers. "Welcome home," he said softly, eyes not leaving Cian's as the red-haired woman looked on, her lapel pinned with a sprig of angrec even paler than she. "A priest of Rak'keli is always welcome in Denval," she added in her rich alto. "Welcome to Denval, priest. I am Captain Astrid. You've... already met Justus." "Priest of Nikali," he said, almost like a promise. The twinge in Cian's side pulled Justus' gaze as if he felt it himself, and he quickly stood, grasping and holding as he hadn't before, sitting Cian down at their table. "Oleg!" he called. "Faster with the degtine!" "Ah," Astrid said, seeing and understanding. "It looks like we had better pay for this round. You need it more than we do." Oleg appeared with the degtine and a scowl, but when he saw the blood seeping through Cian's shirt, he disappeared behind the bar. "Healer, heal thyself," murmured Justus, and thanked Oleg when the tavern's proprietor returned with clean towels. Astrid herself had uncorked the clear spirit and was pouring it onto a small towel even as Justus held his hands at the ready to tear open that shirt to get to the wound beneath if need be. "May I?"

[Caelum]

The kiss whispered against the skin of his soul as much as it did his lips and ultimately left him as dizzy and disoriented as had the fall. It caused him to wonder after blood loss. It was simply not possible that he had lost that much without noticing. The son of Syna who had stitched him ship-side had been competent if not yet well skilled and had more than served beneath Cian's own guidance. It left his gaze lingering on Justus even as he was commandeered once more, this time into a seat with a firm and gentle hand. Confusion was there, mingling with weariness that reached beyond the physical and was overlayed but not hidden by ennervism's holy strength. Once more he followed, however, but it was only after a drawn out series of seconds where every muscle in his body tensed and altered the very lines of his limbs with a posture of self defense. It melted away almost as fast as it had been there, he unaware that in a city such as this lost one such things could be spotted and marked from leagues off. Priest of Nikali, Justus said, and Cian winced. It was damnably close to a twitch, but it bled into something that closely resembled amusement and resignation. "Captain," he echoed and cleared his throat, reorienting himself in the whirl and calls to proffer a stiff but nobly taught tip of head and shoulders from where he sat. "Justus. I.. Uh. Cian," a beat, "Noc. Heal.. Oh, ha," and surprisingly, he laughed, Justus' words striking him as amusing for some unknown reason. The chuckles continued even as he shook his head but then rose a hand, turning it up in acceptance. His head shaking, thusly, was not for Justus' question. Once divested of his jacket and shirt the astonishing display of divine meddling was mostly, if not all, bared to the eyes. Winged serpents spread opalescent shadows across ripening vines that caught at something not altogether hidden in his eyes and glanced across skin and muscles that, if not for the bandage that had been bled through at his side, all but shone with good health. He looked in need of a meal, somehow, and was if his needs kept crowding up against the roof of Justus' mouth. A meal. An absolution. A stiff drink. An asylum. An embrace. A defender. A place to lay his head. A few stitches. A new purpose. An end. A beginning. A distraction. A hope. A home.

[Tabarnac]

Though not touched by the goddess of need -- albeit a frequent frequenter of her temple -- Oleg disappeared again to yell at his kitchen staff about some food. He had seen the malnutrition as well as the holy marks, knowing the Captain would want this one to put down roots in Denval for the betterment of all. Meanwhile, the Captain addressed the healer, distracting him from the priest's work at his wound. Degtine cleansed the wound, though Justus was not skilled enough to block the sting of its astringency. "Cian Noc," she said. "I'll have your promise to stay here until that's healed. That should give us time to persuade you to stay on a more permanent basis. We've skilled herbalists and chirurgeons, but none blessed by Rak'keli so well as you." She did not comment on Yahal's mark, though she approved of anything that made a man or woman a better warrior, a more effective cog in the Denvali war machine. Though their only enemies were anyone and anything who sought to snuff out their northwesterly light, Mizahar was a dangerous place, their corner of Kalea no less so than most, and there were plenty of threats against which Denval defended herself. "It's a good home," Justus added quietly. Then he thanked Oleg, who had appeared with food and bandages. As he re-wrapped the wound, arms encircling Cian's middle again and again, Oleg set down a tray before the newcomer. A hearty stew was filled with the bounty of Theo's miraculous farm as well as the fleshly gifts of their high-climbing hunters. Astrid poured them a round of degtine and handed Cian a drink with her own hand. Oleg shot his and then disappeared again to prepare one of the few rooms upstairs. "To your very good health," quoth she.

[Caelum]

This litany of commands and consolations, bribes and comforts were observed through half lidded eyes and faced with a countenance that had gone a bit blank. Polite, bemused, but blank. It was a distance in him with which those Denvali who took the time of attention would ultimately grow familiar with as it rose and fell only to rise again in the most unexpected of moments. "Ow," he mumbled his complaint to Justus when the degtine scalded, a shiver coursing through his skin before he hissed it out with a breath between his teeth. The last spikes of it he just washed down by belting his shot of degtine and tapping it with a light crack against the table even as the hearty food appeared before him. His heart beat harder with the close quarters, arms around him again and again, winding a bandage, unraveling a chain. It had his mouth twitching, limbs stiffening. He was suspicious. "Royalty," he said abruptly. A nod was given the clipping of angrec to the Captain's lapel. "You're good at it." A lynx smile sprawled and he slid a hand down the fresh bandaging, bowing his head to give it an inspection. A quick look was given Justus, and at length he nodded his reluctant approval. "There aren't many like me in the world," he went on to remark, half under his breath to leave the listeners baffled as to whether he meant it as a compliment or an insult to himself. He began to shrug back into his shirt, ignoring the food in favor of being better dressed. "Makes it a bit difficult to keep a low profile," and here he stuck his tongue into his cheek, emphasizing the goddesses' identification of him. "The end of the damned world might make as much use of me as I of it." Bring me your sick, your wounded, your dying. I will save them all, but you have to save me. There were undermodes in tone that did not exist in the Common he was using. It was an intelligencer's art, unspoken nuances conveyed with expression, body language, and ultimately a reliance upon the intellect of those with whom he was speaking. Royalty, he'd said, as if he was in a position to mark it.

[Tabarnac]

"Sorry," Justus apologized most contritely, but there was little to be done about the pain with limited availability of painkillers and only a modicum of skill. Hurts hurt; that was their nature. "Indeed," the not-queen agreed with a smile and eyes that could have belonged to a gambler. "Funny story about that," she added, "but a story for another time. Perhaps you will stay long enough to see a festival. Theo grows me chrysanthemums for my hair." She didn't say which color, which left her meaning vague. It might have been a jest. "There aren't many like us in the world, either, but we don't get as much traffic as most other places, and we take care of our own." The Denvali were welcoming, and those who could live under their martial law were made citizens after a year and a day. The details could wait for food, though. "Eat," Justus urged, remaining where he was, kneeling beside Cian Noc as if he would serve him his food an it became necessary. "Please. Our hospitality demands it." His smile laughed, but gently. Justus' was the strong hand that supported a person while they fixed themselves, the wisdom and the compassion.