[Flashback] Internal (Laszlo)

[Duvalyon Hellebore]

Laszlo may not have remembered just how he got there, but he was in a nook cushioned with layers of jewel colored fabric. It was a small room and showed signs of communal use. A honeycomb of niches in the wall were filled with personal items, some meticulously labeled, as if jars of poison. There was a table and a few chairs for the express purpose of eating, but it was often ignored for the fabric-lined floor. Duvalyon was raking through one of the nooks, mild displeasure flattened his mouth and pinched his brow. He had overlooked something and it galled him. Spring was kinder when it came to the bounty of trade. In winter Laszlo would have been fortunate if given wrinkled apples. Instead he was presented with an overripe nectarine wrapped in a square of linen. “For later.” Duvalyon chose another jar of the suspicious looking preserve he favored and sat in a nook opposite Laszlo. His questions had been ignored in favor of a quick arrival. “I’m not entirely sure myself,” Duvalyon’s least favorite answer, “The Akalak and Konti have a similar mandate. For us, the male holds the race. Dra-Symenestra are when only the mother is of the race. As for the poison…” One hand’s claws flicked toward his mouth. “What allows us to eat is also our undoing. And just as I am not identical to my parents, my venom is not identical to theirs. At birth it’s even worse, unregulated and potent.” Duvalyon had yet to open his jar of lunch. “And it’s more than just the venom. The child sometimes turns on the mother.” The Symenestra glanced at the meal and spoon in his hand, debating how unappetizing the line of conversation had become. Decision made, he opened the jar. He was a medic, very little would make him curdle. Quiet settled for a moment. Duvalyon found it an easy substance, and nothing about him pressed for more. “You don’t have to adopt this, Laszlo,” it was calmly spoken, arising from the peaceful fog. “Surrogacy is a complex thing,” he said lightly, “And you have sufficient concerns without it.” Though the commentary tapered into something dismissive, it began with a subtle profundity. “I suspect the cavern is also disorienting you,” he observed, “Common amongst newcomers. Especially after being kept awake for bells by the charming Dor.” A neat, brief smile followed. “I too have experienced that special kind of torture.”

[Laszlo]

The Ethaefal smiled placidly, lifting a corner of the linen to inspect the parcel. A sweet smell came from inside the fabric, which he gently re-wrapped. Despite his weariness, he wasn't hungry. His dayside form never was. Duvalyon had already intuited that it would better sate him at night. "I don't mind her, of course," he said obligatorily, sidestepping what could have been a subtle implication that wasn't any of his business. The wrapped nectarine was shelled by both of Laszlo's hands as he leaned forward on his knees. His eyes were kept carefully downcast. "I admit, yes, the cavern is… that. This surrogacy issue… it is difficult to digest, but with time I believe I can grow to understand it." Dra Symenestra, he had said. The quick syllable was spoken with such a flourish; Laszlo deduced that it was a word in their Spider tongue. Their language was a silken and enchanting one, favoring soft consonants and colorful vowels. He would have to take up learning it, if he could. His nighttime side might have an easier time with it, latching onto anything that felt remotely familiar. It occurred to him again that Dor somehow stood outside all of this. Laszlo would have liked to ask about it, but here didn't seem like the best place. He discarded the idea. "But I'm not here by chance." Leaning back in his chair, Laszlo allowed himself to study the contents of Duvalyon's jar. The more details he began to pick out in the jelly-like substance, the less he wanted to know what it was. He already had a sneaking suspicion. "Leaving Syliras was more or less a choice made for me. It was an accident, but I hurt someone." The liquid amber of his eyes slid away, gone to excavate a memory from last winter. The chair creaked as his weight shifted. "Venom, I think. Someone called me a 'Widow'. I didn't know what that meant, but I'm beginning to understand it now. It makes a little more sense, in retrospect, why that man tried to kill me." The nasal laugh was forced, meant to dispel the awkward tension. Laszlo hoped to avoid inspiring pity, though he wasn't entirely sure how capable Duvalyon was of such a compassionate emotion. Oddly, that came as a relief. "I thought I was some kind of monster, at first. What else could I think? The claws, the eyes, the fangs. Eventually I learned that it was called Symenestra, and there were traders who journeyed seasonally through the Unforgiving from Alvadas. I came here to learn about this thing I become at night. How glad I was to meet you, in all your quiet civility, not nearly so savage as I feared. Even after today, I'm not sure the rest of the world quite understands the Symenestra for what they are. At least not in Syliras. The traders were not so kind either." Laszlo lifted his head, blinking rapidly as he reoriented himself to the room. He had gotten a little carried away. "Sorry, I didn't mean to ramble. What I'm trying to say is… I know I must seem naïve to you. Really, when it comes to this world, I am. But, I came to Kalinor to learn about what I am, who I was. I must adopt this." The woman from his dreams touched his thoughts then, the blurry outline of her pale face against her flowing white hair appearing in his mind's eye. If he closed his eyes, he could almost remember her face. The nameless, golden-eyed woman. "I can't justify why, and I don't know if it will help anything. Perhaps to no other end but vindicating the need to hide under a hood at night. In my short life I've found I very much dislike being assaulted." His head had cleared now, and at least he didn't feel shudders passing through his legs. They had been here a while. Perhaps Duvalyon would head home early. He could hope, but he didn't dare ask it. The doctor had already done more than he could repay for him. "You knew what I was when we first met. What do they teach Symenestra about Ethaefal? Had you ever met one before? Are we so common?" He hoped not.

[Duvalyon Hellebore]

"Don't worry you're still special," Duvalyon remarked with a sting of amusement. "Symenestra are just well read." It was interesting how he professed a collective accomplishment, where others might assert a personal one. "Ethaefal are extraordinarily uncommon. I've only seen one before, and in passing. I've expressed most of what I know for certain about your kind." He didn't behave as if Laszlo was something freakishly rare. Was his easy acceptance indifference or another branch of his calculated hospitality? "You are here to understand the half of you that you think can be comprehended..." It was equal parts question and observation. "...the monster, the thing."  Duvalyon pronounced the words neatly and without inflection. It was more unnerving than if he had shouted them. In Laszlo's tumbled confession he had forgotten who was listening. Someone who didn't have the luxury of changing his face with sunrise. What Laszlo called "monstrous", he called "self". The Ethaefal had draped his observations in relief from learning Symenestra were not as loathsome as he had been led to believe, but the criticism had not been absolved. Nothing hinted at pity in the medic's face. Laszlo's case was unfortunate, but Duvalyon had lived it for far longer. "Careful, Laszlo." His cultured hum made the words stretch longer. "Everyone I love has a pair of claws." Duvalyon curled his fingers towards his palm to briefly consider his own. "No, not so savage in the crude term, but we do what we must to keep what we value." Instead of joining in the race's vindication, the medic confirmed their reputation. "Azo," his burgundy eyes flicked to Laszlo's face, "Are wise to fear Symenestra." Leaning back, Duvalyon forgot his claws and slipped into an aloof pedantic pose. The medic was retreating by degrees. "We happily propagate the fiction of the misunderstood Symenestra who doesn't seek surrogates. Feel free to join the ruse. Occasionally, it's even true. I have left Kalinor for purely scholastic purposes. My culture is a rich one that encourages learning." Duvalyon stood, "It also encourages duty, and I am shirking mine." He was about to weave a phrase to placate and dismiss, but stopped himself. This was by far the most painful exercise as it hinted at a personal vulnerability. Before the temper was on another's behalf, much simpler. "I have a reason to treat others as specimens within the Purging. You speak as if the whole world is your Purging." This even admonition was the nearest to compassion Duvalyon could muster. "Even I--" he inserted a self deprecating smirk, "Have a connection to something." He thought of the chain about his arm. "A man drowns without one."

[Laszlo]

Though Laszlo listened, his lightless golden eyes were aimed at some less significant part of Duvalyon, the top of his knee or the nails on his hand. The burgundy of the Symenestra's eyes had felt too piercing to withstand for long. He regretted being so readily candid but had harbored these thoughts alone for so long that had been eager to get them out. It was difficult to tell whether or not Duvalyon had been offended; an occasional sharpness in his tone seemed to deliberately indicate between the lines that Laszlo had indeed been tactless. So what? Duvalyon had lived his life here, growing up with the Symenestra, a part of the race. All Laszlo had to go on was rumors and campfire stories. Perhaps it had been thoughtless, even childish to share them with a 'dreaded Widow', but Laszlo had been alive for less than two full seasons. How could he be expected to gracefully navigate his way through a strange world? Didn't he deserve a little leeway? His rosy lips parted with the intent to deliver some clumsily worded apology, but Duvalyon stood. Laszlo's eyes grew brave then, craning his neck to meet the other's gaze. At his observation, the Ethaefal's voice died in his throat. 'You speak as if the whole world is your Purging.' Well, wasn't it? Laszlo thought about asking as much, but considering the way he'd inelegantly stumbled his way through most of today, decided against it. Laszlo quietly rose to his feet, slipping the wrapped fruit into a large pocket on his coat. He laid a hand on the table to steady himself as he glanced at the floor. He was feeling a little better now, but the weariness in him persisted in his knees and as a cloudiness in his head. It prevented him from thinking very clearly. "I'm trying," he insisted, his eyes looking halfway up. Whatever bravery they'd had a moment ago, it had slipped away without notice. "Perhaps that was… inconsiderate, but all I know about the world, I've learned since the last Winter. I don't have your years of wisdom, Duvalyon, or decades here living with my own kin. Goddess, I wish I did." A connection. Laszlo's thoughts probed at such a profound concept. "Perhaps I'll think more clearly after I eat." Laszlo left the table, sheepishly wandering a few steps closer to Duvalyon. "Sorry," he added belatedly. "It’s a blessing that you have the patience to keep putting up with me. Don't think I've forgotten that. I'll try not to endanger it."

[Duvalyon Hellebore]

Duvalyon made a mildly incredulous sound at the notion of his "wisdom". Clever, yes, he flattered himself to be that and maybe a little shrewd, but wisdom was to be the purview of ageless races like Konti, Jamoura and Laszlo's own. Duvalyon's age was on the tip of his tongue, but something bid him keep the words there. He was accustomed to being an anchor when no other candidate arrived. His sister, Dor, his cousin, Symenestra patients and now Laszlo looked to him to serve as some manner of mainstay despite his personal imperfections. And Duvalyon had his own chains binding him to another surer than he. Such was the web of the living: all were tethered to another thread seemingly stronger than themselves, and by that, all were made stable. Even if Duvalyon botched the role midway, it was better than leaving all of them with nothing. He thought of his own father, critical, cold and proud, but Duvalyon knew would be considerably less without Svoreador's presence in his life. When Laszlo moved to follow him, the Symenestra hesitated. "Wait here, until I finish." His tone was fletched, constructed in a way best suited for it to reach its destination. "You are likely tired," even if Laszlo hadn't already entertained the idea, the suggestion of fatigue pressed on him strongly. "Who wouldn't be?" Laszlo might not recall if this was his own thought, or Duvalyon's voice. "I'll fetch you later," the medic assured him. When Duvalyon left, the Ethaefal found himself in the equivalent of being sent to his bed until he could behave himself. It was over two bells before the medic returned, maybe three. The time was blending and the Ethaefal had been given the chance to sleep if he chose. "Laszlo?" His name was spoken from the doorway. It was mingled with fatigue and renewed patience, the emotions could overlap seamlessly. "Thank you for waiting." Duvalyon paused, considering the gesture he was about to make, and continued despite. "There's somewhere I think would be of interest to you. If you are not too disoriented."

[Laszlo]

Before Duvalyon left, Laszlo had already fallen back into his seat. An unexpected wave of fatigue had set over him, so his knees had buckled under his own weight. He wasn't particularly enthused either by the polite, level tone in Duvalyon's voice. He was beginning to suspect that if the physician wasn't making a sly joke, then there was likely something bitter implied between the lines. Duvalyon didn't want Laszlo to accompany him any longer. That was fine. The young Ethaefal had seen more than enough for today. The Symenestra's shadow left the doorway, and Laszlo was left alone. His thoughts filled the room then, remembering the tortured cries of the more animated surrogates, the looks of death from the ones who had given up. People, all of them, with lives and families and dreams, just like any Symenestra would. Life was fleeting, always changing, ending, beginning. The cycle meant that every soul was renewed again into a new life, but what meaning did that give life itself? If torture and suffering could be forgotten, did it matter what happened to anyone? Or did each soul have a right to a good life? Laszlo shivered, settling back into his chair. Philosophy. It was pointless, wasn't it? Everyone's perspective would always be different. Philosophy couldn't make people agree that killing women to preserve a race was right or wrong. He doubted any of these women felt like they deserved their fates. How did they get here, anyway? Were they kidnapped? Tricked? Raped? Laszlo couldn't begin to speculate. He'd have to ask Duvalyon when he came back. Duvalyon returned sooner than he expected, chasing away blurry visions of tear-streaked faces and animal-like cries from parched, raw throats. The Ethaefal realized belatedly that he'd fallen asleep and had been dreaming strange, disjointed dreams about what he had seen that afternoon. The doctor was probably gone longer than it had felt. Hearing his name called was still strange. 'Laszlo' belonged to him, but wasn't him. So few people thus far had ever addressed him by that title. The Ethaefal stood up again, his legs feeling more sturdy than they had before. The nap had helped. "I'm fine. Where would you take me?" he added skeptically, wondering if there was some hidden chamber somewhere in the Purging that housed all the women giving birth in one, horrific room of death and carnage. Feeling the weight of the fruit in his pocket, Laszlo was eager for nightfall. The sensation of hunger was an unpleasant one, when he felt it, but sating it was almost as pleasurable as standing in the sunshine. He heart ached privately at the thought. "Duvalyon I'm… sorry, for how I've acted this afternoon. I wasn't really prepared for… any of that. I'll try to conduct myself with a little more grace." He paused to consider the dark circles beneath Duvalyon's eyes. They were usually there, but seemed a shade darker than usual. "Finished with your duties? How are you doing?"

[Duvalyon Hellebore]

Duvalyon didn't know what to do with questions about his well-being. He wasn't accustomed to them and had the look of someone who had just been asked an unrelated mathematics problem. Laszlo's open apology was received no better. Duvalyon casually waved it out of the air like one would a gnat. It was heard, but Duvalyon had already mended the situation in his own thoughts. Laszlo's participation was good, but unnecessary in the process. Duvalyon entirely ignored the inquiry about how he felt in his reply. "I am not finished, but I have arranged for a momentary pause." The arrangement was bought at an exorbitant price from a fellow medic, who was gleeful for the chance to take advantage of any Hellebore. "We're going to the Cribellum. It's a modest library, if that. If you're forced to wait, it might as well be somewhere useful." It was all the invitation Duvalyon had to offer. He began walking, expecting Laszlo to follow. The Cribellum was a common destination for non-Symenestra. Routes from the Nest, Place of Purging and Meadows Public House had several threads each with baskets operated by hand. Secondary to surrogates, Symenestra pursued knowledge. They counted themselves especially fortunate if both could be found from the same vessel. This basket was without guard, requiring Duvalyon to man the gears himself. He occasionally glanced over the side of the basket. Laszlo could see nothing beneath them but stone and deeper gorges that led to palpable dark. Perhaps Duvalyon saw something else, or perhaps that terrible void was what intrigued him. Duvalyon had a way of speaking from silence that made one feel they were already in the midst of a conversation. "It's a collective repository for knowledge. We all take our turn at the Cribellum, writing what disparate and useful facts we can recall from travels and personal observation." The Symenestra cautioned, "Don't trust everything, there are some accounts that still need greater verification." He paused to cover a portion of the hanging opalgloam with his hand. He concentrated on the dark ahead of them; his red irises overwhelmed with eerie dilated black. A lever was pulled, jerking the basket in a new direction, and he allowed the opalgloam to shine again. "The bulk of it is useful, though, accumulated over generations. I frequent the place to borrow more established tomes for Dor and I."

[Laszlo]

Cribellum. Laszlo blinked as if the word were washing over his face like a tender breeze—a sensation he realized he hadn't felt down here since he arrived. The Ethaefal looked down, his fingertips unconsciously rubbing against his thumbs. Like so many little, maddening things, this felt familiar. A fuzzy, dreamlike texture was attached to the word, somehow good, but mostly undefinable. Frustrating. Perhaps because of his fatigue, or the events of the day, this disconnect vexed him more than usual, and he had to forcibly stomach his discontent. It didn't matter. If the medic were taking Laszlo there, he didn't have to sit here and wonder at it. Even if the place brought him no closer to understanding his existence, at least his curiosity would be satisfied, this itch sated. Dimmed, golden eyes trailed upward, fixing themselves on Duvalyon's feet. Laszlo gave a stiff nod, open-mouthed, without looking all the way up. "I've embarrassed you, haven't I?" he guessed, smirking as he dutifully fell in behind the Symenestra. The shadowy, barely illuminated corridor of the Purging, and its various staffers, passed around them like a sleeve as they made their way toward the exit. Laszlo, quietly in tow, felt like a child who had done something wrong. "I should have guessed that would happen." Soon after stepping into the basket, Laszlo chose one side to grab onto and wouldn't let go for the duration of the short trip. His tall frame leaned gently against it, which made the vehicle lean slightly to one side (inadequately counterbalanced by Duvalyon's lighter weight). The black void beneath him seemed to demand Laszlo's eyes, and he stared down into it. His mouth went a little dry. The fear of heights didn't grip him so much as the fear of falling, inspired by his recent experience with it. "All Symenestra write there?" Laszlo asked to verify. The earnestness in his tone betrayed his true question. Could I have written something? He understood the true reason Duvalyon was bringing him to the Cribellum; Laszlo was alarmingly ignorant. Everything he knew about Symenestra was learned from rumors spread among outsiders, among azo. Even if Laszlo was once kindred, the ghostlike memories of his previous life were barely existent, and not remotely helpful. Duvalyon might have been willing to teach Laszlo some things himself, but the Place of Purging was not a classroom. The Cribellum would do. It was a wise choice, on the medic's part. The lights of the Place of Purging left the peripheries of Laszlo's vision, replaced by near complete blackness. He thought that he could make out cloudy areas of gray and blue-black, but it might have just been phantoms swimming in his blind eyes. When he tried to ignore them, they somehow became easier to see. Instead, Laszlo tried to focus on replaying the unnerving events from the course of the day. The basket lurched suddenly, heralded by the grinding of foreign gears. Laszlo's body seized and froze as he clutched the side more fiercely. He relaxed a moment later, with a sigh of chagrin. There were times when he thought that, perhaps, coming to Kalinor had been a terrible idea. "Sounds like the first place I should have gone to when I got here."

[Poison]

THREAD AWARD!

Duvalyon:
Skills: Observation 3, Teaching 2, Hypnotism 1, Medicine 2, Philosophy 1
Lores: How Laszlo ended up in Kalinor

Laszlo:
Skills: Observation 3, Interrogation 3, Persuasion 1, Storytelling 1
Lores: Surrogates; Duvalyon's Job at the Purging; Dor is not a Surrogate; If the Father is a Symenestra, the Child is one as well; Why Symenestra are not immune to their Venom; the Cribellum

Notes: I really enjoyed reading the thread. You two write very well. Laszlo gets a lot of lores because most things in Kalinor are new to him and Duvalyon is explaining them to him. I couldn't find much in the ways of lores for you, Duvalyon. If either of you has questions or if you think you deserve more or different XP and lores, let me know!