Closed The Initiative [Keene]

[Caesarion]

11th of Spring, 515 AV

"It's rather a strange world," he professed. "Good and evil, want and need, change and stagnation . . . slavers and slaves. Duality is the theme of my life, is it not? And lately," the man's eyes wandered over his fellow slave's iris. "I've been alright with that."

He remembered what Gallagher used to say, back when he spoke religious. He was a follower of Sylir and of Priskil, just like 'Caesarion' was back then. He told Caesarion that under God, there was a time for everything. There was a time to be born, a time to live, a time to face challenge, a time to love, a time to die. Each man would experience every one of these things in the course of their life, and they'd grow from each and every experience. It seemed wise at the time, but as fortunes grew darker and hope became less of an abundant resource, the words were difficult to recall. God? Who was that? Which one? He, Her, It, nay. It didn't matter, really. They all seemed so powerless when you needed them.

Yet these words finally sank in, somewhere inside of him. He was becoming attuned to his situation, accepting his fate as a slave. Being owned was painful and always horrifying, but at least he didn't need to let his mind wander anymore. He couldn't run away like he always did before he was bound. His purpose was clear, with a clear ending and windswept road that led straight to the sunset. This was at least how he was feeling at the moment, or perhaps how he wanted to feel. He had a role to play with himself, too, lest he grow sorrowful and die young.

These prospects were more realistic than breaking free. He had to fight to get what he wanted. This much he knew.

At a later time, in the eve, he was seated across one of Telemaran's long tables, forced to look his master in the eye with his chained fists against his lap. Often, Telemaran was the strangest creature alive. He would just stare at Vox-Caesarion, examine him as if he were an intricate vase. Then, if he saw something wrong, he'd always be sure to expunge it. Overgrown stubble? An unfortunately located birth mark? A pink eye? Perhaps Vox was his intricate little fashionista more than he was his mage-slave. He wasn't so interested in his magic. It was all about his ability to be perfect and charming and cunning. Maybe he wanted a good spy. The sort of arrangement they had was never spoken of, even in private. It was, expected, that he do anything he asked. While on request often varied from the other, though, it was unlikely that they would remain distinctive for so long. Eventually, Telemaran would develop a plan.

He knew how these things worked. He was a slaver once, after all. Work the slave at what he's best at, after discovering it through a contingent of menial tasks. Vox was - so far - best at manipulating, whether by hypnosis or by means of a sly lip.

"My dear slave," he began, tapping his dead fingers against the wood of the table. "It's become apparent to me that you're rather a mixed investment. On one hand, I enjoy your presence and so do my 'courtiers' as I'd call them. On the other hand, you're expensive. Feeding humans at your rate isn't something I'm fond of. The rest of the slaves live in absolute pity, barely eating enough to live. It's like that everywhere. I've treated you fairly decently considering our circumstances. And how much did I spend on you, again? One thousand gold Miza? Do you acknowledge, my dear, just how much that is?" He looked to Vox rather aggressively, expecting a response in turn. The young man merely looked to him and said that he could not possibly know.

He had never possessed such money, he would tell Telemaran. And yet the man knew of the truth - the contrary, of his wealthy lineage. He knew that Vox hated to be treated like an investment. That was why he spoke to him like this. Hatred was the cream of their ever expanding field of crops. "Anyway, my dear, what I'm saying is that I simply cannot sustain you for much longer with the way things are going. You could very well end up a science experiment, sold to one of the crazy old nannies in the citadel. Or you could get shipped off to Sunberth or something. Though, to think of it, you might enjoy that Pulser shithole more than this undead one." He lowered his hands, and sighed as he attempted to return to his point.

"I have a task for you in order to discover your value. There is a human boy around the same age as you named Keene Ward. Talented individual. Dangerously so. I believe it's a possibility that he directly attempted to sabotage - if not kill me - somewhat recently. While he may not realize that I've caught on to his mundane scheme, I have. I would like you to make my assertion concrete." He nodded his head, standing up and walking to Vox in order to offer him a hard pat on the back. He was strangely kind when he was being cruel - but that was just his way. Everyone here was like that, really. Telemaran was a gem compared to the rest.

Knowing that, he felt well enough to obey. The young man stood up before kneeling down to his master, the man removing his shackles. "I will obey," Vox said. He didn't need to bring his sword, his armor or his shield as he went out today. He wore the same vestments that he'd wear while trying to catch someone's eye - the same little shinies lined up all over him that could mesmerize the strongest mind if even just for a moment. Then, he set out to the citadel to observe Keene, who was apparently a 'warden' of this city. Vox didn't really understand much about who those entities were, though Telemaran had begun to reveal more about the city practices as of late. He supposed the best way to discover was to interact. This was going to be a swell evening, as long as he didn't fail or die.

[Keene Ward]

His boots hit the ground at a steady pace, the rush of air that flowed in a rhythmic pant filled his ears as he moved, the gentle swirls of the winds around him filled with a peaceful, lackadaisical lethargy that was strangely soothing to the strain of his own muscles. He had been jogging intermittently from the point the terrain had become level enough for him to run without twisting his feet to point behind him, and as he crested one of the final rises before the last leg of the lengthy journey to the citadel, Keene paused to catch his breath, wiping sweat from his brow with the back of his hand, his shirt securely tucked into his belt. He imagined the amount of sweat he'd produced over the past few seasons to be cumulatively on par with the waters of Matthew's Bay, something he had never thought he might be capable of in his entire lifetime. The physical training, however, had been good for him, and he enjoyed it as much as anything else.

While magic was fascinating, it was draining and taxed more than simple fatigue. There were days like the current where he wanted to reach the point of exhaustion but not at the cost of tearing apart his own essence to do so. His expanded training allowed for that, and he wasn't wont to pass over it. So, as his chest began to rise and fall in a more manageable manner, Keene started down the hill at a steady jog, arms moving in a rhythmic rock as his feet hit the dry earth with a soft, pounding meter. The winds followed him, the gentle blues and silvers of the mark on his back drawing them along, though Keene imagined it was less of a draw and more of a vague interest that kept the invisible creatures alongside him. He had tried to speak with them in his natural, factual manner, but it had had little effect on the breezes, let alone the more powerful and wild storms.

Once he had made it to the main gate, Keene paused, taking time stretch out his legs and catch his breath. He had returned to the Citadel for two reasons, the most prevalent being he needed to fetch a package that had arrived for Atziri a few days before while the other being a personal interest in revisiting the Gug Andjak's sizable library in search of knowledge he had yet to discover. There was always something for him to do that benefited either mind, body, or both. Having never been inefficient with his time, Keene strove to fill his day with what he could to better himself, whether it be a lengthy - albeit slow - run filled with philosophical, internalized debate or bells spent hunched over cryptic tomes and journals depicting anything from personal histories to the secrets of a new magic. Sahova had everything he needed, but it required him first to take it.

When he had cooled down enough that his body wasn't entirely covered in sweat with a bit of assistance from his reimancy in a tightly controlled, rolling gust that sent little shivers of joy through the winds that had lazily swirled about his legs on the way over, Keene re-donned his tattered tunic, thankful for the short, ragged sleeves that only came to about the middle of his biceps. The island's heat was formidable, and his clothing purchases had been a large help in combating it. Both shirt and pants, however, were only marginally useful in staving off the chill of the citadel's naturally frigid interior. As he entered into the vestibule, the gentle creep of the cold wrapped itself around him in a gradual embrace as his footsteps made a sharp echo about the arched stone walls where the stoic, soulless likenesses of those past watched him in silence. The grandeur of the TAR stood, whirring as if it had always done so. He had not expected it to be brought back in such an abrupt and seemingly seamless manner, but the automaton functioned as though nothing had ever happened to it before. It seemed to stare down at him as he passed, but it made no indication that he was noticed, something that was, in the very back of his consciousness, slightly disconcerting.

Upon entering the courtyard, the swirling mists tossed by the invisible influence of the plethora of spirits rose to meet him, the humidity of the island's heat pressing against the bare skin of his face, coaxing out the tell tale lines of sweat at his temples as he made with way over the twisting paths to the Gug Andjak. The Syncrography would wait until he was ready to leave, as Keene was fully aware it would take just as long at any other point in the day to retrieve it, and he preferred to get his other investigations done and managed before he subjected himself to the grunts and disdainful stares of the office's keeper. It wasn't that Keene found it uncomfortable, only it was inefficient and often a lengthy wait, which was made more educational with knew knowledge floating around in his head. He couldn't return to the cavern until the next day anyway, so the library was the most appealing and logical destination for him.

Upon entering the ever bustling - though never quite "busy" - main floor of the hall, Keene's eyes were immediately drawn to a sight rare enough to warrant a fair amount of surprise. A man stood out from the drab and muted colors of those moving to or from the various laboratories and workshops, an air about him similar to that of a sculpture or other such piece of art with the vestments to support it. It was odd, and Keene hesitated, grey-green eyes piercing across the empty space to linger on the man's features, his healthy, living glow, and yet the strange hollowness that seemed to hover just behind it all. He was not the only one to stare at the young man. Others took glances or just stared as blatantly as the initiate. It wasn't common to see something so extravagant in the citadel, aside from Amaryllis or Telemeran, and for the face to be something so foreign to Keene's memory made him all the more intriguing. It seemed that the man wasn't quite nearly as interested in his other spectators as he was Keene, and the young reimancer decided the library could wait. The books and their knowledge would remain long after Keene had returned to dust, the man appeared so antithetical to the island, it was a wonder he hand't already disappeared beneath its dusty surface.

He approached without much emotion in his eyes or face. He was interested, certainly, but not so much he couldn't control himself. It was entirely likely the young man was a recent arrival, his body didn't show the telltale signs of a restricted diet. While he was certainly not corpulent, the man lacked the more lithe structure of most of the other living who inhabited the island, something that was done through regular meals and a diet of more than berries and small game. In either chance, the man seemed interested in Keene, which was something that only added to the oddity. He couldn't place where the interest was focused, whether it be the man knew of him somehow or if Keene had simply been the random choice of the man's preferences, but as he approached, he gave the other man a small bow of greeting. Social tact was not something Keene was practiced in, and he rarely found a reason not to employ the most direct use of questions. "What are you doing?" There was no aggression in his voice, only the cool, soft tone of Keene's chilled cadence as his eyes regarded the other man with blank appraisal, face tilted slightly upwards to compensate for the man's superior height. There were many questions he could have asked, but the one spoken had left plenty of options for the other man to pursue in his reply.

oocIf this doesn't work for a good intro, just let me know! I wasn't sure if Vox would be out in the open or lurking around, so if it's the latter, feel free to nudge me, and I'll edit the post. :)

[Caesarion]

There wasn't a particular chance in hell that he'd usually be found so blatantly wandering. He figured it made him seem suspicious, just as different things always seemed suspicious - a white cat with a bell strapped to its neck while surrounded by cross-bred strays was conspicuous. That was sort of how Vox was right now, and how he felt too. He felt like he was gaudy or over-represented, and yet that was the demand that he was required to obey. It was going to build him a quick enough reputation - though sadly, he just knew that it wouldn't be a positive one. People would quickly understand why he appeared as he did, why he spoke as he did, why he acted.

And they'd wish in their hearts that they had made the choice to walk away when their eyes flashed over. The man was not a great prize to be worshiped, but instead a spy for a very pompous and ambitious individual.

The place around him was strange. Much more depressing than inside of Telemaran's abide - and slightly colder, too. He hadn't been here much, only passed through very quickly to fulfill an errand. Actually seeing all of the people and their infrastructure was alarming. Sahova was more of a place to die than to live, and that was quantified by everything within it. None of it felt nearly as home-like as Syliras, or as exquisite as Ravok. From the grey walls to the grey floors to the grey-ish people, he couldn't find the need for interest. And this made him more conspicuous still, the man finding himself the target of gazes from a selection of people. Some of them he recognized, and those were the people that Telemaran told him to look out for. Because he had enemies, for some absurd reason. Enemies, as if that was supposed to mean something. He never knew which type of enemy they were - a dangerous one? A competitive one? Or were they simply the target of Emarus's unfortunate jealousy?

Enemies, and beyond them all, there was the greatest one: Keene. It didn't really take an explanation for him to guess which one of them was Keene, a man who seemed to stare back at Vox the moment Vox's eyes met his skin. He was certainly conspicuous himself - while he had blended, there were constant reminders of where he was from. Across the sea, away from here, some city in Sylira probably. He had the same natural demeanor as Vox himself, to an extent, and some that he had known in the past. Beyond that, there was his appearance. He was young and with fair skin, not surprising considering the climate of Sahova. He had an untouched complexion, an almost strangely innocent look to his face, and a fairly asserted physique. He was developed enough to be a man, yet somehow he looked naive enough to almost be seen as a non-risk. He lacked danger to him. And perhaps that was a weapon of his.

He was attractive - that was true as well. He had the sort of look that Vox used to swoon over back when things were simple and didn't involve chains or servitude. But - because times had changed, such a connection to his past didn't change his perception of Keene any more than a fly phased a beast. What crossed his mind now was whether or not Keene was dangerous. He was already known to Vox, and Vox to him. They had glanced at each other more than once, and from these glances their curiosity increased. But why was Keene looking at him? Was the young Ravokian simply unique, or was he already aware of his initiative? Telemaran said that Keene was impressive, but how impressive? There was too little known, and he didn't want to let it kill him in his sleep. He needed to understand what sort of man Keene was.

Finally, dreadfully and quickly, the other human male stepped over to Vox and asked him a very forward question. What really got him was just how open-ended his question was. What are you doing? What exactly did the 'doing' pertain to? Breathing, living, existing, standing, staring? Or was he asking a more deeper question about Vox's motives? The man wasn't sure, but he didn't allow himself to get choked up either. He smiled brightly for an instant, then lowered his eyes as if he were a shy individual. "The same thing as you, friend - staring," he said. Keene had been staring just as much as Vox, so the fault lied to none. Of course, he sort of felt that his question wasn't as simple as whether or not he was staring. That was obvious.

"Now that I've answered your question, honor me and answer mine: you didn't really just ask what I was doing, right? Am I criminally suspicious? Or is that supposed to be an ice-breaker?" Despite the almost rudeness to his reply, his words were formal, his posture official. He didn't really seem like he was trying to offend, but instead that he was a sarcastic fellow. It was perhaps all something Keene would notice - his highborn attitude, like someone who wasn't a nobody. He didn't play like a slave - now that he was approached, he'd act as his wits dictated.

[Keene Ward]

The smile was wide, open, and most of all, it was concealing. There was only one smile that had ever truly disarmed him, and the owner of it was long since gone from Sahova. Keene's features remained steady as the other man replied, the mannerisms all certainly very typical of those he had left behind back in Zeltiva. It was wasted effort in his opinion. Playfulness of emotion shone in face and body were meaningless. It was far more efficient to say what one meant and to mean what one said, which make the more intricate filigrees of the social world a permanent mystery to him - and one he was loathe to solve. His speech was flowery and carried with it an air of refinement Keene was quick to associate with the wealthy Zeltivans in their silks and finery. Whether the man was intentionally so or not, his nature implied he was a man not to be taken lightly. Skepticism was certainly going to be his ally, as it often was with people of the taller man's kind.

The answer itself was unsurprisingly obtuse, whether that was a reflection of the man himself or merely the natural way of the Sahovans, Keene didn't bother worrying about it too much. He had gotten his reply, however useless, and nodded that he had indeed done the same. He made a small mental note to refrain from generalized questions if he didn't want generalized answers, something he found to make perfect sense - equivalence of exchange. The questions asked him were received with placid stare and hung in the air for a few ticks before he responded. His eyes were still set on the other man's, whether he met them or not. Keene preferred to speak eye to eye, a habit he had formed since he was young and found no reason to keep from it, unless the situation demanded otherwise. "That is all I asked." The statement was a fact. He had wanted the man to give more information than he had, but what had been given had satisfied the inquiry. If he were implying anything other than the question's face value, Keene didn't pick up on it. "Criminally?" He shook his head, voice steady and soft. "No. Your appearance is uncommon though."

At the last bit, Keene frowned some, brow furrowing slightly. "Ice-breaker?" There was no ice to break. He shrugged it off, assuming it some conversation idiom he wasn't aware of. Still, he was aware of the typical flow of a conversation: question, answer, question, et cetera. His head tilted slightly to the side as he regarded the other man. Information for information. "I am Keene Ward, and I would like to know your name." He paused for a tick before adding, "And what purpose you have on Sahova." He continued, sharing his own reasons for being where he was and asked what he had, as it was the proper and most fitting manner in which to exchange information. "You stand out, and I am... surprised I have not seen you before. As an Initiate of the Wardens, I am expected to be aware of those I'm responsible for." In spite of his words, there was very little surprise in his voice. While he was wholly unaware of just how many nuit were in the citadel, Pulsers were another matter entirely. They were a very small population, and the hunters aside, Keene knew that the living were often more trouble than the undead when it came to matters of protecting the island.

From what he could tell, the man before him was more of a social danger than anything else, but appearances were often as telling as a passing intuition: occasionally correct, but often too polluted by bias and subterfuge to be worth much in terms of validity. Keene didn't expect the man to immediately betray his composure and lay bare the intentions of his life's goals, but an indication as to why such a man would be in such as place as Sahova was a start.

[Caesarion]

The man was incredibly alarmed. Weary. It didn't take a master of body language to understand that Keene was put-off by Vox's demeanor, his smiles and his pleasantries and his pointless words that could not live outside of a ballroom encounter. These weren't words that were expected to survive in the real world - all these ifs and buts, these irritating little deflections and annoying figures of speech. It didn't matter. Just like Keene loved to be forward, Vox loved to dance around the subject and avoid conspicuous facts. It was sort of always like that, wasn't it? Even back as Caesarion, he liked to play at the mind and engage in philosophy and battles of wit. It was never about the simple way or the easy way, but the way that stimulated his mind. Keene wasn't really stimulating his mind right now, but there was something about him that was very appealing to Vox. It was the very same forward demeanor that made him unique, and in more than one sense. While Emarus liked slaves with the annoying habits of himself, his Ravokian 'apprentice' greatly preferred the most brutal and realistic of men. Perhaps that was what he sensed about Keene . . . his forwardness was almost like brutality, his soft voice somehow more dead to Vox's ears than the Nuit. It drew his attention, and that was more than enough.

The one thing that made him feel estranged was Keene's comment on his "uncommon" appearance. Was that really grounds enough to be stopped? Were there not others here that were at least somewhat more exquisite than the rest of the residents? Vox wasn't alone. He'd seen more like him - masters and slaves, all together trying to make themselves seem more special. As if appearance determined power. Emarus was much this way - he liked to dabble in pointless jests and live surrounded by themes rather than face the fact-of-the-matter. That was probably why he sent Vox, so ill-equipped, to deal with someone who practically radiated the ability to kill if necessary. He was pleased by the idea that Vox was his 'super-spy', but in reality, no such entity had been built.

"My appearance is uncommon, yes," he nodded. It wasn't just the fact that he actually tried to make himself look attractive, but he also had light-shaded clothes and attire that was more pleasant than effective. Still, he could say the same about Keene, being a human, being young, and being attractive. These traits were very uncommon here. Most of the Nuit looked and acted like rotten turnips - like they were crumbling and so didn't care about anything but repetition of the same menial task for a hundred years. "As is yours," he finally added. "At least at the base. I wouldn't say you're altogether too suspicious. But you're noticeable. Very distinctive. Maybe that's why you decided to approach me? Common ground?" He smiled faintly, before allowing himself to loosen his posture. He didn't want to seem stuck-up or tight. He was speaking to Keene now. They were of some similarities. He could build off of that.

The man locked his fingers together and relaxed them at the front of his body. He stared into Keene's eyes just as the man wished him to, making an effort to observe the complexion and features that existed just around his globes, and without making it all that obvious. He liked to know a man before he invested into him. This wasn't just about spying. This was about understanding Keene Ward, who was just as interesting to Vox as he was to Telemaran. The slave and slaver had many similarities when it came to who very well stood out. "Don't worry for my terms, Ser Ward," he replied. The man had no reason or desire to explain what an "ice-breaker" was. Instead, he focused on the rest of what he spoke as he spoke it. Wanting to know Vox's name was all well and good - that was just an expectation. His purpose? That was more complicated, and in order to reveal that he'd have to essentially sacrifice his game. At least - he thought - Keene considered Vox his responsibility. He was like one of the Knights from back in Syliras, yet somehow less icy than them.

Honestly, Vox found this young man invariably pleasant.

"My name is Vox." Surname? He wasn't so sure he had one. Caesarion was gone and Panthos was gone. He supposed if he had anything, now, it was the identity of his master. Vox Telemaran? Something felt wrong about that. He decided to simply refrain from speaking the words. "I don't have a second half to my name; my family is dead and gone. More importantly, my purpose here is one that I did not choose. I'm a slave." He didn't like to speak the words, but that was simply the truth. A slave was who he was. He couldn't lie to Keene any better than he could lie to himself.

His eyes lowered slightly, the man quickly regaining his composure. He decided to assume that he had done terribly in regards to his duty, considering Keene would probably lose his interest the moment he realized the weight of his words. At least, that was what he imagined based on his experiences with southern humans. Not all of them, either. Back before everything sort of fell apart, Vox had always found great interest in slaves and their livelihoods. He always wanted to know just how they lived. It was difficult indeed to live a dreamless life, one with no aspiration.

"What about you, Keene? I don't imagine that you're in my predicament. You must be here willingly. And I can't even begin to imagine why." It was obvious that the slave wasn't quite a fan of his current setting. Even Sunberth was probably a healthier environment for a breathing man.

[Keene Ward]

Keene supposed the man had a point. It was something he'd never given quite so much thought to, but as it was pointed out that he and the man before him were not so basically different in terms of appearance - that being mostly Keene and he were of the living - the seemingly unnatural way in which everyone always seemed to know where he was made a world more sense. The statement of common ground, however, gained little purchase. To Keene, he and the man were hardly similar. They were both alive, yes, but that meant little in terms of kinship to him. He had never stopped to consider whether or not he was attractive, nor in what way that attractiveness might compare to others. Thus, he found the reply to be a very solid "no", but didn't speak as the man continued. It had been posited as a question, and Keene felt that replying to it would do little more than to reiterate what he assumed the other man already knew.

He found the searching gaze that met his own to be slightly unnerving. It scritched at the back of his mind, not rising to the surface of his features, but residing where it had emerged, quietly scraping against the shadows of his consciousness. There was something there, something he couldn't place, that burned behind the man's gaze. The nature of it eluded him, whether it be hostile or friendly, Keene supposed only time would tell, and only if that time would be given. The use of "Ser" before his name sounded incredibly foreign, but Keene did not correct him. Names were names; there was power to a name, but for all intents and purposes of the two of them, they were little more than a label to pair with a face. If Vox wished to augment Keene's to better remember it, Keene was not so attached to his name as to take offense. If anything, it was merely the nature of social exchange. "Vox." Keene repeated the name after it was shared, taking a moment during which his eyes quickly and succinctly flicked over the man's face, internalizing it along with his label.

The manner in which Vox declared his status of slavery brought a slight twitch of a raised brow as Keene regarded him. He knew little of slavery outside of the few personal accounts he'd skimmed through in the library, but it had never interested him. Ownership of another human being seemed entirely absurd to him. There were debts and favors and such that a man might owe another, but no bond - proper or not - seemed capable of holding another to a binding he did not desire. A choice was always available, though Keene supposed it was a matter in which he knew too little about to draw any sort of judgment or conclusion on the matter. As far as he was aware, Vox was the only slave in the citadel. Even if he had seen other slaves, they would have appeared to him not much different from the other, ragged, weary Pulsars of the island. He was an exception in that respect, able to live a life that was dangerous but equally as comfortable in comparison. He blinked twice, his passive face staring at the man's down cast eyes. "I see." There was no indication he thought any less of Vox, nor any that he thought more. It was just another bit of information.

As was customary, a question for question ad nauseam. "I am not a slave, no." Keene continued on, spending little time on the statement as it required nothing more than that which it took to speak them. "We have common ground in that neither of us have families any longer." It had taken a long time, but he was able to speak of his lack of famlilial connections without so much as hitch in his voice or a tightening of his chest. The incessant training since Noven's departure had been therapeutic enough to stave off the more physiological responses to his remembered tragedies, though his psychology was still a long ways to come. "I am here to learn." He didn't say anything else on the matter. It was, ultimately, the single point which had first drawn him to the island and continued to bind him to it. Knowledge, power, and magic; all three were obtainable only within the vaulted secrets the island so jealously shielded from the rest of the world. He intended to discover them, to decipher them, and ultimately, to control them. Little else shone in his face as he contemplated what he might say next.

There was shame in Vox's eyes when he had spoke of his position as a slave. Shame was most often linked to things one did not particularly like to discuss, and the state of slavery was not something Keene was very interested in to begin with. Instead, his quiet words approached his earlier question from a slightly different perspective. "What purpose does your master have for you?" He wasn't sure if it were proper to ask such a question, nor if there were some binding agreement between slave and master not to speak of the other's intentions, but in any case, it seemed more likely the man or woman that had brought Vox to the island had had a plan for him. It was also entirely likely that, if such a plan did exist, Vox was unaware of it. He did not appear to enjoy Sahova, but it didn't change the fact that he was - almost undoubtedly - the single most healthy Pulser on the island. There was luxury for him in that, Keene supposed, if nothing else.

[Caesarion]

Vox, he said. He wasn't the first to say just the name, by itself, as he stared at the branded slave. Considering the identity was new to him, he almost wanted to repeat it along with Keene, as if he too were getting to know whoever the owner of the name was. It was interesting, honestly, to see how he'd changed since adapting this new and second self. More interesting was how others began to treat him. In a way, it was almost like he had become somehow sacred. Before, he was his own man and everything that he owned belonged to him. Everyone around him knew him as Caesarion, and they treated him like anyone else. That was the life most people in this world lived. To be owned was an entirely different matter. You were never independent, and never entirely responsible. Your body was the agent of another, a human being refined to a point. That made even just the ephemeral acknowledgment of another person's livelihood flex and bend - people didn't look at him the same way or act the same way. There was an acknowledgment of lowliness but also of the glory of suffering. The name, Vox, symbolized all of this. It marked him as the personification of ownership, stagnation, and yet also change.

What intrigued him was how little Keene's outward demeanor changed when he made his declaration. His apathy did not multiply, nor did his interest wane. The young man simply acknowledged Vox for what he was, his lips parting to say two ultimately brief words before his mind trailed off to grasp at his next words. All the meanwhile, as he thought and he moved and he spoke, the slave was observing him at the peak of his interest. What a strange fellow Keene was. He had never met a human quite like him - at least, they didn't act the way he did for the same reasons. This island had changed Keene. Perhaps it would change Vox too, and he too could become forward and peering and powerful. Or maybe he'd only drift farther to the other side, replicating his master's predilections.

"You don't have the air of a slave, do you?" he asked, though it was a rhetorical question. He didn't ever picture Keene as being in servitude, especially considering the master's interest in him. His lack of family, though, that did not surprise him. Were they dead or simply gone? He did not find it appropriate to ask. Vox's own family was not dead save for his father, but considering all that had happened, he knew that they wouldn't likely see him again. It was best to treat them as specters from the past, rather than long for them in the present and future. "Cheers to our mutual loss," he said with a stoic expression. It wasn't necessarily something to be happy about, though it was at least - as Keene said - "common ground". Interestingly enough, Keene didn't seem to put much thought into his words either. He'd accepted the lack of family, that meant. Vox too, for the most part. He still yearned for them every once a season, every year's beginning, and every tragedy's end. But it wasn't all the time like before. He didn't have dreams of going off and adventuring with his brother. He didn't daydream of their nostalgic exercises in futility, all these crazy things they'd experience throughout the day.

His steel chains had eventually begun to mold him to become as hard as they were, and as cold too. The same journey for life's luster had begun to fade.

At his confession that he came here to learn, the older man nodded with interest, almost surprised at the Warden's conviction. "I envy you for your diligence, Ser Ward. To endure such a depression as Sahova entirely for the purpose of self-improvement . . . that makes you an impressive man." And he knew that there was much to be found, here, in this bleak palace of the dead. Knowledge of magic here was vast and nigh-limitless. This was because everyone here would live forever, and also, because they all seemed to wish in the back of their minds for the sort of power that could usurp a God's seat. They did not quite care to imagine a world of stagnation or humility. In death, it seemed that man became even more ambitious than in life. "I would like to learn too." It was true that he was a mage before he'd become enslaved. He was never really a good one, though, paling in comparison to most of the ones here. He knew some hypnotism, some - little tricks he'd learned from Silas. He knew some offensive spells. It just didn't seem like improving that craft would really help his situation. He didn't imagine that it was what Telemaran wanted.

"I just don't know," he continued, "if it's really possible anymore. So instead, I've resigned myself to obliging what the master seeks. What does he want right now, you ask?" The young man frowned. That was a difficult question, because it involved Keene. At any single recognition of why Vox was here, speaking to him, the conversation would lose its authenticity. The sad thing was that the slave didn't really want to serve the master, and in reality he was speaking because he was interested and - he wanted to just have someone to talk to. It'd been a difficult year, and most of it was spent in solitude. So, Keene was a reprieve, even though he was soft-spoken and almost lifeless in a way. He was still . . . reminiscent of what he knew from the past. He was human. That mattered.

Regardless, he did not decide to lie. So, whatever the outcome, Vox made it his point to tell Keene the truth of why he was here. "I came here seeking you, Keene," he said. "My master is Emarus Telemaran. Can't you tell by my demeanor? We're kindred souls." He was already observing - already waiting for Keene to walk away or grow irritable. It didn't really matter, though. Because of what he knew about people and the language they expressed, he was going to get his information at this moment. If Keene was in fact guilty of attempting to sabotage Telemaran, then Vox would be able to read it in-between the lines. "He's asked me to uncover whether or not you recently unleashed an aggressive plot against him. He already believes this to be so. All I need is the truth - and I will be content, at least in fulfilling my obligation." But that wasn't all he wanted right now. He was curious about more than just the answer given by the man. Keene himself was an interesting person. Why did he attack Telemaran? Were they of such a different polarity? Did he intend to kill him? What made such an almost shy and soft-spoken individual lash out like that?

This was all a matter of intrigue to him - someone who fed off of intrigue in order to survive.

[Keene Ward]

Keene blinked at the mention of his lack of slave-like airs. Of course he didn't have the air of a slave, there was no point in his life in which he'd considered himself such. In reality, there had never been a time in his life when he had had any form of independence, but that objective realization was something he had yet to fully grasp or even begin to comprehend. He merely blinked back at Vox, his face doing little more than that at the morbid salute to their estranged relations. He disagreed, wholly, but it wasn't the time nor place for such trivialities. After all, it didn't seem as though Vox was particularly set on such a macabre celebration, leaving it a highly probable form of rhetoric that Keene didn't even try to grasp. Time, as far as Keene was aware, moved in a linear path. While he knew Mella's death was, ultimately, the catalyst that had provided him with the resources and drives to achieve the laurels he had already procured with many more on the horizon, it did little to make her absence fall against him any lighter. Time wounded him, and only time could scar over the tissue he had allowed to fester for so long.

He had never thought his endeavors anything to inspire anything in anyone before, and as Vox voiced his own impression, Keene's lips turned ever slightly into a frown. He wasn't sure what to think about such blatant appraisal of abilities of which Vox had no idea of their scope. It was flattery, he supposed, but it was poorly constructed. The majority of those who came to the island were like him: knowledge-seekers, power-mongers. They all wanted what they didn't have, and it was so rare to find a place where power was there for taking if one could only push one's self to tear it from the chest within whom it beat. He was not special, nor unique, not even gifted. His abilities and skills had been gained through time, effort, and loss; these were not things to be lauded. They simply were.

While Sahova was certainly a more drab and dismal location than Zeltiva, Keene had not found it particularly detrimental to his development. If anything, the solitary and dangerous nature of the island had been useful in both allowing him his focus while keeping him on edge, always prepared, though not necessarily always successful. The only things he had had to endure were self-imposed hardships - he barely considered the more meager rations and constant threat of death to be anything worth considering as obstacles - which left little for him to overcome. All in all, Vox overestimated him, or at least conjectured him into something he most certainly was not.

When Vox revealed his intentions, Keene received the information with a slight raise of his brow. There was truth to what Vox said in his jest of "kindred souls". Keene supposed that was what had been the draw, the slight whisper of familiarity. Telemeran seemed a likely candidate for owning slaves, something that, even in the literature Keene had glanced over, was more for the wealthy than anything else; and from what Keene knew, Telemeran was quite focused on wealth. It also filled in the blanks regarding Vox's apparent health. Telemeran, in every instance, had been decadently dressed from head to foot, with little indication that he in habited a corpse aside from the occasional sunken eyes or greyed skin. It only stood to reason that a prized possession would exemplify those same tastes. The purpose being Keene, however, was unexpected. He had not had the most positive relations with the Overseer, but Keene had assumed that was the way in which most people interacted with him. Apparently, that was not the case.

The information regarding Vox's mission was received with little response as Keene stared back at him. Several ticks passed before he finally blinked, clearing his throat as he did so. There had been, for the smallest of moments, a very small urge for his lips to curl. Instead, however, his voice moved quiet and soft between his lips as he replied, eyes a muted grey that wavered between disdain, amusement, or perhaps just the natural set of his visage. "I do not plot." The words were as true as anything else he had said prior. His mind was better suited towards other things, and Telemeran was hardly worth his time. He had a single goal with several tangents, all of which were paths to trod, not plans to make. He had thought Telemeran petty and odd but paranoid had not been among his first impressions - though past interactions with the nuit certainly did little to assuage the claim.

"I am a guardian of the island, a Warden initiate. Plotting against him is paramount to plotting against myself." Though the words may have been patronizing, there was little force behind them to make them believable in that nature. Keene simply spoke of things the way they were. He had no intention of risking his life to take one that was so insignificant as the Overseer's. Telemeran thought too highly of himself, it seemed. There was little else to say on the subject, and Keene had found a point of interest in Vox's words. "You say you would like to learn, but you don't know if it's possible?" Keene shook his head, the motion as muted as any of his other expressions. "Knowledge is not restricted by freedom. It's gained by those who seek it." His eyes carried little warmth or reassurance in them, but the point still stood. "Are you unable to seek?" One could not be kept from learning. Perhaps what was learned could be restricted, certainly, but as long as one had a mind, that mind would learn - slavery or no, it seemed Vox had more than enough access to follow his pursuit of knowledge. Keene wasn't sure what all was stopping him.

[Caesarion]

His gaze narrowed. Keene did not plot, apparently. His words were very straight and narrow, with a singular interpretation that could be drawn. The question remained, then. If he didn't attack Telemaran, who did? Why was the master so sure of Keene's involvement? There had to be more than just what Emarus said, and what Keene imagined to be true. The Overseer didn't quite have an obsession with the young Warden, so the likelihood of him explicitly targeting him with no reason to was . . . well, low. Of course, Vox couldn't find the will to be aggressive with his questioning. He half-believed Keene and he half-didn't. He resolved to speak differently, approach differently, indulge in Keene's obligations. There was no way he was returning home without something. "Despite being human, I've ascertained by now that you have no interest in the extravagance of speech that we are mutually expected to demonstrate. With you, there is only a question and an answer, and perhaps a truth and a lie. If that is what you will, Keene Ward, then I will speak much the same. But, allow me to be entirely honest." He stepped forward, slightly closing the distance between he and the Warden. He did so gracefully so as to not alert him, but his demeanor shifted from being invariably pleasant to carrying tension.

He wasn't accusing Keene, nor was he angry at him, nor was he trying to intimidate him. It was just that Vox was diligent as well, in different ways - he had tasks to fulfill in order to maintain his livelihood. Keene was somehow necessary to all of this, and so regardless of whether he attacked Telemaran or not, his role was not yet absolved. "My master was attacked. It is known. While the man is sort of a fool in some ways, he's dreadfully calculated in others. He is not lying, and he is not concerned for no reason. In the real world, it is important to know who your friends are and who your enemies are. I understand this very well. You see," he stopped for a moment. To be truthful, it was quite uncomfortable to reveal his past before this one - mostly because of how far he had fallen. Still, such words now were necessary to expose to Keene how very serious he was.

"I was in the same position as the Overseer back in Ravok. I had many slaves of my own, and for each slave an enemy. My father was the head of the family, so all of the ire of those enemies went to him. As a result of our foes, he eventually found his food rather poisoned and he died like a bloated toad. I am no stranger to death, Ser Ward. Nor am I to enemies, or to allies, or to those ambivalent. If you truly believe yourself to be a guardian of the island, then tell me the entire truth right now: do you know anything about who attacked my master? And if not, then are you willing to help me find out?" His words were fanciful in ways, but forward nonetheless. There was no lying and there was no beating around the bush. Keene was here in front of him now, as an opportunity, and he would not waste it explaining things such as his master's cologne or the color of his mother's eyes. That was all very well and good, but right now, it was not what Vox was here for.

The relief was that Keene didn't really seem like the type that would grow angry with his words. He perhaps found pride in his position as a Warden, which meant doing his duty honestly. Vox respected that. Back when he wanted to live out life as a Syliran Knight, he was much the same way. It was only too bad that his morale fell apart shortly before he could fully enlist.

When the slave's mind fully calmed itself from its bellowing and blunt choice of words, he acknowledged Keene's words on his education - his progress through magic and other scholarly pursuits. Are you unable to seek? He didn't really know. That sort of process had become far gone through all the years of barely scraping by. Unlike with Keene, the struggle of life did not support Vox's development. Rather, it stunted it, because he was a man whose state of mind was easily destroyed by fear and change. He was still incredibly weak. How could he pursue anything in this state, other than simply the status quo? Did a possibility for improvement live among him? Within him? "My freedom may be gained by what I know," he cleared his throat, "but - my imprisonment binds my mind to stagnation. What do you think the master seeks, Keene? A slave who overpowers him and may result in his destruction? Or one that can be fully harnessed without the slightest chance of betrayal? I am unable to seek, as you say. I am sought after, and may choose only to close my eyes and pretend that overpowering gaze away. My mind cannot expand. It is now merely an extension of another: one that can detach from me and leave me behind. I do not wish such a fate on myself. I wish to simply be commanded and obey."

As sad as it was to admit, he had become comfortable with submission. The ambition that ruled his young life had led him astray, away from the eyes of God and beneath the heel of a fiend. So - when did such a rhythm change in movement? Should he continue to try? He could never quite decide.

[Keene Ward]

It seemed Vox was skeptical of Keene's honesty, something he supposed was all well and fair in that they had known each other for less than a bell. Trust was rarely given to those on the island at all, and if it was, it was rare for it to be to a stranger. Whether Vox was accustomed to the nature of Sahova or not, it appeared he was suited for it none the less. His words were confusing, and while Keene stared impassively back and up at the man's face as he made his point before stepping closer, Keene's attention was only partially focused on what was right in front of him. Vox seemed to think the role of humanity was to play in the extravagant charade of veiled phrases and gilded words. It was antithetical to what Keene had been thought and how he currently handled any other social interaction; to claim that all men existed to partake in a proverbial dance of tongues was as ludicrous as it was presumptuous. It did, however, give Keene a clear indication that Vox - whatever his opinions of Keene - was willing to set aside his ideal manner of communication in order to better... communicate. The idea was hardly novel, but Keene found few people ever thought to employ it, so stuck they were in their frivolous games of hide and seek.

When Vox drew nearer, Keene remained where he was. Though the man was taller and more fully built than he, Keene feared few men. He was also logical - and from what he had learned of Vox, so too was he. To fight or threaten in such a public area was beyond foolish, and even as Vox spoke again in a softer though far more urgent tone, heads had already turned to keep an eye on the situation. Whether they knew who Vox was or not, Keene's vambrace strapped to his left arm was a very clear, very prominent declaration of his status as part of the Wardens. It was unwise for any harm to come to him, just as it was unwise for any harm to be inflicted on the man who had begun to better explain the situation. Keene listened, eyes settled passively on Vox's as his lips tilted in a soft frown.

Atziri had said she'd taken care of matters, but it seemed those mattered had not been quite as cared for as Keene had thought. There was no point in faulting his master for the paranoia of a self-important nuit; he imagined such things were far more difficult to disperse. Instead, Keene remained quiet. He had never attacked the Overseer, but he had certainly been accessory to it. A lie, however, was something of a set definition: Keene had not attacked Telemeran. He had been there when it had happened, and he had fled, but none of that compromised the truthfulness of the prior statement. There was more to be said, however, and Keene waited through the duration of the pause with a slightly raised brow. He had never been one for personal histories. There was always useful information in them somewhere, but the past was the past and the present the present. The less one could dwell on the what was to focus on the what was now, the better off one was. Still, Vox thought it relevant to share, and after his declaration of what Keene had thought to be brevity - the succinctness of the straightforward approach he had thought understood -, Keene was inclined to listen if nothing else.

The story held little relevance from beginning to end as far as Keene was concerned. The irony of Vox's situation did not dawn on him, nor did he draw any parallels between the story and the current situation. The Wardens operated independently of the master - they often worked under them, certainly - but Keene making a grab for Telemeran's life was pointless. It would not change anything. The conditional clause, however, was purely grasping at straws. He was a guardian of the island, not of Telemeran. The difference was as distinct and night and day. He let a small, terse sigh move from between his lips before he replied. The manner in which Vox had phrased the question was odd enough that he was able to state an unemotional, "Yes." He knew exactly who attacked Telemeran. He also knew further investigations would prove fruitless, as the aggressor was somewhere far across the sea. There was no plot, no gathering danger. It had been a singular event, and while perhaps Telemeran's apprehension was not entirely unwarranted, it would not occur any time soon if Keene had any say over the matter. "There is nothing more to find out." It was said as the fact it was. There was zero indication in any part of Keene's mannerisms that spoke otherwise.

Conflicting desires were all Keene really gathered from Vox's monologue. If the man was not willing to take the steps to learn what he wanted in a way that would not cost him, Keene had no reason to press the issue. He simply nodded, eyes steady and indifferent. He doubted Vox was truly unable to seek, but it may as well have been as binding as any other truth in so much as Vox made it so. To convince one who was so certain of the opposite was a task far too taxing for Keene. Had he had a personal interest in it beyond the passing prick of curiosity, he may have pursed it, but as things stood, he supposed Vox would either come to the realization that submission did not require stagnation of intellect or he would decay. In either case, it had little effect on Keene. "I see."