Open The Spider's Staggering Stroll

[Vard Briar]

70th of Autumn, 514 AV, 6th Bell

Vard wasn't sure how he'd come about the wine. In fact, he hardly had any idea of where he'd been before he found it. It was possible that he had bought it, although that meant someone must've stolen his coinpurse because he couldn't seem to find it in his pocket. It was equally possible that Vard had managed to purloin some alcohol but why he would do such a thing in a sobered state eluded him. Lastly and most likely, he'd probably succumbed to temptation upon finding a lost bottle in an alley or some such place. Vard was damned if he knew the truth at this point. Because being drunk in the City of Illusions is hardly smart or classy...

One thing was certain, in the foggy recesses of his mind. He was damned lucky that he didn't have his sword on him. Regardless of whether he'd actually learned to use it properly, he didn't trust himself in this condition. Far better to get accosted by someone and spend a night in a cell than to kill someone. Is this really the train of my thoughts right now? By Ionu, I must be really drunk. It was at that moment that Vard hurriedly ran into an alleyway and disgorged himself of food he couldn't remember eating.

I mustn't waken the rage, I should go back to camp.But Vard had nowhere near any idea of where he might find an inn, much less the sanity Center and Alvadas's exit. He idled hesitantly for a chime before sprinting off in search of something, anything that might lead him to his warm tent. He bumped into walls, people and animals alike. Blearily, he watched them back away in a mix of disgust and wary caution. He scoffed. "Yerr jusht jealoush of my crass!" He waved a hand at them and continued on his drunken way. Somewhere in between his second and third upheavals Vard noted that the streets were growing more and more twisted. He had heard mutterings and rumours, that sometimes the layout of the city mimicked a person's emotions and state of mind. That stopped him in his tracks and he rubbed a reeking hand on his chin, trying to determine the legitimacy of such a claim. The world lurched, and he began to vomit again.

Vard was dry-heaving in yet another alleyway when finally he had the sense to check his pockets. He withdrew with a victorious smile, his canteen. "Water hydratesh peepol." Popping the stopper, he flung his head back and brought the canteen to his mouth.

...

"Damn it." Vard cursed, wiping the last of the bile from himself. His head, Vard decided, must have been split open by an axe or some such weapon. His pain was great enough. "Why did I decide to hurl into my canteen. Why?" He sighed and got to his feet. Vard's headache surged powerfully to the forefront of his consciousness and his knees buckled. He felt darkness encroaching and he hobbled out to the street. The rising sun cast a painful light in his eyes. He moaned and tried to grasp the few people who passed by. "Help me, please?" Vard's head hit the sidewalk ticks later.

Classh? What'sh thaat?

Class is remaining true to yourself

No matter the cost

[Phobius]

"Lousy drunk!"

Phobius started at the yell, the somewhat-shrill sound bringing his whole body to an instinctual halt. Then he turned his head and peered down the sidewalk, just in time to see a man and a woman come from around the corner. The sun was beginning to set, and the two were a good distance away, but the boy didn't have to strain himself to notice how irritated the man looked. The woman didn't seem to be too happy, either, an expression of discomfort upon her face as she huddled into her jacket and stuck close to the man, despite how warm the air was. Phobius stayed put and watched them cross the street, the man's subsequent, annoyed mumbles fading away until things were quiet, again.

What was that all about...? the boy mused, blinking at the far side of the sidewalk as if some open door had appeared in the middle of it. Gradually his curiosity grew, and within ticks he had turned around and was heading toward where the couple had come from. There was no harm in doing a little investigating, anyway, was there? It wasn't like Phobius had been doing anything important before now; he'd simply been taking a walk, enjoying the weather and some time away from his room at the inn. And now it seemed as though there was something interesting going on.

Interesting and...well, honestly, a little worrying.

Phobius knew what a drunkard was—certain knowledge was just unavoidable in life—and while he didn't personally drink, he knew enough about alcohol to know that too much of it messed with people's brains. It wasn't even nighttime, yet, but someone was roaming around with their heads all fuzzy, and the boy wanted to find out who. Maybe they'd need some help?

He rounded the corner and promptly froze, his amber eyes widening. A few yards away was what looked like a man, lying face-down on the concrete. Phobius' mind immediately whirled with all sorts of terrified, anxiety-fueled thoughts. Was he sick? Was he hurt? W-was he dying...?! He'd been who that man had yelled at...why hadn't anyone helped him, yet?

The boy took a look around, and felt even worse upon realizing that there was no one else nearby. No, no, this wasn't good...what if the man really was hurt? Phobius didn't know anything about medicine or surgery or...or patching up wounds, besides needing to cover them up to keep too much blood from coming out and...

"Mister! Mister, are you alright?!" Phobius shouted as he ran over to the fallen man, kneeling down beside him and forcing himself not to reel back once the foul smell that came from him hit his nose. The man had drank, alright...and he'd probably gotten sick all over himself, too. Taking a breath, Phobius reached down and turned the man over.

Pryzavard?!

It was a shock, but Phobius didn't have to squint to know that it was his Symenstra friend. No one else had skin as pale as his, or hair as ashen white. On the verge of panicking, the boy started to shake the man by his shoulders. "Pryzavard? Pryzavard?! Wake up! It's me, Phobius! A-are you hurt, do you feel really sick...? Should I get someone?!"

"This is speech in Nari."

This is thought.

[Vard Briar]

70th of Autumn, 514 AV, 19th Bell

The dark smear of consciousness that Vard possessed throbbed. His eyes flicked back and forth under closed eyelids and he saw for the dozenth time the horrors. That night, and those people, they had been locked away under his silky smooth veneer and the cold glass bottle which contained his soul. Alcohol, like a corkscrew broke the seal and those demons of his were set free.

"Pryzavard, you will see. This is such a magnificent hunt we are on, I know you'll make us all proud."

A smile beneath ebony locks, the outstretched hand of a familiar friend.

"Son, it's all part of the cycle. Don't worry your head over the consequences, we do what we need to survive. Life has a way of giving us everything we need. You'll see."

A firm grip on his shoulder. The loving grasp of a proud father.

"Hiya! The name's Anna! I couldn't help but notice you sitting over here all by yourself! What brings you here?"

The trusting gaze of a cheerful beauty, her face so innocent.

"What, have I done? This can't be right. Th-this is...WRONG!"

His hands, dripping crimson. The plaintive cries of a babe born of blood and fear.

Faintly and muffled, the sensation of being turned over was felt by Vard. He felt shaking, his alcohol induced sleep coming to an end. He was flying upward, far too fast for his liking. And then the dizzying sensation of switching directions before jerking awake. Vard jerked upright, and twisted away as convulsions wracked his body. He dry heaved and spat, the spit he managed to produce a foul colour and consistancy. Turning back again, he collapsed back onto the ground again. He couldn't help but let go a moan, low and breathy. His head ached, if being drunk had been bad, this was a thousand times worse. Marshalling what remained of his cognitive ability, he managed to focus long enough on the person who looked down on him to recognize Phobius. Oh gods. "You shouldn't have to see me like this Pryzabius. I apologize for frightening you. It was the height of ill manner for me to forget myself like that." He turned his head away, examining the street that he lay on.

Vard took a deep breath, and coughed nearly retching again. He smelled ghastly. Dragging an idle hand across his person, he managed to confirm that nothing had been stolen from him in his daze. He was soiled, but secure in his possessions. Hungover and dehydrated, but not injured seriously enough to warrant concern. Maybe a bruise or two. He didn't want to know. Drawing his gaze back to Phobius, Vard stared for a pregnant moment and then he began to laugh softly, shuddering gently with each rise and fall of his chest. "We really need t-to stop meeting like this Pryzabius." It was never his intent to accost somebody who knew him, it was never his intent to get drunk in the first place! He had been stripped, laid bare and while perhaps still well-spoken, the Symenestra could hardly say he was well-mannered. He coughed again, and his throat burned more fiercely for it. "Pryzabius, a drunk like me doesn't deserve your help but," Vard broke his gaze and stared into space. "I need some water quite badly." He could see the blood running down silk, the hungry faces...

Ugh, what good is class when the whole world's a savage nightmare?

Class is remaining true to yourself

No matter the cost

[Phobius]

When the Symenstra suddenly writhed out of his grip, Phobius nearly sprang back in surprise; he hadn't really expected him to wake up at all, let alone so abruptly. The man's entire body trembled as he tried hard to vomit, and it was a beyond dreadful noise to hear, so much so that Phobius' own stomach started to feel a little topsy-turvy. Once the retching episode was over, he spoke, sounding more or less like his normal self, and a smidgeon of relief settled into the boy's nerves.

He can talk...that's a good sign, right?

Phobius wasn't sure, but he hoped that it meant something positive. Overall, his friend wasn't looking too well, and it made him all the more worried; the pale tone of his near-translucent skin seem to have grown even paler, beads of strain-induced sweat littering his forehead, and his breathing seemed weird and...forced. Was this something that normally happened to people who drank a lot...? Why would anyone even bother to drink, if that was the case? Drinking was terrible!

After having fallen quiet for a few ticks, Pryzavard looked up at him with somewhat glassy, purple eyes and asked for a drink of water. "Water. Right...!" Phobius repeated back to him, nodding and starting to ease himself back up to his feet before he paused. Where was he supposed to get water from...? It didn't look like they were anywhere near The Rose, but as far as he knew the restaurant had placed itself on the other side of the city. Water wasn't necessarily a rarity, but Phobius couldn't think of any ways that he'd be able to get some without buying it or knocking on someone's door, asking them for a cup.

And Pryzavard...he couldn't just leave the man wheezing and disoriented on the ground while he went to find some. In his current state, the Symenstra probably wouldn't be steady enough to walk around on his own, either...and Phobius doubted that he was physically strong enough to carry the man.

There was a flicker of movement, just then, dragging the boy's mind out from the sea of fears, anxieties, and doubts that it'd been sinking in as he directed his attention to something up ahead. Staring hard at it, he soon identified it as a lone puddle. It rested on the ground a few feet away from Pryzavard's legs, as still as if it'd been there the entire time, and Phobius blinked at it, unable to make sense of the sight. He couldn't remember the last time the city had seen rain, but he'd been outside for most of the day and was sure that the sky had been clear all morning and afternoon. There were no other puddles around, either...the sidewalks were completely dry. So where had this one come from?

Suddenly wondering whether or not it was some sort of trick, Phobius lifted his head to gaze up at the orange-and-purple-tinted sky. Ionu loved to toy with his city's people...and he guessed that it was possible that he was being toyed with, right now. What, did the god expect him to be desperate enough to give his hungover friend water from the ground? That'd be terrible and disgusting, and the Symenstra would undoubtedly feel worse because of it. This isn't a good time for jokes, the boy mused, frowning up at the sky. Then he looked back down and, surprisingly enough, the puddle was different, having morphed into the shape of an arrow. His eyes flicked to where it was pointing: what looked like a tiny, aged flower shop.

Someone in there has water, then. I can go in and ask. What else would Ionu be trying to tell me?

Granted, there was still a chance that the trickster god was lying to him, but Phobius didn't bother with the worry, gesturing for Pryzavard to stay put before he dashed inside the shop. A little bell near the top of the door jingled as he opened it, announcing his presence, and a man who was standing behind a wooden counter turned to look at him. He seemed almost as old as the shop probably was, with a worn pair of glasses that sat on the bridge of his pointy nose, and a thick, white mustache that covered his whole upper lip. Behind the glass of the spectacles, tiny eyes squinted, ripe with curiosity. "Well hello, young man. What can I do you for?"

"Hi. I'm sorry, Mister, but do you have some water?" Phobius asked, trying to sound as polite as he could despite the slight rush. "I mean, water that I could pour into a cup...?"

"...you're thirsty?"

"N-no, not, not me. It's for a friend. He really needs some water. I'll pay you for it, I promise!"

The man was silent for a few ticks, seeming to consider Phobius' words and study him all at once. Then he put his hands on his non-visible hips and said "Hmm...let's see about this friend of yours. Is he hurt?"

"No. Maybe...? I...I dunno, I'm not sure, he might be, but...I'll show you," the boy replied, looking pitifully uncertain as he led him outside. There, they both stood and stared at the Symenstra, the aged man wrinkling his nose in slight disgust while Phobius began to babble, an uncontrollable stream of words pouring forth from his mouth. Mostly, they were about how scared he was for his friend's health, and how he didn't have any ideas of what he could do to help him, besides give him the water he wanted. The man had to stop the boy from tripping over his own tongue, and soon offered for Phobius to bring the Symenstra inside. "At least until he gets his bearings," the man explained, still staring down at him. Then he shook his head. "Alcohol. Truth be told, this is why I've never touched the stuff. People don't know their limits."

A moment later, both Phobius and the man helped to half-carry, half-drag Pryzavard in through the door, setting him down on a cushioned bench once they were inside. Then the man went behind his counter and disappeared for a few ticks, coming back with a cup of water in his hand.

"Thank you," Phobius said as he took it, managing a smile as he looked up at the man.

He dismissed it with a wave of his hand. "Eh, I'm a florist. Water is an essential tool. Just...don't let your friend throw up on my floor or anything, okay?"

"Okay."

With that, the man went back to his counter, giving the Symenstra a few wary glances before he'd gone and begun to fiddle with some potted plants. Phobius grabbed a nearby stool and pulled it over to Pryzavard's bench so that he could sit down. Then he held the cup out to him. "Here you go. Try not to drink all of it super-fast, though," the boy softly instructed, anxiety nestling back into his tone and face. "And...how long have you been outside like that? Not too long...right...?"

"This is speech in Nari."

This is thought.

[Vard Briar]

70th of Autumn, 514 AV, half-past 19th Bell

Vard closed his eyes and exhaled when Phobius left. He focused on breathing in a controlled pattern, and soon he felt less nauseous. That still didn't solve the issue of his headache or burning throat, but one issue would soon be resolved by Phobius, and the other by time. Vard waited and while he did so,he felt for his ocarina. Sure enough, it was safely held in his pocket. Do you really have the capacity to perform now of all times? Still, he had a tune playing itself through his head repeatedly and despite resting his hands at his sides, it kept going. The song thrummed in his head and he simply wondered at how he could imagine such a song, especially when he was hungover.

The tapping of feet, two pairs of feet, drew Vard's attention. He's brought somebody else with him. Please let it not be somebody else I know. Looking out of his peripheral vision, it was clearly not somebody he knew. A softspoken voice commented on how people didn't know their limits with alcohol. It was as though he didn't even notice that Vard was there. Acidic tendrils of anger knotted his muscles, but it would have been a miracle worthy of a god if Vard thought he could actually get up and prove the man wrong. He let his body go slack and he contented himself with a derisive growl. Which made his throat hurt more. Still, the man was willing to take him in and let him drink his water so Vard let them carry him over.

He slumped down onto the bench in the man's establishment and watched Phobius bring a cup over. He sipped it slowly and his throat cooed with relief.There was no need of the boy to advise him on drinking after hungover. It is a time-honored tradition in my family... He thought bitterly. Plus, he was hardly anxious to stop the sensation of cool water running down his throat. Phobius was asking him now how long he'd been outside. It had certainly been a rough night, he couldn't have been out that long. He looked over to a cloudy window and saw to his shock, that it was orange with the light of the dying sun. He'd been left to lie on the street all day long? A strange, frightening thought came to him. Anything could have happened to him during those dark and gloomy hours, people could have done anything to him or nothing. He now felt extremely lucky that Phobius should be the first person to come upon him and actually attempt to wake him. Even more fortunate, he still had all his possessions.

Should I tell Phobius? I probably should. "Pryzabius, I fear that to my disgrace, I have lain there since early morning. It is truly a wonder that you encountered me. You have all of my thanks. I'm in your debt." Still that tune from before echoed in his mind, clearer for his thirst being quenched. He started to hum it gently, careful to not stress his throat. It made him think of all the ways that people were marked by sins, theirs and others. With the low, ponderous pace and tone and the melody's rise and fall, it evoked deep emotion in him. Vard felt tears gathering in his eyes, and a few trails ran down his cheeks. He'd thought his body didn't contain anymore liquid but apparently he was wrong.

As Phobius leaned in to watch him, Vard could see just inside his scarf. The boy's collar. He hadn't thought about it once since their first meeting but, it could only be the mark of one who has been enslaved. This like so many other things in his waking moments, confused Vard immensely. How could such a sprightly and cheerful soul emerge from what must clearly have never been a pleasant experience. Abruptly, his humming stopped. "Pryzabius, my friend. I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry." He made a grab for the boy's hand and tried to squeeze it tightly. "I swear, alcohol will not destroy me. I will not let it defeat me! Just as you surely, did not let your past defeat you." Vard coughed, swallowed and brought a hand up to his face. he stared at his palm and it glowed in his mind. Two images, that palm covered in blood and that palm extended in greeting to a hopeful boy with fiery hair. "If only I'd met you before it all happened."

Class? Or is it forgiveness of one's sins?

Class is remaining true to yourself

No matter the cost

[Phobius]

Phobius' amber eyes widened in shock at his friend's revelation, and there was no holding back the quiet gasp that left his mouth. Since early this morning...? The man had been lying passed out and drunk on the sidewalk for that many bells, and not one person...not one person had stopped to try and help him up, or...or even ask him if he was feeling alright? He'd been practically sprawled out in the middle of the concrete, so Phobius couldn't imagine that any passersby hadn't seen him; to get by, a few of them would have probably had to walk over him, and that in of itself was incredibly rude.

The boy just wasn't understanding any of it. Why hadn't someone bothered to help him? Was it maybe because he was a Symenstra...? A terrible reason, but Phobius was well-aware of the innate fear and hatred that Inartans felt towards their pale kind; he and the other nursery children had sat through plenty of scary stories about the spider-people and how they went around, snatching up naughty Yasi who didn't listen to adults and, on occasion, women. As gullible as he was, however, Phobius had never really believed in them, feeling as though the teachers just liked to tell them to the children to make them act more respectful. Still, the spider-people were real, and it was possible that other Kalean cities were afraid of them, too. Maybe that fear even spanned beyond the mountainous region.

And Phobius had noticed it. The glares, the narrowed eyes, the frowns...the way that some people seemed to walk a little faster when Pryzavard was near, as if they were suddenly remembering that they had important things to do. He'd noticed it all, despite how hard he'd tried not to. His friend noticed it, too, but he was either good at hiding his feelings or didn't care the slightest bit about what others thought of him.

The boy was starting to feel as though he'd been struck in the chest, a terribly uncomfortably ache seeming to settle beneath his ribs, punctuated by every thrumming beat of his heart. He was confused and upset, but hurt, most of all. Hurt for his friend, and for all of the struggles that he'd undoubtedly gone through his entire life. It was odd, how he was just realizing all of them now.

All of a sudden, Pryzavard began to hum, and it wasn't long before tears began to trail down his cheeks. Phobius was quiet, keeping his eyes on the man but holding his tongue. By now, the boy had come to accept that his friend tended to make himself sad with his music. They were elegant tunes with soft, solemn notes. ...did they make him think of his home...?

Phobius tensed a little when his hand was grabbed, and he blinked at the man, wondering for a moment if he was going to be sick, again. But he spoke to him, instead, apologizing, and his words were no less than utterly confusing. "My...past?" the boy echoed, sounding as though he was testing the feel of the words on his tongue. Past...his past was in his home, back in a city that sat within a mountain who's peak scraped at the sky. His past was there because he'd left it there on purpose, because he had no need for it, anymore. It hadn't defeated him, but...that was making it sound like he'd been fighting with himself.

Then Pryzavard's other words hit him. "If only I'd met you before it all happened."

It.

"What's 'it'?" Phobius tentatively asked, narrowing his eyes slightly in question as he continued to stare at the man. And he truly wanted to know. Had he meant in regards to him, or something that he himself had done a long, long time ago? Did "it" have to do with drinking?



"This is speech in Nari."

This is thought.

[Vard Briar]

70th of Autumn, 514 AV, 20th Bell

Vard licked his lips, they were dry and cracked. He almost didn't hear the question. He couldn't tell Phobius about his past, nobody would want to know that sad story. At the same time though, it was not as though he could not tell him. His friend had asked it of him, and in light of his recent failure, it was only right that the boy should know. He had no idea where to begin, or how to coalesce his fragmented memory into a cohesive whole. The florist he noticed had stopped busying himself with his work and now stood over some papers, pretending to read. Vard caught occasional peeps and glances from the man and he sighed. Clenching his fists, Vard spoke.

"In my family, there is a saying. 'Where other flowers grow thin, Briars run thick.' It's an irony, well, I am. In light of that sentence. I couldn't be further from that truth, but I digress. This saying reflects how we are all bound together in a tight-knit family, and it's true, many of our neighbours remarked on how familiar we were. My brother, father and I all seemed so happy and carefree. I can't speak for Verin or my father but my childhood was for the most part a happy affair. Despite my lack of a mother, I hardly seemed to notice the void when we would all go out and play with other boys. It was only in the later years of my youth when the world turned dark.

"Kalinor, you must understand, is a beautiful place. I have travelled a fair amount and I can't deny that Kalinor outranks them all. Alvadas, is perhaps a close second though. A beautiful place filled with beautiful individuals and beautiful things. I'm sure you get the idea. It is a place of beauty, and my mother... She was the heart of it all I guarantee you. Synthia was loved by everyone she met and yet, something about my father ensnared her. I could not tell you what, because my father was a terrible musician but nevertheless they fell in love. When the time came for children, at first Father resisted and he conceived with a surrogate mother. Synthia never forgave him for that, yet she still loved Verin as a son. When Father wanted for another child though, she demanded it be her son alone. They fought and fought over this for a long time, and my brother has faded memories of them yelling so loud that they woke him. They almost went their separate ways.

"It was on a tragically wondrous night however, when Father finally broke down. Mother must have looked thrice as beautiful in the light of the crystals, and she perhaps beguiled him with sweet words. The end result in any case, was my conception. And Mother had all of her preparations laid out, with a doctor and plenty of people to aid her with my birth. Father had gnashed his teeth more and more with each passing day. He cursed himself for giving in to temptation, and he couldn't look into her eyes in the last few days before my birth. Pryzabius, I must warn you. You may not want to hear this. Symenestra of pure blood kill their mothers, because a newborn Symenestra has especially potent venom, and their first meal is usually their mother. Gruesome I know, but it is the way we are. My mother knew this with every fiber of her being and yet she still wished to mother a child. The doctor did his best, but the odds were never in her favour to begin with. I'm told my mother's last words were, 'Name him Vard, and love him as you love me.'"

He was surprised he'd said as much as he had without breaking down, but now Vard's eyes moistened yet again and he took a few strong breaths. Keep going. You're not even at the hard part yet. He brushed his cheeks off and swallowed. He didn't want to look at Phobius, to see what the boy thought of him. Surely even a naïve and accepting youth like him would see Vard for the monster that most people already did. Surely, Phobius saw Vard for the killer that he'd been born as. Vard wrung his hands, sifted back into his dusty recollection and withdrew the knife in his heart.

"Father changed that day. He had been changing throughout Mother's whole pregnancy. He would go out for long periods of time, and come back with red eyes and an evil expression. And when Synthia Briar died, it would not be an exaggeration to say his soul died with her. You recall that our neighbours thought we were the most perfect family in Kalinor? That was during the day, in public. Verin, bless him or damn him, kept me away from our beast of a father until I grew too old to ignore. I saw the bottles, and heard the aftermath of his drinking but Verin always consoled me and put me to bed. On my 16th birthday though, Father threw Verin aside and grabbed me by the shoulders. His breath I can still smell, foul with liquor and manic with anger. 'Take him for his Harvest Verin!'

"I hadn't heard of what the Harvest was before now, knowing it only to be a rite of passage. When Verin explained it to me, I agreed but inwardly I was disgusted. You see Pryzabius, in order to preserve our species and save the lives of our women, Symenestra..." Another hasty glance at the florist and Vard lowered his voice. "Symenestra would lure people of other races back to Kalinor and conceive with them to create half-bloods. Poor women who fell into this trap would die much like Symenestra females, and the men wouldn't receive a much better fate." He raised his voice again and continued. "So you see, I was incredibly conflicted at that time of my life. Everything I knew had been thrown into question and after already having learned of my own part in my mother's death, this news did not lend me any more self-esteem. Nevertheless, Verin managed to convince me it wouldn't be that bad. And, I hate to say this, but it wasn't. We met a beautiful woman, she took a liking to us and we showed her the wonders of our people. She fell in love with Kalinor, its people and then to my surprise, she fell in love with my uncle. She..."

Vard couldn't do it anymore, shrieks and cries, the smell of pain and sorrow wafting through his nose. He was full-on crying now, shoulder-shaking sobs and a runny nose to boot. He coughed and rasped, "More water?" His heart ached, and he knew that this knife in his heart could kill him. He stood up, and brought a hand to his temple as his hangover made itself known. The Symenestra staggered to the door, mumbled an apology in the direction of the florist and left the building. He walked through the alley he'd been dragged through. When he reached the end, he leaned on the wall and breathed in some fresh air. The sun, had dipped below the skyline now and the sky burned a vibrant red-orange. People walked by, flinched at the sight of him and he scoffed. "It's hardly classy to be rude like that." And yet still, a dark voice inside him growled, Can you blame them? It's not like their reaction is unreasonable. It's perfectly normal to be frightened at the sight of a monster. Vard bunched his fists and looked down at his feet. You know I'm right. "No."

Monsters don't have class.

Class is remaining true to yourself

No matter the cost

[Phobius]

When Pryzavard opened his mouth to speak, the Inartan boy leaned in a little more on his borrowed stool, getting the distinct feeling that he was about to be told a story. And he loved stories—almost as much as he loved almonds and being outside—except for ones that were sad or scary. Sad stories made him cry, and scary ones ruined any chances he'd have of sleeping for the next few days.

Unfortunately, it ended up being both.

Phobius listened eagerly at first. Having never really heard the Symenstra talk about his family or his home, he'd always been curious but could never summon up the courage to ask questions. In the boy's eyes, there'd always been a sort of...invisible barrier surrounding the man's life; he couldn't explain it, either, but it made him feel as though he didn't like to talk about those things, and curiosity wasn't an excuse for making someone uncomfortable, so he said nothing.

As time passed, however, and the story went on, Phobius found himself looking forward to it all less and less. It sounded like Pryzavard had a happy family, but his parents hadn't seemed to have agreed on everything. That part of things didn't make sense until his friend's next words, which made Phobius' blood run cold in his veins. Symenestra of pure blood kill their mothers.

Pale as he already was, the boy's face blanched, and his eyes widened until they were as wide as moons. Symenstra women died when they had babies...? No wonder Pryzavard's daddy had been so against the idea...he hadn't wanted to lose his wife. And Pryzavard hadn't ever gotten a chance to know his mommy...not even for a minute. To Phobius, that sounded a thousand times worse than having never met her, before. At least he could hope that his own mother was alive, somewhere, and possibly happy; his friend knew, for a fact, that his was dead and never coming back. The boy couldn't even begin to imagine how knowing something like that must feel, how much it had to be hurting the man. And it was a hurt that'd stuck with him his whole life...

Unwanted tears began to well up in Phobius' eyes, and he blinked as hard as he could to get rid of them, not wanting to cry in front of the man. It was obvious how sad he was, bringing up unpleasant memories of his past, but there were no tears trailing down his cheeks. At least, not until the later portion of the story. Things grew more horrible, and the expression upon the boy's face grew more terrified, briefly stunned by the realization that the warning tales he'd heard as a child were true; Inartan women were taken away by Symenstras...no wonder they weren't normally allowed into Wind Reach. No wonder people were so afraid of them.

But, Phobius mused, forcing a clear thought through the growing fear. That doesn't make them all evil or bad...i-it's not like they hurt people because they want to. They need babies, and...they can't...

Suddenly Pryzavard got to his feet, sobbing hard enough to shake his entire body. Phobius turned to him, but before he could say anything to call him back he'd already stumbled through the door. No, no, no, don't leave...!

The boy tried to call his name, but he couldn't, his voice faltering as the lump that'd risen in his throat choked him a little. It pained him horribly to see his friend so distressed, and the shock and terror that'd piled up in his nerves only made it worse, reducing him to an immobile, teary-eyed mess.

For a few chimes, Phobius stayed on his stool, not knowing what to do or even what things he could say to make his friend feel better. Was it even a good idea to go after him, right now? Maybe...maybe Pryzavard needed some time alone, to recover and calm himself down. Maybe Phobius would make him feel worse if he went and tried to talk to him, now...

But he wanted to cheer him up. He really, really did, especially since he'd been the one to ask him to explain himself in the first place. The Symenstra had only told him those terrible things because he'd wanted to answer his question. He hadn't needed to, but he did. If he'd said no, though, it would have been alright, because Phobius wouldn't have dared to ask him to talk about personal things if he'd...if he'd known.

Frustratedly wiping at his eyes with a sleeve, the boy looked over at the florist, who'd raised his head and was staring at the door with a blank face. The aged man's gaze then shifted over to him, and for a moment neither of the two said anything, Phobius quietly begging for advice that the man didn't seem to have. All he wanted to know was what he was supposed to do.

About a chime later, the boy chose to break the silence. "He's not a bad person."

The florist merely stared at him and said nothing. Suddenly wanting to move, Phobius brought himself to his feet and hurried to the door before hesitating a bit and turning his head. "He's not a bad person," he repeated, looking straight at the aged man. "I know he's not, because he'd never do horrible things to someone on purpose. ...oh, umm...could I have another cup of water...?"

No response, still, but the man nodded and refilled the cup. With it in one hand, Phobius left the shop and nearly ran down the street, shouting for his friend and looking every which way as he went. Eventually he spotted him at the end of the alley. Relieved, the boy rushed toward him.

"P-pryzavard! I got...I got you more water," he said, slowing to a halt and holding the cup out to the man. Then he lowered it a bit as his arm seemed to get weak, the tears that he'd been holding back brutally forcing their way out of his eyes.

"You're n-not a bad person. I mean...other people might think so, b-but I don't, and you shouldn't, either. You're really nice and smart, and you know how to play great songs, and...and people frown at you sometimes, and stare, but you don't get angry at them and yell. And...I..."

Growing quiet, Phobius' focus fell to the ground as he fumbled with his words. Then he forced himself to look up, again, a somewhat-determined look upon his face,

"And I don't want you to feel bad because none of that was your fault...! What happened to your mom...no one could have stopped it. And I think...I think she really wanted you, because she wanted a baby, and she knew what would happen but...but she wanted to do it, anyway. Just...just don't get mad at yourself because of it. Please. You're a good person, and you're my friend."

Was it enough? To get rid of some of the hurt...? There was no real way of telling, but Phobius hoped it'd help a little, and he watched Pryzavard's face. Then he tipped his head down a little, noticing how he'd started gripping at handfuls of his scarf out of nervousness. And an idea suddenly occurred to him.

"I can tell you where I got this from," Phobius said, a hesitant tone in his voice as he gave the scarf a tug, unable to bring himself to touch the actual thing beneath it. "I...it'd only be fair. You told me lots of stuff you didn't have to...so I should tell you something, too."


"This is speech in Nari."

This is thought.

[Vard Briar]

70th of Autumn, 514 AV, 20th Bell

Phobius ran up behind him and Vard turned to look at him. His face, so clearly set in its visage of hopeful defiance. It was a relief for him, to see someone so ready to challenge his disposition. To be his friend, regardless of what anyone thought. How brave, Vard realized. It made his mouth quirk into a half-smile, although that was somewhat mitigated by the still-wet trails of tears on his face. And then, the boy began to comfort him. He'd already known how his mother felt but, something about hearing his friend say it made it seem more real. He'd seen a painting of her once. She was beautiful, in more ways than one it seemed. Phobius clutched at his scarf and then offered to tell him how he'd come by it. Vard was intrigued to say the least.

The Symenestra carefully took the cup of water and downed it in a gulp. He slumped against the wall and slid down onto the ground. Crossing his legs and closing his eyes, he put down the cup on the street. Watching the patterns of dying red-orange light shine on his closed eyelids, Vard took a breath of fresh air. Everything seemed clearer. Even his headache had gone away. The memories of his past had both weakened and become softer in his mind. Almost as though their telling had dulled the knife in his heart. Was this the answer then? Should I tell my friends about my past? If I'd confessed before would my nightmares have left me? He couldn't say for the moment, but he knew one thing. Phobius was the singular greatest friend he'd ever known, simply for his open acceptance. If he was willing to share, then Vard would surely oblige him. "I would love to hear your story. Sit down," he patted the space beside him. "Only say what you're comfortable with talking about. I think I've caused you enough grief for one day."

The wind blew gently through his hair and he smelled the cold and warm scents of Autumn all mixed together. Winter was certainly coming, and Vard was loathe to greet it. This, he reflected, might be the last good night of the season. I might as well enjoy it as much as I can. He whistled a few notes and ran a hand through his ash-white locks. As a wistful mood took the place of his troubled one of moments before, Vard opened his mouth and bared his teeth. "These are my fangs, I used these to kill my mother." Still, his tears had passed and his only reaction to his statement was to bow his head out of the dying light and listen expectantly.

Class is drying your eyes and getting back up.

Class is remaining true to yourself

No matter the cost

[Phobius]

To Phobius' relief, the man seemed to calm down a little; he'd stopped crying as hard, and didn't look like he'd pass out within a few ticks, though the drunkenness was still apparent in his eyes. The boy watched him as he took the cup and went to sit at the base of the wall; did drinking a lot make people thirsty or something?

He downed the water pretty quickly, and as rattled as Phobius' mind currently was he still managed to drift out of focus, wondering just what it was that the liquid was doing to stave off his friend's hangover. And then it struck him; Pryzavard actually wanted to hear what he was going to say.

It was a surprise but somehow wasn't, at the same time. Phobius didn't doubt that the man was curious—he'd asked about his scarf when they first met, which had nearly given him a panic-attack—but...he hadn't been expecting him to take his offer. Desperation, anxiety, and an overarching fear had forced him into making it, as a sort-of backup option in case his heartfelt words had failed to help. He hadn't thought about what things he'd actually say, though. It wasn't like he went around telling everyone he met about his childhood.

Blinking at the man, Phobius stayed silent for a chime or two as he tried to figure out where to begin. Nothing came to him, however, so he gave up and went to sit next to the Symenstra.

"Well...uhh...okay," the boy said, pressing his back up against the wall. "I'm not very good at telling stories, but I'll try. Umm...we have nurseries in Wind Reach, and when I was really little I lived in one. Usually if something bad happens to someone's parents or...or when they're too busy to take care of their children, they send them to the nursery so that other adults can take care of them. I never really met my mommy, but the teachers told me that she left me with them when I was just a baby. They never saw her, so they couldn't tell me anything about what she looked like or how her voice sounded, but...it never really made me sad. I mean, the teachers were as nice to me as any parents were.

"I lived there until I was thirteen. The rule is that when you turn fifteen, you're supposed to become an apprentice to someone, like a glassblower or a hunter, because after lots of training you'd be good at that job and get to do it on your own. Unless you're not...good enough at any of them. And the people who were in charge of keeping track of that stuff thought that I wasn't, so...they told me that I couldn't wait until I was older, and that I'd have to be a Dek."

At these words, Phobius turned and looked at his friend, a small frown on his face. "You told me that you went to Wind Reach before, right...? Dek are all over the place, so I'll bet you saw a few without knowing it. They have to do all the work that no one else wants to do...peeling vegetables in the kitchens, clearing out caves, that sort of stuff. No one really likes them, and people boss them around whenever they want because they...can, I guess. I'd always felt really bad for them, but I never really got why they all looked upset and sad all the time...and then I was one."

"At first it wasn't so bad. Really. I had to do whatever jobs people gave me, and they usually made me tired or were really hard to do, but I did them. I didn't have a bed to sleep in anymore, but that was fine...and I wasn't around other Yasi because they all had their jobs, but I never really talked to any of them in the nursery, anyway," the boy continued, looking unconcerned as he shrugged. "I couldn't eat as much, either, but...after a while I got used to it. I got used to everything."

Phobius suddenly paused, bringing his attention away from Pryzavard to focus on the ground at his feet, instead. For a few ticks he seemed unsure of how to go on, quiet and still. And then he lifted a hand up to his neck to grip at the woolen scarf, visibly hesitating before he tugged it down a little. Underneath it was what looked like a leather dog collar, thick and relatively small with how it hugged his throat. Just within the Symenstra's line of sight was the metal lock that kept it in place; a simple clip of metal, with a tiny keyhole that sat in its center.

"My only friend gave this to me," Phobius began, his voice quieter than it'd been earlier. At the moment, he was keeping himself from meeting Pryzavard's eyes. "I met him a few years ago, when I was fifteen. Tarrow...he was the first person to...ever talk to me. People normally ignored me while I worked, but he saw me out in a field and came and...asked me if I was okay. I thought he'd forget about me after that, but he was always trying to find me and we talked a lot more. He was really, really nice...he even let me live in his house with him, and gave me food and a warm place to sleep..."

A tiny smile crept onto the boy's face.

"Tarrow was a glassblower, and glassblowers make all sorts of pretty, colorful glass things. He liked making plates and cups, and told me that he'd teach me how to do it, someday, because I always wanted to take them down from his shelves and look at them. He never did, but...I was happy, because I had a friend. It was nice to have someone who cared about me. I didn't see him all the time, though...sometimes he'd leave for a few bells, at nighttime or in the mornings...any time, really. And whenever he came back, he'd smell kinda funny. But I never asked him about where he'd gone. The one time I did, he got mad and yelled at me, and I cried so he told me that he was sorry. ...he liked to say sorry, a lot."

Still staring at the ground, Phobius moved his hand up to let a few of his fingers brush the worn leather of the collar. "He told me that if I wore this, it'd keep away people who would want to hurt me. He told me that it'd keep me safe. And I liked it at first. Then it started to bother my neck, but he kept telling me to keep it on. So I did...and now I can't take it off. And he...I don't know...something happened and I couldn't...couldn't stay there anymore..."

All of a sudden, Phobius couldn't bring himself to speak, anymore, warm tears beginning to re-gather in his eyes. He let out a sniffle and parted his lips to speak, wanting to tell the Symenstra that he'd gone as far as he could, but no words would come out, and he settled for shaking his head.

No more. About Tarrow or glass plates or collars or any of it. The boy had reached a point where he was forced to stop.

"This is speech in Nari."

This is thought.