westwhere | the truth is in the gallows

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the truth is in the gallows

WHO: Wrath and YOU
WHEN: first half of August
WHERE: around Taravast especially Beacon/Necromancy District
WHAT: Learning about new magic, gaining disciples, plus whatever else.
WARNINGS: tbd. potential violence, dark emotions.

Necromancy District

Wrath spends much of the first half of August within the Necromancy District, interested in observing their more extreme methods of healing people, and especially interested in learning how to break a curse through magical methods according to what they know. Information is powerful, and he is well-informed about magic, which makes what he knows a commodity. Throughout the month, he slowly conducts lessons and gains three disciples within the district. Heard of his lessons? Want to join in on one?

If others are exploring the District, they may find him in any of the shops or rooms where healing/experimentation is happening that he has managed to trade his way into. He stays near a back corner, observing. Even with his mask on, he gives an aura of being off (otherworldly, angelically attractive, demonically predatory). He primarily observes, but sometimes asks questions, offers a hand in assisting if he has the chance.

He surveys the illicit potions, inquiring to the effects of each, hoping to find one that might cause incompetence. Emilia has many suitors, most of them hapless save for one. Wrath senses dark emotions that would make his brother Lust grin from ear-to-ear. Not trusting this suitor to know the meaning of a safe word, he is on a mission to find a potion that will take him out of the running and teach him a lesson. It is not murder he is looking to do. Yet.

Miscellaneous

You may find him at any of the following:

- Wrath spends time at the Beacon, visiting it several days, asking about it to locals, collecting information about it. It is warded and locked away like an ancient relic, like an item to be observed but never touched.

- Keeping an eye on Emilia di Carlo, but from an appropriate distance most of the time so as not to raise suspicion. Studying her suitors from afar and then being annoyed by their existence, especially when they are the ones who get to dance with her at the parties. Then being annoyed to find himself annoyed. This is fine, and he doesn't care at all.

- Wrath sometimes teleports into secure rooms within the two academies of magic when he thinks he can do so without being seen. This leaves the clear scent of fire and brimstone behind when he does so though he attempts to do so when no one else is around. Others might be sneaking into rooms that he teleports inside of. For the most part, he uses his influence and lessons of his own magic to study visions at the Attaryl school of magic, sitting in on lectures.

- He attends the parties with the air of someone who has been to many before. With ease, he speaks to the nobles around as if he has always been here, playing his role, performing miracles when asked to. These miracles include changing the temperature of the room, lighting fire with a few magic words, or even healing minor ailments. If he sees anyone struggling, he will assume they are part of the group and offer advice on how to keep up appearances if only so they will not be discovered. You are welcome.

[ ooc: hit me up with wild cards freely or simply contact me through pm/plotting post/plurk and I'd be happy to write something else. reminder there is always the potential for being near Wrath to increase angry feelings your character is having if you want to play with that. :) Wrath does not do this on purpose - it's just a side effect of being angry near him. ]

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It's ... sweet.

Harmless-seeming, though Emilia knows better than to trust surface impressions. She was taught a rather cruel lesson the night she stumbled on Vittoria's murderer, and she won't be swayed by a pretty song. But this man's voice is lovely, really, and soon enough those with instruments join in for a proper symphony. Applause and laughter abounds.

A tiny spike of coolness grazes her neck, and it lifts her gaze so that her eyes lock with Wrath's. Not one emotion betrays his thoughts with an expression so inhumanly blank, and it shouldn't surprise her. He's a true gift.

It makes him so effective, doesn't it?

There's a vicious twist to her lips, though it shifts into a smile once her attention returns to her serenader. She takes his offered hand as he brings himself to his feet, and when they walk right past Wrath, she coolly raises her own drink in toast.

Wrath's expression manages to remain neutral enough through it all, through the man's pretty song with beautiful lyrics. He knows better than to think it will have any true effect on Emilia. She has other values, and he always has appreciated exactly what she values and focuses on (what he thought she did before Pride).

He is so schooled in carefully chiseling away his emotions until they are behind a wall of marble, thick and heavy, and his expression reveals nothing. Even as on the inside, his mood sours considerably, especially at the sight of her genuine smile with her hand in the man's.

His shoulders tense and tighten. His jaw locks, and he does not offer up his own glass in toast. It is doubtful anyone would notice, but he is near bristling at this point, and he cannot bring it in himself to pretend as she holds someone else's hand. She will feel this too- the brief bristle of something warm across her tattoo.

Before anyone can pay attention to him instead, he slips out of the party into the hall, seeking fresh air- eventually finding himself in the gardens.

Whether she ends up learning to play her part well or not, Emilia shall remain reserved at heart.

Palermo was a city known for its feasts, too. It worshipped the night as much as it basked in the glory of the day, forever finding reasons to celebrate. Emilia herself stayed away from most of the gatherings, in part to keep herself safe from harm. There was also her inclination to pursue more solitary pathways. Regardless, she hopes she was able to protect that merriment.

Hopes that being here hasn't jeopardized what she sought to save.

Taravast is not Palermo. It's far more extravagant, its magic no secret. But there are parts of it that do remind her of home, and after some time, Emilia slips away from the party herself. She isn't looking for Wrath, and yet she rounds a hedge wall and there he is. And so she brings herself to a stilted halt, stating the obvious like it's armor. "I didn't realize I'd find you here."

Wrath can sense her before he sees her. Even in the garden, he is alert, and he can hear her heartbeat, her breathing, sense her closeness with the tattoo directly before she slips around the hedge wall. There is an instant, a moment where he could have gotten out before she had the chance to see him. He could leave. She does not expect him here even if some part of him had foolishly hoped-

Sorry to disappoint nearly slips through his lips again as it did that fateful night, but he cannot quite get them out. The words feel jagged and sharp edged, especially in the warmth of this night.

"...I wanted fresh air."

There is a lengthy pause.

"And I thought you were enjoying the party."

Her arms fold loosely across her chest, an intricate mask dangling from her wrist by its ribbon. A slight chill has descended on an otherwise warm evening, though her gesture is more due to the fact his words feel like an indictment.

"You played your part and I played mine."

It doesn't matter, if any of this makes her feel queasy. It matters that it's necessary.

Emilia strolls further into the gardens, not about to be chased away by a demon in a foul mood. Wrath can always leave if he decides her presence is still so intolerable to him. "Have you something against laughter and fine music?"

Wrath watches her stroll further inside of the garden. Of course, she would not be frightened away by him, would not avoid him despite the tension resting between the both of them. Several types of tension which is felt in the space between them while his gaze remains on her.

They did both play their roles well. Though he likely didn't play his own as well as he could, he did not turn into a cat after all.

He takes a step in her direction. The moon is out, shining down upon them. He does not miss the sun as much knowing it will rise tomorrow as it did today. There is something in the tone of her voice that is near teasing, and despite himself he falls into it as if all that happened between them didn't, as if nothing at all broke.

"Of course not. I am known for my enjoyment of laughter as well as my acceptance of perfectly... fine music."

It was okay.

"Mm."

Emilia's disbelieving, but then, she doesn't pretend to know what truly goes on in the Cold-Hearted Republic of Wrath. She did once offer to teach him all about experiencing a wider range of emotions, and he hadn't seemed displeased by the idea.

But that was then, and now is — well.

"Agnesio is a lovely man," she adds by way of mild reproach. A rather obtuse and privileged man, but not without his own skill. Emilia shifts as Wrath approaches, arching an eyebrow in his direction. "Perfectly fine?"

Edited 2021-08-24 03:44 (UTC)

"It was okay. I have certainly heard better written music, far more exquisite than his drab little tune," Wrath says after a moment, walking up closer to her until he has erased the distance between the two of them. Now he walks beside her, step by step, close to her.

He wants to be close to her. He always does even when he is not able to be.

Agnesio. Dislike slides through him. Even the name alone, he is no fan of.

"A lovely man. Is that so? Here I thought he was one more noble among many."

"Self-made, actually," she corrects with ease. "Though no less fortunate for it."

Emilia doubts the Seven Circles are brimming with evocative music, or anything that could be considered exquisite. He is in a haste to leave it, after all, her soul his last concession, though she's aware he's traveled well beyond the ruin that claims him.

"Drab, unremarkable, of middling talent. Have I missed anything?"

She brings herself to a stop to face him, ill-advised though it may be now that they're so close — they never did learn the meaning of personal space, did they? But the tone in his voice reminds her of how he sounded when he first met Antonio.

Edited 2021-08-24 04:36 (UTC)

Wrath stops when she does and turns to face her in turn, aware of how close the both of them are. He can hear her breathing, her pulse more loudly than ever from the sheer closeness of them. If he were to reach out, he would touch her. His chest nearly brushes against her own as it is.

"Yes." It comes out quiet but certain. "He is weak. When he sings his little song, he sings it to the role you play, the idea of the wife he wishes for to flatter him and make him feel as if his middling talent might be of some merit."

His gaze drifts from her gaze down to her mouth to linger there for far longer than necessary before he looks back up at her again.

"Not the truth of who you are. He couldn't handle you."

Emilia finds that there isn't much she can refute.

It gets under her skin. He does. She resents how much he knows about her when he himself remains a mystery. Her deepest desires. The greater of her sorrows. The viciousness that could and would tear a man like Agnesio apart if she so wanted.

If she so chose.

The catch of the season is not meant to conquer. Can only be conquered. And that is not her nature.

She refuses to look away from him, even as his gaze wanders low, like he's thought about their kiss more than once or twice himself. A breath rakes through her chest, warm. "Are you implying I am difficult?"

Wrath tilts his head to the side as he watches her - the way she does not look away, the way she is aware of where his dark gold eyes falls and remembers and wants. He feels too her resentment (a form of anger, impossible for him to not recognize immediately).

A light smirk crosses the very corner of his mouth, which otherwise remains still.

"Are you implying you do not wish to be?"

Yes, she is difficult. He likes that about her - not that he believes she will take it as a compliment at the moment.

"When first we spoke, you contained me in a circle... and left me there for days."

Emilia needed the reminder, perversely so. He'll deny it, as surely as she will waste breath on denials of her own, but he is far from indifferent. Something stubborn digs its heels inside of her, and it does so in favor of the familiar coil of her anger.

It may be to his surprise that she soon mirrors his smirk, a hint of some mirthful thing on the curve of her lips. Yes, she thinks. She plans to be difficult. Impossible, and vengeful, and bright. She plans for a great deal.

"When we first spoke," she repeats after him, mild. "A generous assessment."

Perhaps he is not as angry with her as she thought, at least in this moment. She wonders if that'll only make him angrier.

Wrath's expression shifts slightly at the sight of her expression, at the feel of her vengeance rooted deep within her heart. His expression is unreadable, considering, quiet. He recognizes that inside of her immediately, drawn to it, drinking in the feel of it within her.

It's sharp. She is planning something (isn't she always?).

He attempts to remind himself of his own anger, but remembering that moment when she trapped him in the circle and attacked him with an impressive feral-ness with a certain fondness.

How damning it is to want her so when he is still angry. "I can be generous," he murmurs in a low voice.

A flicker in her own expression.

This is not something Emilia can refute, either. Not fairly. She bore witness to the evidence, and more than once. Most often, she was the recipient. At her most uncharitable, she convinced herself it was all part of his betrayal. The lulling and false security of it all. But when it comes down to it, Wrath has shown himself capable of granting mercy in a way she is unable to.

He wasn't present that night she unleashed herself in full. She thought him dead when making all of her moves, if not permanently incapacitated. But she thinks he could have gotten drunk on the sheer potency of her hate and her fury, the trembling violence, and she sets aside the notion before doubt further nestles in —

Her gaze remains steady, studious. She will not be the one to reel back.

"Is that how you've been gaining your following? Through generosity?"

He isn't he only one paying attention.

Wrath tilts his head to the side, seeing the challenge in her gaze and in her stance. She has yet to back away and neither has he despite how often his gaze lingers back upon her mouth. He does take interest in her question - the gold black of his eyes flicking to life with interest at the question.

Because she can't trust him? Because she doesn't want to stay away from him?

It is difficult to say the reasons why. He doubts she would admit to the truth of it. There's still the animosity between them - their recent fight still stings within his chest should he recall it as does the memory of what it felt like to know she'd sold her soul to Pride.

He leans in, meeting her refusal to move with a challenge of his own: voice warm against her ear. Being so near to her is near maddening in the way his desire beats at the cage within his chest, but he keeps it carefully locked away.

"...keeping tabs on me?"

He'll delight in it later, she's sure. How impossible it is to remain unaffected by him. The hitch to her breath and the shudder that lands between their ribs. And still, she doesn't move. Let him see it. Let him be sick with it.

One hand lifts to smooth the shirt sleeve under his doublet as she considers his own question. She studies the rich brocade pattern of the latter, unsurprised he's dressed himself so well, even when the fashion itself is not his norm.

"No closer than you've been keeping tabs on me. Is that not what you advised?"

To study her opponents. To know who they are, what they want, and watch them closely. To make herself difficult to read, though she doesn't know how successful she's being in this last respect, here and now. But she'll learn.

Edited 2021-08-27 00:43 (UTC)

Wrath does see it, ache for it, want it, want her, horribly angered at how stuck he is in this very place. Returning to their own world means facing it one day after another: this wanting, this desire, her soul sold to Pride. His shoulders tighten, square away at her words, understanding their meaning. In so many ways, they are back to square one, aren't they?

He is the enemy. He is in his own House, and- and she will be with Pride. At this reminder, he hardens. He grows cold.

"I advised a great deal of things to you. I was under the impression you rarely listened to it."

She certainly never ran when he told her to, insisted upon facing the viperidae after he spoke of how deadly it would be (and it was), certainly refused to take his hand when he wished to take them away from danger (could not sign on to his House for that, but could for his brother).

Edited 2021-08-27 01:23 (UTC)

No, it isn't her inclination to listen to what others may want of her any longer. But neither is it in her nature to forget. Some piece of Emilia tortures itself and wonders what might be different, if only he'd answered her call.

The frost of him will soon set. The razor sharp precision. She senses it in the temperature drop around her, in the shuttering of his gaze. Emilia steps closer still, setting both hands on the low of his chest. His power responds to her touch, her own threatening to waken at her palms where they meet — and beyond it, some terrible longing. She'll marry his brother and let it go unnamed.

"Tell me," she whispers. The sound of her voice would undo her, if she weren't damned already. "Tell me you keep no other secrets. That there isn't anything else of your nature and the curse you hide."

She wants to believe it wasn't all a lie.

Wrath stills impossibly more like he has become stone, like he is a statue when she steps closer to him. Her hands are at his chest, and he misses her touches. He yearns for it in much the same way he yearns for her despite all that crashed and broke between them before they wound up in this strange, mysterious place. Her hands rest against his chest, and something tightens in his throat as she whispers to him.

The sound of her voice will undo him, the look in her eyes like she yearns for him as deeply as he yearns for her, like the aching of want is shared. For a brief, horrifying moment, he nearly feels his own resolve crumble. The walls he keeps so carefully placed trembling in his effort to keep them up and to continue hiding.

"Emilia-"

Her name is a strangled thing. He could not tell her then, and he especially cannot tell her now. His hands drop to his side as he takes a forcible step back. As much as the rest of him remains stone, his eyes give him away if only for a moment. Cold surrounds them now. His body is still and quiet, but his feelings (anger and betrayal and need) threaten to release his magic in a quake beneath their feet. He clamps it down with all his ancient willpower.

Then he turns and walks away, hand flexing at his side as he attempts to rein these emotions back in once more.

Edited 2021-08-27 02:24 (UTC)

It's the horror that stills her in turn.

So fleeting on him that she almost misses it, but it's what lowers her own hands back to her sides like she may have burned him. Emilia is taken back to the night he saved her from the viperidae, to the short-lived moment she swears they shared both breath and mind. More intimate than anything else they've ever shared. The fear that beat in his heart when she thought him so fearless.

Fear of death, the death of all he is and all he's chosen to be. Fear she'd burrowed into his immortal skin, and that she might travel deeper still. The palpable intensity of it so at odds with the disdain with which he'd come to collect her soul.

Her mouth opens to say something, say anything, but she ultimately lets him go.

Watches him go. ♪

The chill of him lingers. When she exhales, heavy and uncertain, a cloud of mist forms for it. She won. In the end, she won and he was the one to retreat. And yet the victory is hollow.

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the truth is in the gallows

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