[ CLOSED ] Grief will have to wait.

[blackscales]

WHO: Wrathion & fellow travellers
WHEN: Travel Arc!
WHERE: Mistress Isakanami's inn.
WHAT: A multi-prompt travel arc extravaganza! Check here for planning something custom, or he has an end of Serthica network post here or an open inbox!
WARNINGS: None at opening




Wrathion is exhausted.

So much as he is pleased to leave Serthica, so much as he is relieved to have had results there the whole experience has left him drained. The concept, then, of having some reprieve before they launch into more lengthy travel is... appealing, to a point.

It does, he assumes, mean staying somewhere else -- and based on their previous accommodation this may not necessarily be... pleasant.

Although it would be nice if it was.

The journey is long, but being flown there is at least pleasant initially. Far better than hiking, a wagon, or having to ride another creature. Then the weather begins to cool further, and Wrathion senses that they will not be relaxing in a tropical climate.

Snow. Of course.

The Merchant, at least, appear to have selected somewhere with pleasant-seeming facilities. They are, naturally, housed with the staff and expected to perform some minor tasks...

Still. If this place is devoid of any major problems, it does have potential. A hot springs in the mountains brings back fond memories, of a far flung place long ago. Of a time when he was young, before he felt the bitter sting of consequence.

It is also, so far, blessedly free of hozen.

Comments

Anduin → Outdoor Hot Springs

[blackscales]

The snow is cold.

Wrathion is sat in the steaming water staring up at the sky, contemplating if it will begin falling again any time soon. For the moment, they seem safe -- for a given value of safe.

Especially given they have ghostly company.

He sighs, lifts a hand to rub water over his face. His hair is tied back in a messy bun, trying to keep it from trailing in the water. If he wants to avoid it tangling, he'll need to do something about it later.

"I'm told the water here has restorative properties," Wrathion begins. "Perhaps no match for your own when it comes to injury, but you'll have to let me know if it does anything for your more well established aches and pains."

Worth a try, surely. Perhaps a cumulative effect, over several days, might prove worthwhile?

Assuming the ghost stays... passive. He turns to look at it again, red eyes narrowing in thought.

"... The head is not reassuring," he adds finally. Was it decapitated here, in the hot springs? That hardly bodes well for the two of them having a peaceful time here. The ghost vanishes again and Wrathion flits his eyes back to Anduin, lofts an eyebrow. His body language is relaxed, but then again it usually is. He's not pleased to be haunted while soaking naked, but if they're not being attacked he can tolerate it.

Eleven → Bathhouse, indoor blizzard-avoidance

[blackscales]

Given that the outdoor springs seem to have attracted a headless ghost, Wrathion is not especially bothered to be cut off from them by a blizzard. Ghosts, he supposes, can potentially come indoors if they choose -- but he's hoping this one prefers the more natural outdoor environment. A few minutes of peace and privacy would be welcome.

The snow renders the outside pure white, and even standing right by the large glass window he cannot make out much. The view is likely more impressive when it isn't entirely white, when you can make out trees and mountains and the structure of their surroundings. Staring blankly at white snow, however, is proving to be good for letting his mind drain out the rush of thoughts all competing for attention.

The soft sound of movement tells Wrathion his privacy isn't going to last.

Wrathion turns from the glass, arms folded over his still fastened robe, and studies Eleven. He thought he'd seen him again. Strange, that he's familiar and yet subtly different too. Was he the same, after he left then returned? His absence hadn't been as long, here, yet time had passed.

An interesting thought.

He blinks, once, then moves away from the window back towards the water.

"Don't mind me," he offers, moving to quickly begin tying his hair up out of the way. "I won't be in your way."

Kamala → Ghostly Mischief

[blackscales]

The ghosts indoor are a minor irritation, but they are (so far) mostly no more than that. They do, also, appear to at least not be walking around carrying their own heads.

Unlike the one in the hot spring.

Its for that reason that Wrathion has continued to work indoors, despite his scissors occasionally moving on their own, his fabric bolts unfurling themselves all over the floor and on one occasion a blanket being thrown over his head.

Irritating, but harmless at least. He can endure if this is all that happens.

The shout he hears, however, implies that he is not the only victim. Wrathion glances to check his scissors have not moved (not this time) and then carefully secures his needle and thread. He opens the screen to his room slowly, glancing out into the hallway. It is, by his estimation, somewhere in the middle of the day. Nobody should be have trouble due to curfew at this time, but the shouting as it draws closer does have a note of distress to it. Perhaps they've picked a victim who is fighting back? Or someone has taken offence? Or perhaps they've escalated from moving objects.

Something moves past that Wrathion cannot... quite make out, and then when he glances back into the hall the figure of a young girl is rapidly following. He pushes to his feet, smoothing out his loose shirt and stepping over his sewing project.

"Trouble?"

It certainly seems that way.

Marcos → Sewing With Ghosts

[blackscales]

Wrathion's patience is being tried.

He was already tired, something the shadows under his eyes don't hide, so a break would have been pleasant. This whole exercise had been an attempt at relaxing. Anduin had insisted he relax in the hot springs, and then there had been a ghost in them carrying around its own head. Instead, he'd tried sewing, and now the ghosts in here are trying to be funny. Unsuccessfully, in his opinion.

Across his lap, an expanse of fabric is laid wrong-side out, two pieces seemingly being fastened together with methodical, neat stitching. He takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly, carefully tucking his needle under a stitch so he doesn't lose it and glancing over at where his scissors are slowly floating away upwards.

"Please put those down," he says. "They're quite sharp."

Gentle, ghostly laughter answers and the scissors travel through the open door of his room and out into the hall -- where a familiar figure is travelling. Wrathion lets out a tired sigh, gestures to the scissors floating out.

"If you don't mind?" he prompts. He could get up, but by the time he's unburied himself to go chasing after it they'll be further down the hall. That, and he's warm and tired. He, quite simply, doesn't want to get up.

Illumination → judging the wedding party

[blackscales]

The... young ladies (and here, Wrathion thinks, the title of 'lady' could be termed loosely used) have already tried to draw Wrathion into their little games several times over. Drinking games that put a local spin on the classic style of taking dares or confessing truths, or simply attempting to trick people into drinking more via elaborate games.

He is decidedly not interested.

Wrathion has some warm, sweet alcohol of his own that he's nursing slowly in between writing notes in his book. The notes are not going as well as planned, thanks to the chaos. He sighs, frustrated, then glances up as he spots a figure passing by and pausing to watch the other group. The wedding party burst into another loud fit of high pitched giggles and he lofts an eyebrow.

"I'd be careful," he advises softly, "make eye contact and you'll be their next victim."