An Unfortunate Case of Burnt Toast [private]
Dec 27, 2023 12:52:06 GMT -5
Post by Eameia (Zarius unavailable) on Dec 27, 2023 12:52:06 GMT -5
Anselm sits back in his chair after Astrid has left. Seems that the updated wards still don't prevent those keys from working. He will have to speak with his wife about that again.
He lets the silence hang in the air for a few moments longer before his eyes flit to the shadowed corner of the room.
"I presume you at least heard the tail end of that conversation."
Silence meets Anselm’s words for but a brief moment, broken only by the swell of shadows as he steps forward. Darkness falls from him like water and dissipates into evaporating puffs as it hits the hardwood floor; a silent reveal of the third party the child hadn’t exactly been privy of to their conversation— or, perhaps, only a part of it.
It’s difficult to determine if his presence was, or was not, invited.
Caedes takes a slow breath in the silence, arms crossed behind his back in attention before the Ashen Father. “… I did.” He admits, the tone of his voice restrained into something flat and level.
"I apologize for not pushing her for a more specific answer," Anselm says, not meeting Caedes' eyes. "I do not know her well enough to predict how she will react."
The older fellblood gets to his feet and walks over to the muddy mess Astrid left behind on the floor. He crouches down and picks up a tiny piece of plant frond that was left behind off her boots.
"Bogweed," he says, recognizing the leave structure from a botony text his son had requested to give to Kvasir months ago. "At least that narrows it down to the Marsh Flats inlands."
He stands back up and glances at Caedes, rolling the front between his fingertips for a moment before offering it to the assassin.
The changeling’s pale gaze flits briefly to Anselm’s face as the fellblood offers the frond to him; and after a brief moment, Caedes steps forwards to take it. Thin indents sunken near the joint of his thumb and wrist are evidence enough that he’s been present long enough for his nails to bite into his palms while he listened in on the conversation taking place, however long that may have been.
Anselm lets the silence hang between them once more before he turns away. "If you want to go search for Master Cyran, I will not stop you." Carefully he steps around the mud as he crosses to the door Astrid left through. His hand lingers on the doorknob as he faces away from Caedes before he lets out a slow breath.
"Try not to kill him."
Caedes has pulls himself back to attention; the delicate frond of Bogweed curled between his fingers while Anselm lingers at the doorway. Pale eyes clouded by a myriad of difficult emotions, he takes a slow breath to steady himself. “Yes, sir.” he promises; his voice firm, but lifeless in the shadows of Anselm’s office.
He watches the fellblood leave; and the assassin remains stationary for another heartbeat, focused on the closed door after Anselm’s gone, before he finally begins to unravel.
His shoulders drop, brows furrowing as he pulls the frond from behind his back and glances down at it. He unfolds his palm and lets its bent and broken leaves attempt to recover. A shaky sigh twitches their edges.
“Killing him would be far too merciful.”
He lets the silence hang in the air for a few moments longer before his eyes flit to the shadowed corner of the room.
"I presume you at least heard the tail end of that conversation."
Silence meets Anselm’s words for but a brief moment, broken only by the swell of shadows as he steps forward. Darkness falls from him like water and dissipates into evaporating puffs as it hits the hardwood floor; a silent reveal of the third party the child hadn’t exactly been privy of to their conversation— or, perhaps, only a part of it.
It’s difficult to determine if his presence was, or was not, invited.
Caedes takes a slow breath in the silence, arms crossed behind his back in attention before the Ashen Father. “… I did.” He admits, the tone of his voice restrained into something flat and level.
"I apologize for not pushing her for a more specific answer," Anselm says, not meeting Caedes' eyes. "I do not know her well enough to predict how she will react."
The older fellblood gets to his feet and walks over to the muddy mess Astrid left behind on the floor. He crouches down and picks up a tiny piece of plant frond that was left behind off her boots.
"Bogweed," he says, recognizing the leave structure from a botony text his son had requested to give to Kvasir months ago. "At least that narrows it down to the Marsh Flats inlands."
He stands back up and glances at Caedes, rolling the front between his fingertips for a moment before offering it to the assassin.
The changeling’s pale gaze flits briefly to Anselm’s face as the fellblood offers the frond to him; and after a brief moment, Caedes steps forwards to take it. Thin indents sunken near the joint of his thumb and wrist are evidence enough that he’s been present long enough for his nails to bite into his palms while he listened in on the conversation taking place, however long that may have been.
Anselm lets the silence hang between them once more before he turns away. "If you want to go search for Master Cyran, I will not stop you." Carefully he steps around the mud as he crosses to the door Astrid left through. His hand lingers on the doorknob as he faces away from Caedes before he lets out a slow breath.
"Try not to kill him."
Caedes has pulls himself back to attention; the delicate frond of Bogweed curled between his fingers while Anselm lingers at the doorway. Pale eyes clouded by a myriad of difficult emotions, he takes a slow breath to steady himself. “Yes, sir.” he promises; his voice firm, but lifeless in the shadows of Anselm’s office.
He watches the fellblood leave; and the assassin remains stationary for another heartbeat, focused on the closed door after Anselm’s gone, before he finally begins to unravel.
His shoulders drop, brows furrowing as he pulls the frond from behind his back and glances down at it. He unfolds his palm and lets its bent and broken leaves attempt to recover. A shaky sigh twitches their edges.
“Killing him would be far too merciful.”