Staving Off Darkness

Guest Quarters 


 * ''Austere and plain, it seems the room's owner is not often in residence from the fine layer of dust that often gathers upon the few pieces of furniture within. A bed, neatly made, is pushed against one wall, a desk and chair occupying the space opposite it, a small box containing writing implements and several sheafs of parchment sitting upon its corner. Two small windows in the outside wall help to complement the light from two oil lamps; one upon the desk and the other on a small nightstand by the bed. An iron-strapped chest of wood sits at the end of the bed for personal possessions, usually locked.

The eleventh hour by Shadow sees movement afoot in the abandoned guest quarters of Fastheld Keep's Northwest Tower. Dust has been stirred. Straps have been unbuckled. Chamber pots have been curiously uplifted and overturned. Drawers and chests have been opened. Spiders have been chased from their homes, recovered, and then gently placed back inside. Standing now in front of a little, brass mirror propped atop the desk, the inquisitive inhabitant stares bleakly at her distorted reflection. Tears prick in her eyes' corners, threatening to spill her fears to the world. Well, maybe not the world, but at least to the spiders, egg maker, and peeping moon they'd be betrayed. "We are here, egg maker." She whispers and looks away from the mirror to the windows. "Ssshall we sssing thisss night for our king? Will he hear it and be pleasssed? Ssshall we sssing for thossse ssso far away?" The yellow chick pecks quietly at the bottom of the basket, making a quick end of an instrusive spider. Murder goes unnoticed, for now, as the Archmage places her hands on the window and leans her head out into the night. From her throat, a tentative note ebbs and in the wake of that note her visitor arrives, causing the sound to silence as the Syladris' jaw snaps closed in startlement.

Taran steps through the gate and ...it might take more than balls of brass to gate into *Fastheld Keep* and not twinge, just a little bit. "Well, Lady," he says, very softly - but with the dry amusement of the born gambler - I thought I'd had a round of dice for my life when I shouted at the Prince. It's possible I just set a new record."

Lower lip engulfed between worried teeth puts an odd sort of pout on Tshepsi's face. Twisting away from the window, she slides over the floor to sieze him in a hug. "You mussst not be heard," She whispers scoldingly, face muffled into his shoulder. "The Warpriessst isss jussst outssside!"

Taran nods, and taps his temple. "Trust me," he says softly, hugging back. "I know. Just a little company, yes? Not so alone?"

"Not ssso alone isss better," Tshepsi agrees and backs up to circle the room, running her hands over this and that. "Thisss isss all very nice, but very ssstrange. Tssshepsi isss afraid that ssshe will not be ready, when the time comesss. She isss worried that Regent will not like her. That ssshe will ssscare the king." Stopping in front of the mirror, she sighs and touches a hand to her decorated horns and another to her hip. Her eyes stray to rest over the pitcher and bowl.

Taran smiles, and looks through the somewhat impersonal items of the room to produce...a stiff-bristled brush. "I worry too," he says softly. "But what will be, will be." The brush, he starts applying to the first patch of scales that looks flaky. "I think perhaps a little time to pretty up, and not be so itchy, would make you feel better...?"

"I wisssh there wasss more water," Tshepsi laments, leaning her tail into the grooming appreciatively while she picks up the pitcher and peeks inside. "How am I sssupposssed to bathe in thisss?" *Splish* She pours it into the bowl and holds the bowl up with one hand questioningly. "Are Fassstheld women ssso sssmall?"

Taran grins. "They get bathtubs," he says softly, as he scrubs. "But you wouldn't fit into them. Just relax, and I'll give you a good solid brushing, and then a polish with the water so you're at your shiniest."

The bowl clunks softly back into place on the desk and Tshepsi's attention shifts to the oil lamp. Gingerly, she touches a finger to the heated glass, flinching back as yes, it is hot. "Why do they cage the light?" She scrutinizes, bending to get a closer look. The lamp says nothing in its defense, flickering as faithfully as it should, nothing more, nothing less, even under the pressure of a giant, crimson eye leveled with its wick.

Losing interest almost as quickly as it was gained, Tshepsi leaves the lamp be and catches her own gaze in the mirror again. Fun things, mirrors are.

Taran keeps up his brushing - scrubbing, perhaps, as it's to loosen dead flakes and old scales and brush them clear. "Because it's hot, and torches leave black smoke trails on the walls and ceiling...and because we like to control our world," he says, still keeping his voice as quiet as possible. He pauses for a moment, to look at her as she studies her reflection. "It's all of you most people see. What do you see?"

Eyes afire, contained safely in their own, glassy orbs. Skin as blanched as the evasive snow, pale not as death, but merely something that was never really quite alive. A flowing mane, swept astray by the knotted, beastile protrusions from her skull. Staring on further, Tshepsi reaches to finger the buttons of the vest, watching as her mirrored self engages the fabric in turn.

"Sssmoke." She concludes, raking a talon over the glossy button. "Ssshaped asss to not burn the wallsss."

Taran sighs quietly...goes and retrieves the little chick, to put in her hands. "There are days I'm sure I have no idea what's going through your mind," he murmurs. "And days I wish I didn't." He goes to pull the pillows and blankets off the bed - too small a thing for all those coils anyway - and piles them by the windows. "Come. Bring the little chick, and come and rest in the moonlight. I will hum for you."

Looking down at the chick as it pecks at the creases in her palms, Tshepsi feigns a smile, lifting a thumb to stroke over its back. "I thought maybe I would find him here, hisss other home." She confesses quietly and sets the chick down gently alongside the mirror for a moment. The chick pecks mindlessly at its reflection's feet while the Syladris sheds her most undesired skin - the clothing. Freed, if only in one sense of the word, she takes a final hard and long look at herself then scoops the chick up and obediently winds into the bruised stream of light.

Taran sighs, and settles down in a fair position to be a pillow. "I'm sorry," he says quietly. "He left all this behind. You'd only find echoes of who he was." Offering his arms, he murmurs, "The shadows seem stronger tonight."

"Maybe they are worried, too," Tshepsi murmurs, melting down onto the floor where she settles into a sideways sprawl, right horn propping her head up from the stone. Scooting back to lean against him rather than fully /on/, she makes a safer compromise. Tender flesh and pointed horn tended not to mix well. "And are guarding themssselves more closssely together. A ssspark of Light hasss been made from placesss forgotten. It disssturbsss them." Once stilling her scoots and wiggles, she fences the chick against her breast with her arms and there it happily roosts, huddled into the radiating warmth.

Taran tugs a blanket over her, tenting over the chick. "We tend to be wary of things that are new, yes," he murmurs. "But we can learn. Given time. Rest well."

Return to Season 7 (2008)