North Faerghus - Evening - Snow
Vridel von Hresvelg
Flames, but it was fucking cold.
It wasn't what Vridel hadn't expected this. It was just that having expected it made it no easier to deal with. The northern, mountainous reaches of Faerghus in winter were damn near impassable. Probably would have been, if they'd been the size of a proper army. Getting back through this mountain pass with Duscur's troops was going to be a task, if they could manage it at all.
He pulled his cloak tighter around himself. It was Thea's turn on watch, so for the moment he had little to do. They'd stopped march to camp about two hours ago; at least the warmth of dinner was sitting in his stomach. Devon and Reynard were both excellent hunters, and had brought down several rabbits to supplement the potatoes they were carrying. Extremely simple, but hearty enough—and enough of it that it hadn't been too much for Vridel to ask for seconds. He'd avoided thirds, though. Crests or no Crests, other people had to eat, too.
Settling next to the fire, he extended his hands out towards the flames and sighed quietly. Devon was tending the fire—Cyril just seemed to be staring into it. Vridel figured it was better not to interrupt that. No doubt he had a lot to think about, especially right now, with where they were going and what it meant. It was the place he'd been planning to go five years ago, and for him it had hardly been a month since the entire world turned upside down. His grief was fresh in a way no one else's really was anymore, even if they all still carried its weight, Mercer most of all.
Reynard emerged from his tent then, carrying a large bottle of something. Taking a spot between Vridel and Cyril, he set it down and set to work on the cork.
“You brought alcohol? On an austerity march?" They'd all taken the bare minimum of supplies so as to move as quickly as possible. Vridel was surprised Reynard could afford the extra weight, since all they had was what their horses could carry, plus one small cart for tents.
Reynard arched a brow. "No. I traded for it back in the last village. It's the Srengese stuff, like last time. Tastes like paint thinner, but it'll make you feel warm."
“Alcohol actually lowers body temperature," Cyril said, flatly out of nowhere.
Reynard shrugged. "Yeah but it's not so cold we're at risk of hypothermia in our tents. Feeling warm seems like a good idea though, right?"
It did, at that.
“Rey has a good point," Mercer spoke, taking a seat on the other side of Vridel and setting down five cups as if he was anticipating the alcohol. “Feeling warm sounds like more than a good idea at the moment, and..." he paused, his eyes shifting towards Vridel and then Cyril. “I figure we could all use a little something."
“A little pick me up, I suppose," though from the way he'd said it, it wasn't quite what he meant. He poured a glass for himself before he glanced at Vridel and the others and holding his cup out. “Probably not the best of times for a toast, but..." he trailed off, taking a deep breath, “to us still being here. To keep going and moving forward."
Reynard, Devon, and Vridel all lifted their glasses; Vridel with a touch of irony. The professor hesitated for a moment longer, then sighed softly, trying and failing to smile, but lifting his in turn anyway.
“I don't think I've done anything like this since the Academy," Devon admitted. “I mean, I've had the occasional drink, but never..." he gestured vaguely at the group of them.
Vridel knew what he meant. There was a certain sense of companionship to it, even if those they were missing weighed heavily on their minds. This group, at least, was whole now that Cyril had reappeared. And, he supposed, now that he'd managed to drag himself back to their sides.
The mood was decidedly less optimistic or humorous than it had been last time, but that didn't mean they couldn't try for a little levity, for old times' sake. “Okay," he said. “I have to ask, Reynard. Where on earth did you find that cloak?" It wasn't exactly the assassin's usual style, to say the least. It looked far too dramatic for someone who made a point of diminishing his presence.
"Traded for that, too," he said. "Back in Leicester. Temporarily, at least." He threw back his shot and refilled it, setting the bottle down roughly in the middle of their small semicircle.
"Why? You don't think I look dashing?"
Mercer huffed lightly, like he was trying to laugh but failed at making it come out properly. He took a drink from his cup and eyed Reynard for a moment. It was almost as if he were contemplating the man before something of a light grin appeared on his face, and his eyes softened somewhat. It was almost reminiscent to the look Mercer had when he was up to something, though it was quite genteel for such things.
“So what did you trade Alaric for it?" he asked, downing the rest of his drink. “And yes, you do look dashing in another man's cloak, Rey. I just didn't think Al would part with it. He's very fond of it, you see. Something about showcasing authority or power, or something like that. Al's a strange guy like that, but you'd know all about that."
"I traded my own of course. Get your mind out of the dirt, Mercer. The Duke's is more suited to the cold, whereas mine is better for camouflage. Ergo, I have this one, and he has that one, in case of the need for a strategic exit from Derdriu." He shrugged.
“The Duke?" Vridel took a moment to process this. He furrowed his brows. Mercer had referred to Alaric, so. “You're wearing Duke Goneril's clothes?"
Devon snorted a laugh into his glass.
"No, Vridel, I am wearing Duke Goneril's cloak, because it is warm. Do try to keep up." Reynard managed to look rather unaffected, but he did down his next shot and pour himself a third, so who knew how realistic that impression was?
“Well, considering that a cloak is still an article of clothing that still means you are wearing Alaric's clothes, so," Mercer stated, smiling a little more into his own glass as he downed his second drink. “I'm surprised, still, that he traded you his cloak. Honestly, he wouldn't even let me wear it, and I'm Duke von Riegan," he continued, pouring himself another glass before grinning lightly at Reynard.
“I think a new toast is in order," he started, raising his glass, towards the others, “to Reynard and pulling Alaric into the light. I always knew he was hiding something, but that. Well... I guess it makes a lot of sense." He grimaced lightly as if he knew the why behind the sense.
“Wait—does the Duke like men?" Devon asked with some concern. It was obviously concern for Reynard. Probably he wondered if they weren't being unintentionally cruel by poking fun at him for something that wasn't how it appeared, or was perhaps one-sided.
"Your guess is as good as mine, apparently," Reynard grumbled in response.
Vridel winced in sympathy. “Ambiguous, huh?"
The assassin tilted his hand back and forth as he took another shot after clinking glasses with the others. "Mixed messages," he said with a bit of a sigh. His eyes widened a little, and he cleared his throat. "Not that I'm making much effort to disambiguate, because I am a professional and looking after him is my job."
“Yeah, I used to think that, too," Cyril said, rolling his eyes a little. It was tinged with too much melancholy, but still clearly represented an attempt at humor.
Mercer seemed to think otherwise, though, as he shook his head.
“No, you're completely right, Dev. Alaric likes men, but he's so far up his ass that he doesn't realize it. You have to understand, when it comes to families with Crests, they push it upon their heir to have another heir, and another to keep the family line from becoming useless. You know how it is, Vi," Mercer spoke, pursing his lips together and shaking his head.
“House Goneril is just exceptionally bad at putting that much pressure on the next head of the house. And in this case, that means Alaric. You can ask Deirdre, she'll tell you. It's the whole reason why she... planned to elope with Sofia. Unfortunately for Alaric, he sees it as his duty to uphold those traditions even if it meant he'd be unhappy for the rest of his life. That whole schtik with..." he paused, glancing in Cyril's direction, “Senka was just that. He really did think she was beautiful, but he wasn't interested in her that way. He only did it on behest of his father who'd heard him say that. I think... that's why they stayed as friends."
“If anything, it's worth asking him about it, Rey, if you like him. He just needs a little coaxing to know that it's alright to feel the way he does, because... well, when you've been told most of your life otherwise..." Mercer didn't need to finish that sentence for the rest of them to get the implication.
Reynard shook his head slightly, dropping his eyes to the toes of his thick boots. He sipped from his glass this time, clearly withdrawing somewhat from the conversation.
The mood seemed to dip again, which was perhaps to be expected. This wasn't the Academy, where they could spend hours nursing drinks and mocking each other relentlessly and playing ridiculous games. It felt like that part of their lives was just... over. Permanently. Even when the war ended, Vridel would still be dying. Mercer and Cyril would still be without the people they loved most in the world. Reynard would still be on the wrong side of a social barrier from someone he seemed to have deeper feelings for than Vridel thought he might have for anyone, ever.
Maybe Devon could carve out a long and happy life for himself, with Sylvi, but he was still a commoner. Still half-Srengese in a world where that was almost a crime in and of itself.
But even so. “Congratulations, by the way, Devon. Sorry I missed it."
The other man smiled a little, but his dark eyes were sad. “Thank you, Vridel. Sorry we didn't wait. I think maybe I'll ask Syl if she wants to have something more... well, more. After. So everyone can be there." He didn't seem to want to linger much on the subject, probably out of respect for the other three.
Mercer smiled a bit wryly. “Yeah, well, don't count us out just yet. We'll help out, too, if we can. We'll be rebuilding nations after all of this, because something," he paused to swallow thickly, “something good has to come out of this. Even if it turns out to be just you and Sylvi, Sofia and Deirdre, or even Vi and Thea... something good has to come out of this." Mercer had spoken so softly that it was as if he didn't speak at all. But Vridel heard him clear as day from where he sat.
“So... congrats, Dev." He held up his fifth cup for another toast.
The others raised theirs as well, united at least in sentiment, and took a shot together.
It really did feel just a little bit warmer.
It wasn't what Vridel hadn't expected this. It was just that having expected it made it no easier to deal with. The northern, mountainous reaches of Faerghus in winter were damn near impassable. Probably would have been, if they'd been the size of a proper army. Getting back through this mountain pass with Duscur's troops was going to be a task, if they could manage it at all.
He pulled his cloak tighter around himself. It was Thea's turn on watch, so for the moment he had little to do. They'd stopped march to camp about two hours ago; at least the warmth of dinner was sitting in his stomach. Devon and Reynard were both excellent hunters, and had brought down several rabbits to supplement the potatoes they were carrying. Extremely simple, but hearty enough—and enough of it that it hadn't been too much for Vridel to ask for seconds. He'd avoided thirds, though. Crests or no Crests, other people had to eat, too.
Settling next to the fire, he extended his hands out towards the flames and sighed quietly. Devon was tending the fire—Cyril just seemed to be staring into it. Vridel figured it was better not to interrupt that. No doubt he had a lot to think about, especially right now, with where they were going and what it meant. It was the place he'd been planning to go five years ago, and for him it had hardly been a month since the entire world turned upside down. His grief was fresh in a way no one else's really was anymore, even if they all still carried its weight, Mercer most of all.
Reynard emerged from his tent then, carrying a large bottle of something. Taking a spot between Vridel and Cyril, he set it down and set to work on the cork.
“You brought alcohol? On an austerity march?" They'd all taken the bare minimum of supplies so as to move as quickly as possible. Vridel was surprised Reynard could afford the extra weight, since all they had was what their horses could carry, plus one small cart for tents.
Reynard arched a brow. "No. I traded for it back in the last village. It's the Srengese stuff, like last time. Tastes like paint thinner, but it'll make you feel warm."
“Alcohol actually lowers body temperature," Cyril said, flatly out of nowhere.
Reynard shrugged. "Yeah but it's not so cold we're at risk of hypothermia in our tents. Feeling warm seems like a good idea though, right?"
It did, at that.
“Rey has a good point," Mercer spoke, taking a seat on the other side of Vridel and setting down five cups as if he was anticipating the alcohol. “Feeling warm sounds like more than a good idea at the moment, and..." he paused, his eyes shifting towards Vridel and then Cyril. “I figure we could all use a little something."
“A little pick me up, I suppose," though from the way he'd said it, it wasn't quite what he meant. He poured a glass for himself before he glanced at Vridel and the others and holding his cup out. “Probably not the best of times for a toast, but..." he trailed off, taking a deep breath, “to us still being here. To keep going and moving forward."
Reynard, Devon, and Vridel all lifted their glasses; Vridel with a touch of irony. The professor hesitated for a moment longer, then sighed softly, trying and failing to smile, but lifting his in turn anyway.
“I don't think I've done anything like this since the Academy," Devon admitted. “I mean, I've had the occasional drink, but never..." he gestured vaguely at the group of them.
Vridel knew what he meant. There was a certain sense of companionship to it, even if those they were missing weighed heavily on their minds. This group, at least, was whole now that Cyril had reappeared. And, he supposed, now that he'd managed to drag himself back to their sides.
The mood was decidedly less optimistic or humorous than it had been last time, but that didn't mean they couldn't try for a little levity, for old times' sake. “Okay," he said. “I have to ask, Reynard. Where on earth did you find that cloak?" It wasn't exactly the assassin's usual style, to say the least. It looked far too dramatic for someone who made a point of diminishing his presence.
"Traded for that, too," he said. "Back in Leicester. Temporarily, at least." He threw back his shot and refilled it, setting the bottle down roughly in the middle of their small semicircle.
"Why? You don't think I look dashing?"
Mercer huffed lightly, like he was trying to laugh but failed at making it come out properly. He took a drink from his cup and eyed Reynard for a moment. It was almost as if he were contemplating the man before something of a light grin appeared on his face, and his eyes softened somewhat. It was almost reminiscent to the look Mercer had when he was up to something, though it was quite genteel for such things.
“So what did you trade Alaric for it?" he asked, downing the rest of his drink. “And yes, you do look dashing in another man's cloak, Rey. I just didn't think Al would part with it. He's very fond of it, you see. Something about showcasing authority or power, or something like that. Al's a strange guy like that, but you'd know all about that."
"I traded my own of course. Get your mind out of the dirt, Mercer. The Duke's is more suited to the cold, whereas mine is better for camouflage. Ergo, I have this one, and he has that one, in case of the need for a strategic exit from Derdriu." He shrugged.
“The Duke?" Vridel took a moment to process this. He furrowed his brows. Mercer had referred to Alaric, so. “You're wearing Duke Goneril's clothes?"
Devon snorted a laugh into his glass.
"No, Vridel, I am wearing Duke Goneril's cloak, because it is warm. Do try to keep up." Reynard managed to look rather unaffected, but he did down his next shot and pour himself a third, so who knew how realistic that impression was?
“Well, considering that a cloak is still an article of clothing that still means you are wearing Alaric's clothes, so," Mercer stated, smiling a little more into his own glass as he downed his second drink. “I'm surprised, still, that he traded you his cloak. Honestly, he wouldn't even let me wear it, and I'm Duke von Riegan," he continued, pouring himself another glass before grinning lightly at Reynard.
“I think a new toast is in order," he started, raising his glass, towards the others, “to Reynard and pulling Alaric into the light. I always knew he was hiding something, but that. Well... I guess it makes a lot of sense." He grimaced lightly as if he knew the why behind the sense.
“Wait—does the Duke like men?" Devon asked with some concern. It was obviously concern for Reynard. Probably he wondered if they weren't being unintentionally cruel by poking fun at him for something that wasn't how it appeared, or was perhaps one-sided.
"Your guess is as good as mine, apparently," Reynard grumbled in response.
Vridel winced in sympathy. “Ambiguous, huh?"
The assassin tilted his hand back and forth as he took another shot after clinking glasses with the others. "Mixed messages," he said with a bit of a sigh. His eyes widened a little, and he cleared his throat. "Not that I'm making much effort to disambiguate, because I am a professional and looking after him is my job."
“Yeah, I used to think that, too," Cyril said, rolling his eyes a little. It was tinged with too much melancholy, but still clearly represented an attempt at humor.
Mercer seemed to think otherwise, though, as he shook his head.
“No, you're completely right, Dev. Alaric likes men, but he's so far up his ass that he doesn't realize it. You have to understand, when it comes to families with Crests, they push it upon their heir to have another heir, and another to keep the family line from becoming useless. You know how it is, Vi," Mercer spoke, pursing his lips together and shaking his head.
“House Goneril is just exceptionally bad at putting that much pressure on the next head of the house. And in this case, that means Alaric. You can ask Deirdre, she'll tell you. It's the whole reason why she... planned to elope with Sofia. Unfortunately for Alaric, he sees it as his duty to uphold those traditions even if it meant he'd be unhappy for the rest of his life. That whole schtik with..." he paused, glancing in Cyril's direction, “Senka was just that. He really did think she was beautiful, but he wasn't interested in her that way. He only did it on behest of his father who'd heard him say that. I think... that's why they stayed as friends."
“If anything, it's worth asking him about it, Rey, if you like him. He just needs a little coaxing to know that it's alright to feel the way he does, because... well, when you've been told most of your life otherwise..." Mercer didn't need to finish that sentence for the rest of them to get the implication.
Reynard shook his head slightly, dropping his eyes to the toes of his thick boots. He sipped from his glass this time, clearly withdrawing somewhat from the conversation.
The mood seemed to dip again, which was perhaps to be expected. This wasn't the Academy, where they could spend hours nursing drinks and mocking each other relentlessly and playing ridiculous games. It felt like that part of their lives was just... over. Permanently. Even when the war ended, Vridel would still be dying. Mercer and Cyril would still be without the people they loved most in the world. Reynard would still be on the wrong side of a social barrier from someone he seemed to have deeper feelings for than Vridel thought he might have for anyone, ever.
Maybe Devon could carve out a long and happy life for himself, with Sylvi, but he was still a commoner. Still half-Srengese in a world where that was almost a crime in and of itself.
But even so. “Congratulations, by the way, Devon. Sorry I missed it."
The other man smiled a little, but his dark eyes were sad. “Thank you, Vridel. Sorry we didn't wait. I think maybe I'll ask Syl if she wants to have something more... well, more. After. So everyone can be there." He didn't seem to want to linger much on the subject, probably out of respect for the other three.
Mercer smiled a bit wryly. “Yeah, well, don't count us out just yet. We'll help out, too, if we can. We'll be rebuilding nations after all of this, because something," he paused to swallow thickly, “something good has to come out of this. Even if it turns out to be just you and Sylvi, Sofia and Deirdre, or even Vi and Thea... something good has to come out of this." Mercer had spoken so softly that it was as if he didn't speak at all. But Vridel heard him clear as day from where he sat.
“So... congrats, Dev." He held up his fifth cup for another toast.
The others raised theirs as well, united at least in sentiment, and took a shot together.
It really did feel just a little bit warmer.