Log:Welcome to Fate's Harvest-- HOPE YOU SURVIVE
| Welcome to Fate's Harvest-- HOPE YOU SURVIVE | |
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"I'm pretty sure the death sanction's necessary with the amount of crazy getting slung around down there." | |
| Participants | 25 October, 2017 Petra arrives in town and Czci gives her the rundown. |
| Location | |
It's late afternoon outside the Hedge, where a hot air balloon is parked-- 'parked', more like tethered strongly-- but inside, it's the close and dripping cave with its own atmosphere, its own chill, and there's a tin soldier with a flashlight sitting on a low ledge, reading a Star Trek novel to keep himself from falling asleep. He has an empty takeaway coffee cup in a holder next to a full iced coffee and a foil-lined bag with a still-hot foil-wrapped breakfast sandwich in it, and he is, of course, armed. You don't even go into 'just inside the Near Hedge' unarmed. He may or may not be getting a little twitchy-- the only evidence of it, given the stillness and lack of facial expression the Hedge enforces on him, is the fact that he keeps checking his watch.
Petra isn't the only living thing that's coming or going, and while Czcibor has been waiting a hob or some other beast that lives in the cave has made an appearance, either spotting him and retreating or passing by. Probably a dozen times or more there's been movement from deeper in the caverns only to have it be something other than Petra. When she does finally arrive she's dressed like Czcibor is used to seeing her, at times when she's in the hedge: dressed practically (though that's almost always), carrying telescoping batons in their holsters on both her hips, a pack with most of her things on her back, and wearing her own face, such as she has one with her features looking like someone photoshopped them into as close as they could get to a blank, pale mask. She's dirty and dusty from her trip, and she looks tired, but when she sees Czcibor waiting for her, checking his watch, her almost non-existently thin lips bend into a smile and she raises a delicate hand to wave. Of course she doesn't call out to him. Her voice has always been little more than a whisper most of the time, but he hasn't heard her raise it beyond a tone of casual conversation in years. Instead she trudges on, heading as straight for him as the terrain allows.
Each one's not quite a startle, but gains the Captain's attention-- no different from the movement that's actually finally Petra herself. That one, however, ends quite differently: despite the hedge's influence, he's strong enough to grin if he wants to, and grin he does, wide and bright. "Petraska!" He's gotten to his feet in the time it takes to breathe, almost scrambling, book dropped into his messenger bag; he's already starting to step forward, but remembers the sandwich and coffee at the last second and flusters, turning back to get them. Then, then, Petra's already almost there, so instead of tripping them both up with a collision, he's good and waits until it's only a step or two before moving to wrap his arms (and sandwich and coffee) around her. Tight, sure, but not too tight. 'I missed you' tight, not 'I'm going to break your ribcage' tight. And there's never a heartbeat on this side of the gate, not anymore, and it's been harder and harder to hear on the other side as the years have passed, but that doesn't change the warmth of it, the humanity. "Was wondering if I'd have to come look for you," he murmurs in Polish, amusement and worry both in his hollow voice, finally stepping back to offer the food and caffeine. "You all right? Not much trouble? We're sort of in the mountains so I brought an old friend to give you a lift into town."
Petra's pace speeds up a little bit in response to his reactions on seeing her, and she lets out a soft laugh -- so soft it carries only a few feet, really -- when he forgets his things and has to turn around to get them, but soon enough she has reached where he's standing. When she does she offers out her arms, settling easily into the hug that he wraps her in, and she squeezes back with easy fondness and holds the embrace for a long moment, until he steps back and starts speaking again. "I always arrive eventually," she says in her whispery voice, which seems like it should be a little too quiet to really hear, but which is somehow audible none the less. She replies in Polish, and though she doesn't speak it like a native, she's had a lot of time to practice it with him. She just sounds like a competent Austrian trying to speak Polish. "I'm fine, really. It was just a longer journey than expected, you know how things go in the Hedge. There was no trouble, just a lot of walking." She tilts her head and then leans to peer past Czcibor, even if there's nothing to see at the moment. "An old friend? I'm not sure if I should be excited or worried."
There's that grin again, sidelong, not answering the question about the old friend. "This is for you, I figured you could use the actual protein instead of just leaning on Spring for it," he says, shaking the bag. "Eggs and some sort of salty ham bacon thing and cheese, and there's little ketchup and pepper packets in there, and a thing of hash browns--" But he's already leading the way out of the gate, and just around the corner, tethered to the ledge, is the stupidly pretty hot air balloon he spent so much time in over Vienna. There's a down jacket in it, and a lighter black wool poncho, in addition to the usual stuff he keeps in there. He's also installed a high bench seat which allows for looking over the side of the basket if you're not standing up-- --and as soon as he gets in, holding the door open for Petra, he sweeps up his big extravagant plumed hat and places it jauntily on his head. He also switches to German. "So I got a temporary apartment close to the freehold. We can look for someplace better when you've had a chance to rest, and maybe once we've spent a little more time around here to figure out what'd be most convenient. I've sworn into the freehold, but you don't have to if you don't want; there are some community amenities that are open to all under Hospitality."
"Thank you," Petra says, taking the bag and opening it up to remove the contents, which she doesn't even hesitate to start in on as they head out the gate. It's not far, but she has already devoured the hash browns by the time they've exited. Knowing her she has food in her pack, but it's probably all things that won't go bad sitting in there for weeks or months. Not quite as delicious as warm, salty, greasy food. When they get out through the gate and she spots the hot air baloon she laughs again, along with a gentle shake of her head, and she steps aboard without reservations when he holds the door open for her. "That hat," she remarks in a tone of familiar despair, but the kind of despair that comes full of amusement for the antics of someone she knows she'll never change, and doesn't really want to anyway. She seats herself on the bench and pulls the sandwich out of the bag. "You know me, I'll be fine anywhere. I'm sure the apartment will be a good temporary place for us to hang our hats. Even that hat. And I'll probably join the Freehold, as long as you've had no signs they're dangerous enough to warrant caution in dealing with them. What can you tell me, anyway?"
If he were wearing a shirt that had a collar to pop, better believe he'd be popping it right now. Instead, the Captain's just got this puffed-chest smirk on in reaction to Petra's long-suffering tolerance of his hat. But then he pulls up the wire tethers with a gesture and turns the heat on with a SHOOOOOF, and after a moment the balloon begins to rise. Finally, he leans against the opposite side of the basket, elbows hanging back over the edge. Despite Petra's last question, there's the loudness of the fire jet, so he just looks at her with immense affection and-- relief?-- for a moment. After that moment, they're aloft and drifting lazily, and he pulls the chain to turn off the fire again and starts gently directing the wind to steer them toward Tamarack Falls. "This hat can hang itself anywhere, and immediately classes up the place," he says loftily, then leans again and tips his head back a little. "They've got a much better and more efficient pledge than Entzweite Erinnerungen, or even Eisenbastion. It's a death pledge, but they're very, very specific about the laws, and they give them to you up front, and they're fair and sensible. If you manage to break the thing, you really fucked up somewhere along the line." He fishes inside his uniform jacket for a moment, then produces his little black notebook and hands it over. "Last few written-on pages," he says, "the laws. I was impressed." And there they are in English, written in his careful Catholic-school handwriting.
If Petra was ever shy about eating while people were watching her, she got over it a long time ago. Even if Czcibor is leaning against the side of the basket staring at her, she eats the sandwich with obvious enjoyment, enough that there are faint ripples across her otherwise ghostly skin. After a few bites she puts it down on her lap and signs at him, in OGS, with greasy fingers. There's no other way she could talk over the sound of the jet of flame. "You're acting like you haven't seen me in years. I didn't take that long, did I?" The amused quirk of her lips and lazy signing make it pretty obvious that this is humor, and not worry. She picks up the sandwich again then, and finishes it off well before they reach altitude. She wipes her fingers on a napkin from the bag, then gathers up all the rubbish and puts it aside and peers out over the unfamiliar landscape while she waits for quiet. When conversation picks up again she turns back to look at Czcibor. "As if we don't have our own Sword of Damocles in our pledge," she says, as if death sanctions no longer bother her. She takes the offered notebook when he hands it over, and she flips through the words before nodding. "As long as the laws are sensible. The only thing I would worry about is whether the current monarch can add new ones, which suddenly everyone is beholden to for the rest of the season. Ones people might not be so able to follow. 'It's against the law to be male', or something like that."
A snort, and the Captain glances away briefly after the signing, clearly somewhat embarrassed. "Am I clingy? I'm sorry. I'm just used to us swanning in and being the impressive ones, I suppose. We're definitely not, here. There's a lot of concentrated power, and it's a little nervewracking. I'm just-- you know me, I don't like being out of reach." Subtext: alone, either. They drift a little, and it gets quieter and quieter, and then he brings the air in close to give them more of a silent buffer from the wind outside their little bubble in the basket. "It's actually a lot more involved than that, they've got a sort of parliament, almost," he answers, once Petra asks. "They call it the Council, and any new laws have to be passed by the whole group, and the group's made up of the last year's past crowns and elected representatives of the /literally eight courts/ they've got here. Councillors can be voted out of office by either the rest of the Council and the Crown, or a three-quarters majority vote of their Court. So it's not a democracy, but it's a lot more fair than most of the setups I've seen," Czcibor explains, holding on to the rope in his corner and leaning a little differently, taking the weight off his bad leg. "No ruling monarch's got absolute power. It's... really refreshing." He glances back again and there's a little shrug. "I'm pretty sure the death sanction's necessary with the amount of crazy getting slung around down there."
"No, you're not," Petra says, sliding out of with her effortless grace and coming to lean against the side of the basket next to him. Fortunately, the things are usually heavy enough to not be totally unbalanced by that, not that Petra weighs much at all. There seems to be less of her than it seems like at first glance. She leans her shoulder against his and lets out a sigh, one of deep relief. "I've missed you too," she tells him. "I'm not sure what to make of the news that you aren't the most impressive person in town, if that's what you're implying. How are you taking that?" The gentle teasing comes easily to her, but under it there's also some concern, just checking in to make sure that's not turning out to be an issue. She listens then to the description of the system they use, as she turns to peer thoughtfully off in the direction that they're going, without breaking companionable contact with the tin man. "That's an interesting way of going about things. How involved are you intending to get here? I suppose we're probably staying a little while, if you've decided to swear to the Freehold."
Sometimes it's a little hard to tell, physically, if Czcibor's relaxing or not-- but Petra's known him long enough to always be able to pick up the tells, to read him, and he never hides any of it from her. He relaxes considerably when she leans against his arm, as nearly weightless as she is. He glances down and smiles, maybe a little lopsidedly, but no less affectionately. The teasing's taken as intended; he puts his free hand over his chest and affects a mock indignant look. "Why Petra," he says, Absolutely Shocked, "I'm Absolutely Shocked; you seem to be implying that I'm some Big Damn Hero or something..." and then he starts laughing. "Which, by the way, is how Lumi just described Die Landeswehr to a few people we were talking with the other day. Jeez." He shakes his head. "I like not being terribly well-known, and not having people run to me with everything, and not tracking a million things at once. It's not like we can't do it, but it gets overwhelming if it's not an emergency situation. The only worry is the power and impressiveness stacked with the madness. I was in a room with two Lost Pantheon at the same time yesterday, and... when Zephirine joined it is when she really started losing herself." Not like he can really talk; he came so close to losing himself in that black year that he can't even remember most of it. But he's never wanted to, and neither have the rest of them, and maybe that's what's saved them all from the most tragic path. He's silent for a moment, thinking about it before he can wrench himself back out and jam his mind into the present, into the conversation. Petra's shoulder against him helps. "At least a season; that's the duration of the fealty oath," he answers part of it. Then, "As far as how involved-- I've made myself available to the local version of the Ministry of Relief, and plan on doing so with the local group of martial hedge spelunkers and fighters, as well, if on a more limited basis. No fool runs for profit, only defense. I'm waiting on doing anything more, other than being generally helpful if individuals need it. If it turns out this place is more trouble than it's worth, we can pick up and leave in the winter."
Petra laughs again, that quiet and breathy laugh that seems to have no voice to it at all, and she gently punches Czcibor on the shoulder. Gently, plus she's still leaning on that shoulder so it's not like there's a good angle anyway. "That's not so far off as a description of us, is it? Even if that's not what we want to be, it's what we often end up being anyway. But I know what you mean. One of the things that has been nice about traveling with you is that we go to so many places where we can just... be. Some quiet is nice." At this point they've both become Wyrd enough that they stand out anywhere they do go, but that's different than also having the weight of years of history and expectation. What she doesn't say is that being away from Vienna also gives her a little distance from her family. She has a husband and three kids from Before, kids who are mostly grown now, and her Fetch has been their mother longer than she has. Czcibor knows quite well that they're never far from her mind, but when they're far from her physically it's like there's always some burden lifted from her. A relief from the feeling like she should be there, even if it's just watching from afar. "Do they actually call it the Ministry of relief?" she asks, surprised enough that it causes a rippling of color across her pale skin, but as soon as she asks she can read the answer in his expression and her invisible-thin lips smile. "Okay, that would have been strange. Maybe I should get in touch with the same groups. Are there any people that you've met who you think I should meet?"
"I guess not, but it was a little embarrassing! Though... I guess that's not hard to do. Anyway, yeah-- the quiet is so nice. Well, as long as it's never too quiet," the tin soldier amends, corners of his eyes crinkling-- and he rolls with the nigh-insubstantial punch, amused. "I mean, I miss everyone else, but... 'everyone else' was getting to be fewer and fewer, even if sometimes the reasons were nice ones, like getting married..." They both have a lot of reasons to be glad of being out of Vienna. Petra's distance from the family she can't touch anymore; Czcibor's distance from constant reminders of everyone who's gone missing or died on him, or who's just left, preferring the company of someone else, someone less intense, someone less determined to stay sane. Being away doesn't stop the missing, but it stops the sight of empty chairs at empty tables. Even with his telling expression at the question, Czcibor laughs and shakes his head. "Yeah, nah, they call it the Greenies for some reason. It's a little silly, but I guess ours was a little pretentious." At the last question, he plays up looking deeply thoughtful, tilting his head and leaning his elbow on the edge of the basket, tapping his chin with a little 'tek tek tek' sound. "Well... there's an elemental who gets even more overwhelmed in a crowd than I do, and faster, and she seems really nice. I offered to teach her and this other girl how to make friends with air enough to get it to keep things a little more quiet, and the other girl-- a seagull-- was also interested in learning to fly, even though I told her the kind I know how to do probably isn't the kind she'd want to do. Also, she very badly needs a shower. They're both really nice, though. You should probably talk to a Waykeeper... most of the connections you'd need to make, you can get contact info there. Everyone else I'm still weighing, really. It's been... kind of a whirlwind."
"Now we can meet new people," Petra points out, trying to help Czcibor find the bright side of the situation, but since she's a Darkling she has to dial the brightness back a little bit by adding, "who we can miss later too, when we move on or they do." Life, a series of comings and goings. She lets out a soft sigh, because she really does know how he feels, and though her face doesn't really change, it shifts subtly in ways that give a vague, rapid-fire slideshow impression of familiar faces. It's the shape of a her nose, or the color of her eyes, or other tiny clues as to who from their shared past popped into mind as she thought back on them all. Moments later they're all gone and it's Petra's featureless face that's left. "Greenies," she shortly after, moving on from her thoughts. "I like silly more than pretentious. I could go for more silly in my life." For all that Petra sometimes seems quiet, dour, and overly serious, she really does have a silly and playful side, and over time that's been more and more of what Czcibor has seen of her, as they travel. More just with him than when she's around strangers, but still it's there. "I'm guessing the Waykeepers are the welcome wagon? That seems easy enough. A little more friendly than Fear Wardens, too. Hopefully not just in sound."
Czcibor watches the play of reminders on her face, and it's a bittersweet thing he only has a small smile for. "Yeah, we can. We always do. And it's been safer to just keep moving," he says as she thinks, and then thankfully, she's only herself again and is changing the subject. He glances down over the edge of the basket, then shifts carefully so as to not especially dislodge Petra if she doesn't want to move; with a thought, he stills the flight of the balloon and begins to bring it down with a small tug of one of the top flaps. They begin drifting slowly lower, above a quaint but large white schoolhouse in a big clearing. His aim is true: he's literally landing it in the back of a jeep in the parking lot. "I like silly too," he says, then glances sidelong at her and flicks the wide brim of his Super Extra Hat but keeps a straight face. "The Waykeepers seem cool, yeah. Polite, friendly, diplomatic, firm. If you want access to freehold-only stuff, you have to swear in, but everyone's got access to the Wayhouse as long as they honor Hospitality. In the meeeeantiiime," he drawls out, "you seem like you need a nap before anything else. I picked up a couple of maps, and you can use the jeep if you want; maybe we should get you a bike if you just want to tool around in town..." Thunk. They're landed. He leans over the side to start securing the thing to the jeep, then pauses to fish a key out of his jacket and hand it to Petra. "Apartment 1B, right through the lobby. I have to deflate this guy."
"That all seems so terribly... reasonable," the Darkling murmurs as she listens to Czcibor continue to describe the way things are. "I'm not quite sure what to do with reasonable. That's not how all of this usually works." She watches the balloon descend, lingering quietly as it makes its way down, as content with a few minutes of silence as she is with conversation, and then they're on the ground and she turns to gether up her backpack and the bag of trash from the sandwich and has browns. When he offers her the keys she just gives him an understanding smile and holds up a hand, refusing them. "I'm going to throw my bag in the jeep, but I think I'll just lay the seat back and catch a quick nap while you bring the balloon down, but wake me up when it's time to fold the thing up agian. It's much easier with more than one person working on it." Then she betrays how tired she is with a yawn, which she covers with a hand. Daytime isn't darkling time. | |
