villagelogs | 024-027 » neither reward nor punishment

024-027 » neither reward nor punishment

WHO: Everyone.
WHERE: Eastern/Central/Western Mathias + ???
WHEN: Days 024-027
WHAT: The consequences of their actions.
WARNINGS: Will update as necessary. PM this account to have a warning added!
NOTES: Plotting post over here! The next log will be posted January 23rd.

RECOMMENDED ♫ Deadly Avenger "Onryo" 怨霊

DAYS 024-025
CONSEQUENCES
“There are in nature neither rewards nor punishments —
there are consequences.”
— Robert G. Ingersoll
When the unwilling residents of Mathias Township wake on the morning of the 24th day, they will find themselves in yet another set of frustratingly unnerving circumstances. None of them are where they last remember being, and some of them have strange marks on the palms of their left hands. It's all incredibly unsettling, but truthfully they should be used to it by now. No one will remember traveling to their new location.

Residents can wake up anywhere within their new location and in any position. Curled up in a bed, sprawled on a couch, huddled beneath a coffee table, propped against a wall... Wherever they are, they will themselves to be in quite an unusual state. While they are wearing whatever clothing items they went to sleep in, plus their shoes and a coat. The newest arrivals to Mathias Township will perhaps stand out for being slightly more appropriately dressed than their new neighbors. They are all a bit damp, physically worn out, and half-frozen from their apparent walk through a blizzard.

Each of the four locations is inescapable — residents are trapped, with exterior doors and windows being shut tight and a blizzard raging outside. The locations are stocked with fresh food and water and a large pile of firewood for the fireplaces in each building. The circumstances residents will face, however, may vary wildly between locations as the forces at work in Mathias respond to the recent actions of certain individuals.

BOARDING HOUSE | GREY GULL
NEW HOUSE | MYSTERY MANSION

These residents will wake with a mark on their left hand palms, a spiraling black symbol similar to those some may have seen around town. All marks are identical and cannot be removed, but will have seemingly vanished from their skin on the morning of the 26th day.

Castiel, Daisy Johnson, Dean Winchester
Elena Gilbert, Elijah Mikaelson, Helen Magnus
Phil Coulson, Quentin Coldwater, Sherlock Holmes

DAYS 026-027
IN THE AFTERMATH
After their ordeals of the past two days, the unfortunate residents of Mathias Township will be grateful to find that they were back where they are supposed to be, a chill still clinging to their clothes in whatever place they went to sleep the night of the 23rd day. New arrivals will wake in the living room of the boarding house. None of the residents will wake with anything in their possession from the locations in which they were previously trapped, including any notes or documentation they may have made during their time there.

CONDITIONS UPDATE
— SNOW continues to fall heavily on Days 024-025, resulting in white out conditions from the wind that blows in gusts of over 35 mph; the temperature also drops drastically, making conditions extremely dangerous for residents. The blizzard clears on Day 26 and residents are left with a cold, calm world covered in white.

— THE FOG remains blocking the paths in the forest, urging residents to stay huddled within the town proper, and it also now blocks the northern section of town, beginning just before where residents know the chasm in the earth to be. Venturing into the fog is... ill-advised.

— DISAPPEARANCES continue to plague the town. Kylo Ren and Thomas Richardson have vanished without a trace.

— NO NEW DEATHS have occurred in town, but there is a new "grave" in the small makeshift graveyard near the schoolhouse. Rey's corpse has been moved and covered with stones to wait for the ground to thaw enough for a proper burial.

— THE LANTERNS will be gone from the morning of Day 024. No trace of them remains.

OOC UPDATES
— A GIFT for everyone! As a thank you for being part of this spooky little game, every character in the game is being gifted 2 Activity Points. These may be banked over here — instead of linking to an AC post, you may put "New Year gift" in that field. Happy 2021, friends!

— NEW LAYOUTS have been installed for our communities! Huge thanks to our Eldritch Librarian Stars for putting in the time to get this place looking shiny. (You may have also noticed some new page layouts being installed — these are also our Librarian's handiwork!)

— DISCOVERIES have been collected and collated for your review. Please note that this is OOC information only, put together for the purpose of helping you as players see connections and possibilities for CR and your own character's potential avenues of exploration and investigation. (If we are missing something, please report it so we can add it to the list.)

— REMINDERS — Don't forget about the bulletin board. Please continue reporting your updates to locations, plots, and discoveries. The map of Mathias has been added to the locations page for ease of reference. Make sure your character's sanity level is kept updated. Prospective players are still joining the TDM, so it's recommended to track new top-levels so you don't miss them.

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Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

Subtlety isn’t something Yennefer is well known for. But, the fact that she doesn’t burn the aforementioned threads on sight suggests there’s a modicum of appreciation there, under all that refined judgement. It may be too early for his charm to wear away at any defenses, but the sheepish sincerity is amusing, to say the least.

For another brief, long-suffered moment, she doesn’t look particularly convinced at the promise of much of the same fashions. Well, there was always magical ways of fixing up something more to her frivolous liking. "I'll find a way to make do."

The flirty polar bears just really aren’t cutting it.

Her eyes linger on his back as he turns. Perhaps annoyed that she can't quite figure him out.

She is hardly shy, hasn’t been for decades - but no, this was more a point of control. That's all she's in the habit of having. Even so, she barely waits until he’s fully turned to start pulling at the binding of her dress. For all her distaste towards the alternative, it still stunk of ash. A hiss skates by when she slides the fabric past the arrow wound. Gnarly little thing.

She’s halfway to tying the drawstrings when he goes and says that. She scoffs. Aretuza’s enchanter would surely love to take all the credit for that, she thinks. Even so, flattery can go a long way with Yennefer. Good to know that even (almost) fresh out of a battlefield, she can still inspire the thought.

“Tell me,” he’ll hear, bare feet padded along the carpet. “Does that charm work on most people?”

The flannel shirt is done up by some of the buttons, and hangs terribly loose. The severity of her countenance quickly lessened by the jovial polar bears, even if she still has the same enthusiasm as a cat caught in the rain might. Dryly: "Satisfied?"

"Well." He starts to turn his head but freezes and goes back to staring at the wall. "You are not 'most people'." Look, he's not that terrible at this game after all. But he cares little for what she is wearing, if he's honest. He has seen the Earp girls in similar threads. And even in his time, dresses with distracting little boob windows were not common at all. Surely there is no need for sour faces or irritable dispositions if she's comfortable?

"Would you like to take a seat and let me take a look at that wound?" he offers. She likely wouldn't have to unbutton her shirt any more than it already is, just tug it over a bit to show him the extent of the damage done. Still, he is cautious about overstepping his bounds, especially since they are still on formal, unfamiliar terms. He has promised to be proper and he does intend to keep it that way.

Maybe, comfort was starting to win over, just a little bit. Maybe, the flattery was on its way, too. But you won't catch her admitting it. And the clothings wasn't the very source of her irritability, though the initial sight hadn't helped.

At the moment, it is an odd maneuvering around the formality of distance, and the vulnerability of being in the position she is now.

And it is vulnerability, isn’t it. An admittance that right now, she can’t just fix it herself, because she lacks the proper knowledge of this terribly foreign place to be able to get herself the supplies that she needs, lacks the power, so she must accept the expertise of someone else to do so for her. And she hasn't relied on anyone else for a very, very long time.

So, she does what she’s told, slowly, and given time enough to know her more, Doc might realize what a miracle that is in itself.

It isn’t that she’s trying to be ungrateful, obstinate. Distrustful, perhaps, in a way her world taught her to be. Tissaia's tutelage, years in courts, and years outside of them. Besides, she’s an inconvenient asshole at the best of times, let alone now.

She can’t remember a time when she needed help like this, settling on the couch, and grabbing at the hem of the shirt to hike it up above the wound, really only managing to take a look at it now with a clenched. It’s not the worst she’s had, but if she doesn’t figure out her shit quickly, it might scar. Wrenched arrowheads were a messy business. "Fuck," she exhales, eyeing him, and the little box of apparent medical supplies. "I'd have this healed by now if I wasn't here." She's absolutely not pouting. "Or, maybe I'd just be as dead as the rest."

He's from a completely different world to hers, and that doesn't solely refer to where they actually come from. It's also her mingling with people from a certain social strata who think that it means something, where there are a lot of farces and pretenses, and him just plain not giving a shit about any of that. He wouldn't fit in in that kind of world with mud and snow on his boots. His hat has probably seen more shit than the people she's had the pleasure of passing the decades with.

There's no pretences when he glances up at her, wordlessly letting her know he's about to touch the tender area around the wound before he does so.

"Well I am glad you are not dead, but this has been left to fester for a while. It does not look good." It's hard to read the furrow in his eyebrows what 'not look good' means. Probably somewhere in between worse than what her apparent vanity can handle and better than a slow and unpleasant death.

Turning half around to fetch a damp cloth, he wrings the water out and starts dabbing around the wound, squinting a little to see if any small foreign particles have managed to lodge themselves in the wound.

"With arrows, often the best way out is through." This looks like she or someone else had pulled it out the way it went in, doing more unnecessary damage. "I'm going to wash this out and stitch this up." He'll be as neat as he can make it but she's crazy if she thinks it won't scar no matter what anyone can do to it.

And in the end of it all, of all the elegance of courts and prized positions, it didn't mean anything, at all. A boring monotony in the course of decades. And he's right - his hat had likely seen far more shit than the gilded dresses of nobility.

She shifts, teeth gritted and head tipped back to look at the bleak ceiling when his hands graze her skin. They’re cold, or maybe her skin a touch too warm around the cut.

“Is there any herbs here? Marigold, calendine, rhwydwaith carthion? Roots? Oils? There can’t be nothing. There’s never nothing.” She huffs, having not had any time to look before running into him.

Stitches. Not good he says, and that almost gets a laugh out of her. It’ll hold her skin together but he doesn’t know her determinations, either. She has only one set of scars, silvered on her wrists. She has spent decades nurturing the vanity crafted in Aretuza’s walls. The price paid was a great one, a choice lost, burned into ash, and maybe at this point, vanity was habit. And it isn't about what anyone else can do, it's about what she can do.

There is power, too, in appearing as though nothing can touch you. Even if it's far from the truth. But what was the point of magic if not to get you what you want.

“Mm. Would have been cleaner, at least," is the dry remark. "Do what you must then,” she’s been through worse than a few needle prods, after all.

"I have lavender tinctures upstairs, and there is dried willow bark in the pantry. I will take you to the botanical shop after this," he offers. "There may be little to nothing left for you to take from there, but at least you may look over that shop and the adjacent greenhouse for yourself."

It probably isn't the most pleasant feeling to have the arrow wound washed out and disinfected, but he has to be sure it's cleaned out before he starts, and stitching is probably not much better. There is a distinct sense of skin being poked and pulled, but Doc makes his stitches small and keeps his work neat. No doubt she won't appreciate it but at least she won't die from a nasty infection.

"Is there anyone here that you think might hurt you? Or have you left the war behind?" Clearly between his concern for her survival and her concern about the aesthetics and implications of scar tissue, they have wildly different priorities.

"That would be a start," she sounds close to relieved, curiosity peaked. She can use all that, provided he can share enough for her to experiment. Those were everyday herbs, but with the right combination, even a weed can channel enough power.

Provided there's anything left in the greenhouse, too.

No, this isn't pleasant. Honestly, it sucks, and her hand clenches at the flannel fabric to stop herself from considering shoving him away at a particularly stinging pull, though makes little sound of protest otherwise, eyes sliding shut.

"I'll admit, you've a careful hand," the remark does come a little breathless as she looks down at the results of his efforts. It will make it easier to work with, and, for all intents and purposes, no dying from infection!

"I don't know," she replies with a thoughtful tilt of her head. "I've yet to meet anyone from the same place." When he looks to be done, she'll lower the shirt. "But portal magic like this is - difficult." Not impossible. Hardly anything is, but: "And not without its price. And I pissed off enough people for some to want me dead."

Alright, her priorities may appear skewed. But the last few days were strange. "As for the war? Powers rise and fall. It's all the same bullshit." She shifts, moves to rise. She had been satisfied with watching it all from the sidelines, unfolding like a hurricane. Nilfgaard is a joke until it used dark magic. Until it had Fringilla, and the zealous White Flame. "We were outnumbered. It was stupid to try. But we did anyway, and we go close. So close."

A look down at her hands. Clean now, from blood and soot. "I didn't expect to be removed from it. Shame. I would've wanted to see the ashes. And I'm pissed off that something had enough power to do this." And that it wasn't her, but, she leaves that out, not even thinking for a second that talk of magic might sound strange to someone else.

His hands are as steady as it'll ever be. You can't be renowned for having the fastest draw otherwise. He would protest against her moving so quickly but she seems determined and he doesn't want to be the guy who's standing in her way and gets bowled over in her wake. He knows better now than to piss off a witch, even if he wasn't so clear on the magic part.

"I don't think anyone is particularly happy about being here. But we are not fighting amongst ourselves." Please, Yennefer, let them keep it that way. "I would not believe that anyone here would mean you harm."

He wipes his hands on a wet towel and moves to get to his feet as well. "I shall procure you a coat. A plain one," he adds, in case she shoots him another glare of fickle displeasure. She likely would not wish to be seen out in public wearing what could be misconstrued as children's sleepwear. This much he can sympathise with, at least, as a waistcoat and pocket watch gentleman himself. "And then we may go to the florist. You can- tell me more about your war and your portal magic if you wish, along the way." Doc has nothing to contribute. But he would listen.

If she was being honest, it hurts to move, and she still passes a hand along her side to soothe the sting, but she’ll be damned if she admits it.

Though, by that logic, Doc has less to worry about her anger than most - he might just win himself a favor or two for all the helps he's given. She's starting to gather he's a contact she'd best hold onto to. It isn't a guarantee of entirely avoiding her ire, as fickle as a summer storm, but it does provide proverbial cover.

“There’s always a limit to anyone’s civility,” is the quiet remark. “But. I will take your word for it.” For the time being.

She watches him with arms crossed. His steady hand might have been unquestionable now, but his sense of fashions still was. For all the crispness of his own clothing, clean lines of a time she is yet to know, he’s still pitching low on that front. “I - would appreciate that."

She is a little out of practice in saying thank you, but it’s coming! Soon!

Maybe they will pass that clothing shop along the way?

“You care to hear it?” Yen seems surprised, a brow raised. Doc seemed more a man who would get along with Geralt, for all the interest in courtly affairs - someone who cared less for politics, for the fine artistry and difficulty of magic, and more for the results and affects it bore on the immediacy of any situation. She could be wrong, of course, in her quick assessment during their short moments. "Perhaps you can tell me what is it that you think I should know about Mathias."

She would be so disappointed with what the clothing shop has to offer that she might even decide to keep the polar bear flannel pants. At least the coat that he goes to fetch for her is not nearly as offensive. It is a long black almost gothic style coat with pleats below the waistline and military style big round buttons on the sleeves and down the front. It is a bit too shapely for all the men living in this house, but one of the rooms seemed to belong to a young lady at one point and they have such clothes to spare.

"I would hear anything that you would care to share with me. Better the sound of your voice than mine. But I will tell you what dangers I know of this town, if you think it more pertinent." They should at least get the immediate briefing out of the way so she can survive her first night out in Mathias possibly on her own or in a shared living arrangement without incident.

"Foul play often accompanies foul weather. Those who have ventured into the fog have been harmed." He has learnt from his argument with Constantine, and with Negan's serious side-eye. He should opt for a gentler approach than telling people what to do in a firm and uncompromising tone.

"I would advise against it. If you receive any cryptic instructions from an unknown source it is also best if you heed them. Sometimes said instructions come via the telephone." Doc gestures to the phone on the kitchen counter. Not that he thinks she is as clueless about these technologies as he first was, but there is a good chance it is in or near the kitchen in the other homes should she choose to take up residence there. "If it rings, you should answer it. It may be one of us checking in on you, too." Doc has yet to receive a 'prank call' and no one has tried to sell him insurance or Tupperware so he has gotten into the habit of always answering politely. Even if he does end up politely telling Wynonna to go to hell.

"Have you found a place to stay yet?" Perhaps they need to sort that out while they're out. He would have been more than happy to let her stay in 1306, but there are five men there in a three bedroom house. And more than half of them have some degree of post-traumatic stress. Even if they were to cede a room to her he doubts she would feel comfortable.

The coat is - better than expected, all things considered, slid on and buttoned up and by the time she's done, it may seem as if it fits as though it were tailored for her. It is seamless, small magic, not unlike fletching molded from thread - a simple taking and shaping of something easily malleable. A test for herself, as it were, a tentative dip into the familiar roll of chaos, warm in her chest.

Firm and uncompromising tones did tend to fall on deaf ears of many, it would seem, and Yennefer would be no exception. But, her reaction to malevolent weather seems to hint at familiarity, rather than shock. It isn't easy by any means, but within the realm of possible. Unlike —

"The - what? Telephone?" Finally, a pinch of confusion, as he gestures to the item on the kitchen counter, prompting her to venture towards it as he goes on. As it happens, she is just as clueless, if not worse. She's seen the likeness of them in the Boarding House, but as they stayed silent, she didn't think to define them any more than that.

"So they give us instructions, command fog to keep us compliant, and yet they hide like cowards?" The summation comes incredulous, a harsh laugh through the room. "How convenient."

"No," there's no reason to grandstand on this one. "I've not yet had the chance, seeing as you have occupied most of my attentions." Shockingly, it doesn't sound like she's being terribly facetious. At the very least, the edges of delivery are dulled even if only a fraction.

Well that's- that's one way of putting it, Yennefer. Doc raises his hand halfway to try and tell her that she's holding the phone upside down but decides against it. She looks about ready to rip his head off, or break the phone, or perhaps both.

"Miss Ellie lives next door, by herself. Her housemate had- recently passed. She was most enamoured by your dress and your... fortitude." Yes. Let's call it 'fortitude'. "If you do not intend to live by yourself, perhaps you could consider taking up residence in one of those rooms?" He worries about Ellie, but he has made a promise to stay in this house, help Raylan with Malcolm. She is only next door, any one of them could be over there in an instant, but Constantine had only been next door when the fog had rolled in that day. They could do nothing for him.

"It would be safer to band together, circumstances being what they are, than try to survive this place alone." Also the cowboy dads bring food over very often. It's not merely just a thankless babysitting gig.

The telephone is miraculously left in one piece, set back onto the receiver the way she found it. The magic message box might take some time to get used to though.

“Mm, we’ve met,” a flick of her gaze back up to him. “Back at the Boarding House.” She’s rather pleased that she left an impression, really. Less so by whatever he actually means when he calls it fortitude, but it doesn’t show on her face.

Honestly, she liked Ellie. Liked her honesty, and her mettle. It had been obvious that the girl had been shaped by a cruel enough world, and that parallel ran familiar enough to leave a memory of its own. “You’re concerned for her.” She’s lucky, in that.

“There is strategy in numbers,” she concedes, as she considers him again, still too much like a puzzle she can’t quite figure out. “I’ll see what arrangements I can make.” It feels easier to consider this as fair trade for the help he has provided, whether or not she is able to admit to needing it.

Tissaia was right. Her precious fucking ego always did get in the way.

"I am concerned about a great many things." Not only about the young lady next door but even this young lady in front of him, as capable and fierce as she seems. He would not be so callous as to suggest that they might need each other. But he sees little sense in everyone staying apart, by themselves. It only makes it easier for whatever lurks out there to pick them off one by one.

"Thank you, for at least considering it," he says earnestly. And also for not breaking the only telephone in their house. He gestures towards the front door.

"I hope you are feeling alright to walk. The florist is not far." He is not chasing her out, but they don't have an infinite number of daylight hours to be going out and about in town, and as night draws closer it gets colder too. "There is a clothing store along the way that you may wish to visit, but I'm afraid it sells more of the same as what you are wearing. We have not seen anything quite as magnificent as that dress." And magnificently impractical, too. ~~Don't her breasts get cold?~~

But, he wouldn't be terribly wrong, would he? She’s still new, still finding her footing and wading knee-deep through too many unknowns. The reality of this still hasn't sunk quite in. Like dream-fog, blurred around the edges. An infinite game of catch up and for all of her obstinance, she does need them.

Their knowledge, their familiarity with a world she knows nothing about, if it is to where she finds herself for however long a time.

“I feel fine,” a beat, as she heads for the door. “Better than when I first woke up.” Another pause. “Thank you.” Was that really so fucking hard Yen.

“I’ll look there on my own time. I've no doubt you have more pressing tasks than watching me pick through whatever excuse of taste they may have,” her own time to perhaps find enough to weave together into something more to her tastes. She’s no seamstress, but what the hell would be the point of magic if not to get you what you wanted.

A short laugh. “It will have to stay here, I'm afraid, until I'm able to speak with Ellie. If you've no objection?" She had draped it, neatly, over the sofa's backrest.~~Hey, it wasn't winter where she was. But probably.~~

"Of course." He doesn't make a big deal of her gratitude. It seems hard won as is.

What is the point of a man if not to hold her acquisitions for her and pay her compliments with everything she tries on? But he appreciates that she would not put him through that and simply nods. "I will show you where it is anyway." She can take her time perusing the various articles of clothing another day.

"We will keep it safe," he promises. If she leaves it with them for enough days he would even wash it in the bathtub and dry it by the fireplace, attempt to mend the arrow hole once he finds the necessary books in the library to guide him. He can mend a tear just fine, having spent much time on his own in a time where clothing was not so readily available and disposable, and a lot of it spent outdoors where rips and tears were frequent, but this is more than a simple rip in the fabric.

Once they are out he adopts a slow pace until he is sure she isn't straining to keep up, then his strides get longer and more confident as they head down Phillips Drive. The town is picturesque, covered in snow. It's hard to believe the kinds of horrors that can happen here in a place so serene.

"Ma'am, if you don't mind my asking. I understand that wars do not discriminate. But what kind of a place sends a young lady to the frontlines?" He can't fathom it. It goes against everything he believes in.

While difficult to disagree with the general appeal of compliments, there is also power in mystery. One thing is to watch her card through the lackluster fabrics - no jacquard in sight, no doubt - and the other is to one day find her in something that will serve to leave as much of an impression as the first, and be left wondering how.

What this was today was an exception, and one she did not care to repeat. He saw her more vulnerable than most have in a long time, for all her thorns. She'll get over it, but there's a need for an image restored.

She falls in stride beside him, breath clouding the air, and hands tucked into the coat pockets. Carefully, she surveys the street, following his lead. It's a needle-point sort of silence, save for the soft drawl of his voice beside her.

She peers at him, sidelong. "I've lived several lifetimes already," he's asking a difficult question, so she answers the easier part of it first, and keeps her eyes staring ahead of her, until the expanse of white starts to sting. "If you're asking why I was there, I agreed to fight because I was asked to, by someone who probably hasn't begged in centuries." Her words may be harsh, but there is an undercurrent of something that could be concern. She hides it with a scoff. "Saviors of the fucking Continent. It was a massacre."

She doesn't look old enough to have even lived one lifetime. It makes him wonder. Something she could do to herself perhaps? Or did she also make a deal? Curious as he is, it is rude to ask for a lady's age. So he offers up a morsel of information of his own.

"I have lived several lifetimes myself. In none of them would I ever condone damning a woman to such trauma." Yes, she may be powerful. He has no doubt that beneath her cool exterior is something that far supercedes anything he could imagine. She may even hold the key to turning the tide of the war. But he has seen the toll that being the heir has taken on Wynonna Earp. He would not wish it upon anyone else.

"I take it the war is not going well?" He keeps his gaze straight ahead. It is a small town and they are fast coming up to the row of shops. Perhaps being here is a small blessing for her. A brief respite from it all.

"Were you so insufferably righteous in all of them?" There's those fickle thorns, rising with little provocation. It is easier to counter his evident concern with sharpness than admit to any of it being true.

Still, it strikes her as a curiosity that he lays claim to lifetimes, much as her. He's no mage, that much has been made clear. He's no Witcher either (small be her blessings), or elf, but there is something about him she can't quite place a name to.

"Not particularly," would any of the details mean anything to him? Did it matter? Did any of it? She lingers in a silence, a tense line between her brows.

"Twenty two of us," it spills, as though she's fumed in her silence for long enough. "Twenty two of Aretuza's finest mages who haven't fled at dawn, and a handful of pig farmers, against an entire army," seethed lowly out, an exhale of thoughts before she can bite her tongue. It is his ears her conflicted, unfortunate restlessness falls upon, still unprocessed and scorched raw, a distant reminder of the all-consuming chaos of fire somewhere in the hollow of her throat. "They were shit odds, from the very start." Distantly, she might recognize that what she feels right now, is loss. The irony of her being ready to die, and being one of the last still standing in that ruin.

"Where were you, before being brought here?" She veers away from this, from the screaming blaze of flame ringing somewhere in the back of her mind. Perhaps there is a common thread here, instead. Perhaps, she wants him to talk instead of her.

"Mmm, I dare say for most of them, yes." The possible insult rolls off his back without incident or fanfare. He would rather be attacked for being a gentleman than be accused of being anything less.

He had not heard of such a place called Aretuza, but she does sound to be from a different time, so it stands to reason she might be from a different place altogether. They might understand each other, but he does not speak from the same vernacular that she does. They both probably sound different from many other people in this town.

Doc thinks to ask why she did not think to abandon post. It is dishonourable, yes. But twenty two people and a group of civilians does not sound like war. It sounds like they were left to die. He would not have thought any less of her had she chosen to leave and he doubts anyone else would have, either. But she asks about him instead and he thinks that he owes her at least something for her troubles of talking to him. A bit of tit for tat.

"I was in a small, sleepy town called Purgatory." It was ice to her fire, in the northern part of the world, with a stable temperature range and snowy winters. "A witch had made me what I am. But she was... not quite so endearing, as yourself."

"Mm," a hum, accompanied by the curl of a wry smile. It's less insult and more deflection, if it helps. That he takes this harsh disposition in such even stride shows only that he is a very patient man. Poor luck indeed to be pulled into keeping her as company.

She wouldn't have fled. Low words exchanged by the campfire had assured that, tension taut like bowstring and a resolve to see it end. Or, to see an end. But, it's good that he doesn't press, in the end. Their understanding was surface level for the moment - and how would one even begin to explain the only world they've known? It is disorienting. Something she is grasping at.

She doesn't seem familiar enough with the concept to remark on the irony of that town name. Instead, she focused on something she does recognize, finally tearing her gaze away from the road ahead, chin lifted up to trace his profile. "I try," dryly, because she knows she doesn't, even if she could, before giving way to her curiosity. "You were cursed? With longevity?"

Most curses tended to go for looks, or lineage, strigas cast out into the world. A crooked spine...though they were many. A long life seemed like an odd cruelty to inflict.

"I was diagnosed with a terminal illness when I was fourteen. On my deathbed she came, promising much more than a cure. I was not ready to die so in my desperate final hour I agreed. Then she imprisoned me for a hundred and thirty years."

He finds it easy to explain this to her. Much easier than he has with several others. Not many people in this town know how old he is, who he is. It helps that she speaks of magic so easily. And even more helpful is the fact that he is certain she does not know of the tall tale that they have turned his life into. He can just be another village idiot, buying into promises he should have considered more deeply before committing without her judgement of him being anything more than human.

"I am not ungrateful. It has been a blessing, too. But I may not have made the same choices back then if I knew what I do today."

Imprisoned, for over a century. That sounded - terrible. To be held anywhere against your will. For all her purported callousness, she couldn't envy that.

Was it worth it? She almost asks.

It is easier to listen to him than she thought it would be - what she expected to be a dismissive answer, he instead gives honestly. What she thinks will be an answer of little relevance to her, instead, strikes a cord of an intimate sort of understanding. To want out of the way your life turned out, by any means you have before you. And in whatever way her expectations may fall, this she doesn't quite expect.

"Seems as though both of us would have made different choices, had we known what they'd mean to us," her voice lacks the hard edges, just for moment.

"Is it easier? To think you had any other option that the one you made? I'm still not sure."

There are many questions to be asked there about what she means by that. He has summarised a lot in what he has told her and she hasn't told him everything either.

"I do not believe so. But sometimes I do think it would have been better to have accepted my condition and died." Surely she must feel the same, if she has lived a few lifetimes already. It can get dreary. Especially if you are the only one, or one amongst very few, to outlive everyone else around you. Watch them die, get a little colder and harder with each passing generation.

Perhaps a conversation for when the either of them had a bit more familiarity shared between them. Sometimes unspoken understanding just wasn't enough to jump into sharing the extent of their tragic backstories.

"Mm," she can, in fact, relate to the sentiment, silvered scars still a reminder on her wrists. "And yet here you are, for better or worse. " It doesn't sound like she's referring to just him.

She was taught an odd sort of acceptance of her long life; it was all around her, and Aretuza assured her isolation. Sorceresses were always so easily removed from everything else. Maybe it made watching other die around you easier, but it mattered a bit less when you had no legacy to speak of.

But he, on the opposite end, seems the sort who, despite the years and the cruelty of a long imprisonment, in what little he actually told her, held on to something distinctly sincere. Patient and perhaps kind.

They'd both known cruelty, she thinks. But they might have grown from it in different ways.

"To think, I would have been robbed of your company otherwise," it doesn't sound like an insult, curled in subtle, dry humour. She tosses another look at the shops around them, at the white of the snow that her eyes are finally used to, breath clouding from her exhale.

024-027 » neither reward nor punishment

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