ioduanlogs | [OPEN] you can paint me any colour and i can be your clown

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[OPEN] you can paint me any colour and i can be your clown

Characters: the Fool, Rutile, Trahearne, Yato + you??
Date: throughout August; specific starters may have specific dates
Location: the city; the turtle’s head
Situation: A trip to the turtle’s head; an attempted mugging (again); making a turtle’s acquaintance; horns???
Warnings/Rating: A bit of violence in prompt #2!

I. At the turtle’s head (during the thunderstorm; closed to Rutile)

The thunderheads lining the horizon had not appeared imminently threatening until suddenly they were, and the torrential downpour that sweeps across the shoreline leaves the Fool utterly drenched before he can so much as scramble upright from the rock he has folded himself upon to meditate. He draws his raincoat up around himself quickly, tugging the hood up over his head to shield his face and hair from the wind, when the first lightning bolt cracks the air open around him.

It lights the clouds up from within first, revealing layer upon layer of dark clouds and simmering electricity, before almost in the same instant striking down to crash into the churning surface of the sea.

The roaring thunderclap follows a moment later, and he jolts, fingers seizing in the front of his coat. He isn’t in any immediate danger, but anyone with a shred more wisdom to spare would make a beeline for cover of some variety, rather than move towards the shoreline, pathologically curious, with eyes only for the lightning that makes bright the dark sky.

II. This Is A Stick-Up (Crime 1; closed to Trahearne)

The Fool would find these repeat encounters with Aifaran’s criminal underbelly exceedingly tedious if they did not also leave him paralyzed with deer-like fright first. That is undoubtedly how the Kin’nal swordsman gets his first strike in.

“Your money, idiot!”

It’s a glancing blow that sends the Fool staggering--but not falling--against the mouth of the alley wall, with a hand flying up to stem the flow of blood from his now bleeding arm. He darts a harried glance back at his assailant… who seems just as startled to discover that he’s drawn blood, to be honest. But he seems to master himself a moment later, advancing on the Fool with his sword up again.

“Listen,” the Kin’nal says warningly, “I’m only going to ask you one more t--”

The alley way is dirty enough that when the Fool kicks up a sudden cloud of grit and dust into his attacker’s face, he sputters and staggers back. That gives the Fool plenty of time to burst out of the alleyway at a run towards the nearest peopled street--though the Kin’nal isn’t far behind, once he’s cleared the dirt from his eyes.

III. Turtle Friend (Faith 4; OPEN)

The Fool does not understand what it means to be ‘blessed,’ though he has grown to understand and even share Konryu’s reverence for turtles during his time in this world. They are like and yet unlike the dragons of his own world; the breadth and depth of their power and intelligence can’t be easily understood by a moral mind, though their capacity for kindness and compassion seems far greater. What else would possess a sentient creature to gather the small, helpless peoples of the world onto the back of his shell, and devote his life to carrying them through the sea?

Although, the Fool supposes this little one is a bit young for such a task.

“Fancy meeting you here again,” he teases the small creature as he perches on the edge of the dock, absently dipping his bare feet into the water. It paddles contentedly between his feet.

IV. Debiru Maaaaan! (Meta 3; OPEN)

“...we will issue you a full refund, of course--this, ah, this is was not a side-effect that we anticipated--”

“Oh, nonsense.” In the mirror that has been provided to him inside the beauticians’ boutique, the pair of strange horns that now extend up through the Fool’s hairline and sweep themselves backward over the crown of his head highlight the aspects of his features that seem to be just the wrong side of human. He smiles at the sight of them; perhaps the beauticians had not succeeded in covering up the small scar above his eyebrow that had been given to him early on in his time here in Aifaran, but these--

“I shall keep them.Tintaglia would turn green with envy,” he muses aloud to himself.

The beauticians exchange nervous glances. One of them clears her throat. “So, um, about the payment.”

“Mm?” Quizzically, the Fool looks back towards them from admiring himself, then, “oh, yes, of course,” and proceeds to fish the correct amount of rhinn out of his changepurse.

(Perhaps you glimpse him through the window of the shop, or encounter him while he wends his way through the busy streets back to Die Rosa Tulpe. Either way, he seems awfully pleased for someone now sporting a pair of unsolicited body modifications from his head.)

V. The Fool’s apartment (backdated to July; closed to Yato)

Barely dressed in his house robe after his hasty exit from the bathtub, the Fool stares at the last message he has received from Ilda… and waits.

Seconds creep by. Then a minute. The Fool sighs and tosses his yimo onto the bed, some of the tension ebbing from his shoulders. Given no one has materialized in his bedroom yet, perhaps it is safe to change into something a bit more presentable.

He selects a few scarlet and turquoise slips of fabric that probably pass for clothes from his (rather generous) closet, then disappears behind a silk partition in his bedroom to change.

Just in case.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

Rutile has as much wisdom as they do years on the Fool in the moment the lightning appears over the sea, realizing quickly how risky it is to be exposed in such weather. Though it will not kill them, Rutile has seen the shock lamellae in lightning-struck quartz, and the twisted fulgurites forged on the shore, and hardly fancies being one of them.

It is fortunate Padparadscha had the foresight so many weeks ago to ask after a waterproof finish; water runs in rivulets down Rutile's features, but their powder does not stream away as it might have in the past. It soaks into their clothing as they scurry across the sand and search for shelter. It is moments later when they spy a figure near the crashing waves, frozen as if transfixed by the light show out at sea.

Centuries of responsibility for their charges take over; Rutile makes a noise of frustration and slogs through wet sand to the figure, then nudges their shoulder with a hand to draw their attention. The clouds light with more electricity, casting an eerie glow over the Fool's face. As the thunder engulfs them, Rutile chides: "You are aptly named, tempting the lightning to melt you like this! Come away from here."

They speak loudly enough to be heard over the noise, but it is no easy task.

At the jab to his shoulder and the sound of Rutile's voice, the Fool turns quickly to face his friend--but already his wide-eyed curiosity has transformed into something else that is harder to parse. He stares hard at Rutile, but his bright amber gaze seems to go straight through them towards a distance that only he can see.

An especially loud clap of thunder seems to startle him back to himself, though Rutile's sharp command that he seek shelter goes completely unheeded. Instead, he blurts out, seemingly senselessly, "The turtle," and spreads his arms out to either side in a wide, expansive gesture towards the giant beast whose head they now stand upon. This time when he looks to Rutile again, he does seem to see them, and makes a hasty (and poor) attempt at explaining himself.

"The planar chaos beyond the barrier, the crew of the Narrakra and our shared visions--" he counts them off on his fingers as he speaks, "--why has no one thought to ask the turtle?"

Then abruptly he turns from Rutile and begins to scour the ground near the shoreline in the pouring rain for something, anything, that might look like a bit of exposed shell. One hand is already fumbling with the edge of his single glove.

He probably looks as though he's lost his mind.

The Fool says something about the turtles; Rutile strains to hear him over the thunderous sea, but just as they're parsing that he's as stuck on the Narrakra and the visions as they are, he has already turned away.

Rutile has seen this kind of mania only a few times before, and never has it suggested anything good. Their recollection is immediately of Phos's hallucinations, of Alex's episodes; as the Fool scrabbles across the ground, muddying his fine clothing, Rutile's vexation changes to pity and concern. How are they supposed to convince the Fool that whatever satisfaction he may gain here will be outweighed by the danger of it all? If he's not struck down by lightning, he may be carried off by a rogue wave when the tide comes in, and humans do not survive underwater as easily as gems do.

Rutile crouches near the Fool, weighing the pros and cons of simply dragging him back to shelter. Pros: it would be easy, the Fool seems to be made of air (and water, at this point); cons, with him as excited as he is, they may have to hurt him to get him to comply - another end they'd rather avoid. "Fool," they say loudly, trying to get his attention. "Fool, you cannot speak to the turtle; no one can!"

Perhaps Phos could, is a thought that comes unbidden to Rutile's mind, but that's a moot point now. They tug at his coat and try another tactic. "The turtle won't mind if you come back tomorrow. It has been here for centuries and will continue to be!"

The danger of the incoming tide is not one that registers for the Fool, at least not immediately. But if the waves lashing the shoreline were enough to deter him from this mad quest, then surely the threat of a lightning strike would be, too.

He manages to rip his glove free from his fingers and stuffs it into one pocket, then turns quickly where he knees in the sand to show his silvered fingertips to Rutile. "I can," he insists determinedly; another bright flash of lightning off the cost throws all the sharp angles of his face into harsh relief, but he doesn't flinch at the thunderclap that follows shortly after. Instead he only shakes his head before gesturing wildly to the sea.

"When the the tide comes in, the sea and sand will cover up these exposed bits of shell--I may not get another chance, and if I do, I may have come to my senses about the plan by then." He hastily wipes sea spray, ran water, and slick hair back from his eyes before looking back down to the smooth patch of bare turtle shell he has found beneath soil and sands. He takes a breath, in and then out. "I must do it now."

And then he does just that, before either Rutile and good sense can intervene.

Whatever transpires next happens all within the Fool's mind--though his widely blown pupils and slack jawed expression should be enough for Rutile to suppose that something, indeed, is happening.

Rutile has seen many surprising things in Aifaran, but the flash of silver on the Fool’s fingers takes the cake. Humans shouldn’t be able to bind with metallics like that; further, there is nothing about silver to suggest a supernatural connotation - but the Fool’s conviction and the shock of silver are enough in combination to convince Rutile that they perhaps don’t have all the information here.

As the Fool sits back, restoring some of his vision, Rutile glaces at the storm swirling overhead. Though the lightning and thunder are still delayed, and the lightning is still striking out at sea, with these winds it is a matter of minutes, perhaps, before it catches up to them.

“Do this quickly,” Rutile sternly tells the Fool, looking back at him - and finds his face preoccupied with something beyond the two of them. They glance back over their shoulder, but nothing is there - and looking back, his hand is connected firmly with the exposed turtle shell he must have been seeking so desperately.

He must have made some sort of contact. Rutile shifts on their feet, both to stay balanced in the muddy sand and because the Fool simply sitting there, staring, is not comforting. For the first time in millennia Rutile stands sentry, watching the skies and the horizon for any danger that might threaten him.

They will allow him ten minutes. After that, they are both leaving, no matter what the Fool thinks of it.

How can one describe the sensation of touching minds with an entity larger than a thousand lives? The Fool is ill-equipped to manage it--possibly iller equipped to manage this encounter than he had anticipated. His own mind is like a cup dipped in a river, filled too full with water, overflowing first and then plunging beneath the surface.

(This is the danger of Skilling, he will realize eventually, this loss of self... and the willingness to be lost.)

Rutile may have set aside ten minutes for the Fool's mad exercise, but they won't need to wait that long. It is only a matter of two or three minutes before the Fool suddenly takes in a sharp breath and pulls his hand back from the shell's surface, to sit back wide-eyed and disoriented as the rest of the world comes slowly back into focus. "It knows," comes his hoarse declaration after a moment, followed by a frown, and he lifts a sandy hand up to his head with a soft sound of pain.

(yes, this was a colossally foolish idea, wasn't it.)

If Rutile is counting, it is as subconscious as the tremors the thunder sends rattling through their core. Their eyes are still scraping the horizon when the Fool’s words, barely audible, reach them. Sharply their neck twists and they look down to find the Fool clutching his head with filthy fingers.

They don’t have personal experience with pain, and they told the Fool as much last they met. But Rutile has been among the company of humans long enough to recognize what is normal and what is not, and curling up and piteous moans are firmly the latter. Rutile crouches beside the Fool, their fingers hovering inches from his form. As delicate as a gem, he is, and not nearly as strong.

“Fool,” they murmur, closer to his ear. “You’ve spoken to the Turtle. I am going to take you home now.”

Without waiting for a protest or reply, Rutile wraps their arms around the Fool’s back and helps him to his feet, then in a couple of smooth motions sweeps another arm beneath his legs and cradles him to their chest. It is not the most efficient way to carry someone, but it is the one that will least bruise him - Rutile is not exactly a pillow. He is heavier than they expect him to be, but it is a trivial difference; they do not stagger as they adjust to their burden.

Then they set off up the shore and back toward the road. They’re no Yellow Diamond, but their speed is still more than they could have maintained had the Fool walked. They keep a brisk pace as they head back toward Aifaran and Die Rose Tulpe, rain hammering at their back and thunder echoing behind them.

The Fool is easily gathered up into Rutile's arms, the agony of the Skill headache more than enough to render him incapable of protesting even if he wished to. No wonder Fitz had been driven time and time again to the bitterness of elfbark tea; the Fool suspects he wouldn't hesitate if someone told him eating hemlock might at least take the edge off. (And it would--rather permanently.)

The journey back to Die Rosa Tulpe goes by in a brisk, wet blur, though by the time they reach the cafe's doors, he has come back to himself enough to feel genuine humiliation over his foolishness... characteristic though it may be. "I'm sorry," he is in the process of telling Rutile as they come through the cafe's front doors, dripping sea water and sand across Klaus' clean floors.

The cafe/flowershop was relatively quiet - Klaus was in the midst of a sort of soft close so he could tend to the plants (though he'd stopped to play a chess-like game with one elderly regular he'd befriended), when the the door burst open, Rutile carrying the Fool in their arms.

Klaus stood immediately when he saw the Fool's prone state.

"What on earth's happened?" he asked, closing the distance in a few quick strides. He looked to Rutile for some explanation as the Fool didn't seem like he was in any state to say anything.

“Be still,” Rutile chides the Fool over his apologies. They waste no time striding over to the corner couch and laying him, sopping wet, upon it. Then they turn to Klaus - whom they haven’t met yet, but who certainly seems like he could be in charge around here, and asks questions as though he is - and continue, “I found him out on the beach not an hour ago, carrying on about speaking to the turtle. I daresay he did,” they note solemnly, “but it seems to have left him incapacitated.”

Once the Fool is taken care of, Rutile peels off their lab coat and drapes it across the back of an unoccupied chair to dry; their gloves, riddled with sand, quickly follow. They are left in their black uniform, which is still soaked, but does not drip with quite the same intensity. They pick up several napkins from the table and dab dry their face and hair, surveying the mess the two of them have left across Klaus’s lovely shop with resignation.

“I imagine you know better than I what kind of care he needs,” Rutile goes on. “If you will point me in the direction of a mop, I will clean this while you help him be human again.”

(A familiar eye might notice that Rutile’s colors are rather more dull than usual, but it could be the light.)

He is easily laid upon the chaise lounge, and in his dazed state more resembling of a drenched rag doll version of himself than a person. Still, the Fool is aware enough to recognize that plenty of trouble is being undertaken on his behalf--nearly as much trouble as he has created on his own.

Such is the way of things when he gets a mad idea into his head.

"Just some water," he requests a little hoarsely, reaching up a hand to press against both his pounding temples and his tightly closed eyes. Even dim light is blinding, and only adds to the ache in his head. Almost to himself, he adds, "The shadows are shifting." It's a nonsensical sort of thing to say, and whatever context there might be for it, he doesn't have the energy to speak it aloud just yet.

Klaus's inane fretting stopped when Rutile told him what had happened, and the colour seemed to drain from his face. And though it sounded like nonsense, Klaus's expression grew grave at the Fool's utterance.

"Please don't worry about the floor right now," Klaus said, dismissing the damp mess. "He may have had a seizure. Would you sit with him while I get the first aid kit and make sure he remains stable?"

Klaus knew how vast the minds of the great turtles were - he could only hope there wasn't any permanent damage.

He hurried to the back room, glad for once at Leo's penchant for getting injured. The first aid kit was thus always near at hand and not buried behind boxes. He also grabbed some towels for Rutile and the Fool - no reason for them to stay damp.

Rutile doesn't know what a seizure is, but the gravity of Klaus's tone suggests that the Fool may be in far worse condition than they initially assumed. Though they are still annoyed at having been caught in the rain for so long, they are suddenly gratified that they arrived when they did. How much more damage could the Fool have done to himself had they not come along?

"Of course," Rutile acquiesces, gladly letting Klaus take the reins. They sit gingerly near the Fool's head and fold their hands in their lap, watching him with a steady gaze.

The shadows are shifting. What does it mean for the shadows to shift? A quick glance about the room reveals that everything is as expected, and the one thing Rutile can think of that would fit that sort of description doesn't exist in Aifaran, let alone during a storm.

When Klaus returns with the first aid kit and the towels they gratefully accept, tossing one around their shoulders and laying another atop the Fool like a blanket. They step aside to allow Klaus room - he is far larger than any other human Rutile has met, perhaps even rivaling Adamant - but stay close by, both to keep an eye on the Fool and to get a glimpse at what humans keep in their first aid kits.

The Fool lays very still on the chaise lounge as Klaus rushes off to find the first aid kit, and so is an easy patient for Rutile to manage in his absence. He doesn't do much of anything except press his fingers into his temples; if he's had a seizure, he would certainly not be the person to verify it just yet, not when his faculties haven't returned completely.

By the time Klaus returns with the towels and the kit (and Rutile has draped the blanket across him), he has managed to crack his amber eyes open enough to take in his surroundings. His pupils are still blown unsettlingly wide, but when he looks from Klaus to Rutile, they narrow enough to suggest that he sees them, rather than whatever it is that the turtle presented to him.

He also, rather belatedly, recognizes that Die Rosa Tulpe is quite a distance away from the turtle's head. When he winces this time, it's less from pain and more from embarrassment. "I have never been wise," he admits, "but perhaps that was foolish even for me."

Trahearne hadn't counted on being involved in anything quite so exciting today. He was carrying a small sack of food, mostly just things he enjoyed and knew the Bridge wouldn't provide, happy to mind his own business up until the point that he heard the commotion of running people. When he saw that one of them was his friend, scared and bleeding, he dropped his groceries without a second thought.

"Fool!" Trahearne hurried over to him, and after getting a look at his pursuer, stepped between the two of them. The aura of his death shroud clouded his his leaves and bark seconds later, but whatever the kin'nal's reaction might be to having such spooky-looking interference, Trahearne's next move was to draw in a breath and scream.

The sound that came out of his mouth no longer resembled his own voice. The scream was instead an otherworldly wail, like the fury of the dead had manifested itself into a single burst of sound, all directed at the kin'nal that had made the mistake of choosing the Fool as his target.

Realistically, it's likely that more than just the startled Kin'nal are terrified by that burst of sound, though doubtless none regret their recent life choices more than he does. The Fool's assailant goes to his knees, quaking in abject terror in the face of that ungodly screaming. If he had the willpower to do it, he'd be on his feet fleeing the scene along with the rest of the street's would-be spectators.

For his part, the Fool has stumbled to a stop in the middle of the street with his gloved hand clasped tightly over his bleeding arm, watching with wide, shocked eyes at Trahearne's display of magic. He can't speak--not from fear, but rather from awe.

Trahearne couldn't help but feel a spark of satisfaction at the kin'nal's reaction to the scream. Resorting to violence in return likely wouldn't have solved anything, but scaring an assailant out of his wits? That, he hoped, would go much further to discourage such a thing from happening again. While Trahearne couldn't claim to enjoy making someone cower in front of him like this, the urge to leave him with some parting words was just too strong. "Think of how disappointed your mother would be," Trahearne told him, his glowing yellow eyes within the shadows narrowed in disapproval. "You'd best run home and beg for forgiveness."

That said, he turned his back on the kin'nal, the shadows around his form dissipating in a hurry as he stepped into the street. Trahearne heads right over to the Fool, apparently far more concerned about him now than he is retaliation from the swordsman. "We need to get you indoors."

"Yes--yes, I will--" comes what amounts to outright blubbering from the terrified Kin'nal, who with shaking knees is wobbling back to his feet to begin making his swift retreat from the scene. But he doubles back to drop his sword back to the ground in front of Trahearne, as though this will somehow make up for having used it in the first place. "Sorry--I'm sorry--" This, to Trahearne or to the Fool, who can say? Regardless, when he turns to scramble away from the street this time, he doesn't come back.

The Fool, meanwhile, continues to stand stiffly with a hand held snug against his arm, looking to his friend with clear relief when he doesn't follow after his assailant. "Perhaps to a hospital," he suggests with what would be wry humour if it wasn't accompanied by a flinch and a hiss of pain. He carefully pulls his hand back from the injury to inspect the damage, and, "Oh--" he exclaims, aghast.

The injury itself is shallow enough, but will require stitches, but--"Oh, I was so fond of this cloak..!" Yes, the Fool is lamenting over blood stains on his fancy turquoise fabric.

Trahearne did pause to give the kin'nal a wary look, but once he left the sword and scampered off... well, it wouldn't be very responsible to leave a weapon lying around where anyone could find it. He's prompt about scooping it up by the hilt, briefly testing its weight before looking back to the Fool.

"There's no need for a hospital - my Talent ought to take care of your injury well enough. I'm afraid there's little I can do for the state of your cloak, however." He doesn't even know the first thing about doing laundry. Trahearne could count on one hand the few times he's ever bothered to wear actual fabric, as opposed to growing his clothes himself.

"I must still insist that we get off of the street. Just in case he has friends lying in wait."

The suggestion of magical healing has a peculiar effect on the Fool, who looks up to Trahearne's face abruptly from lamenting the state of his clothes. The only way to describe his expression, frankly, is that he looks as though he might be on the cusp of a panic attack, though he's managing it admirably. "No," he insists, his voice not losing its melodic quality despite the tremor in it, and he adds in hasty, near apology, "please--you are kind to offer, but I can't." Not again, not after the Skill healing that Fitz subjected him to--

There is a skytrain platform a few blocks away, and the bleeding isn't severe enough to merit calling a cab or an ambulance. The Fool masters his emotions and nods in that direction. "There," he says, "the skytrain isn't far. Would you accompany me?"

Trahearne is honestly a little stunned to see such a reaction to his offer. It was only to be expected that having a wound sewn up would be distasteful, so he couldn't imagine why the Fool would act so skittish over the easier option, but it did shut up his initial objections. For the moment.

"Yes, of course." Trahearne allows the Fool to remain a step ahead of him as he follows, still carrying the sword in tow. He's paying more attention to any pedestrians that might remain on the street than he would be otherwise, not willing to let his guard down until they were safely away from the scene. And if the Sentry actually bothered to come running so late... well, they could deal with that should they be forced to stop and explain themselves.

"I can accompany you to the hospital," he offered, "As long as you're sure you prefer it. If you're worried about my skill, I promise you that the healing takes very little input from me to work." It'd be a reasonable concern, really. After spending so long practicing necromancy, using magic that was nearly the exact opposite hadn't come easily to him.

His refusal must have left an impression, and the Fool feels a brief stab of guilt. He shakes his head as they walk and placatingly reaches out to touch Trahearne's arm. "No, please, it has nothing to do with that," he insists, then flinches--either from his wound or his memory, it is difficult to say. "The last time I was healed through magic, it was..."

He pauses, unsure of whether he wishes to delve into too much detail on the subject... and certainly not in the middle of the street. At length he relents and suggests, "let us try your talent, then."

Certainly, having another set of stitches on his body would not be enjoyable.

Trahearne is starting to look rather concerned. It was becoming more and more obvious that the Fool had some sort of a negative experience with healing... yet he wasn't eager to let his friend keep bleeding while they continued on their way to a hospital. Getting this over with in a hurry seemed like the far better option.

But first, he didn't want to do it while the Fool was standing. "Over here," he said as they stepped into the skytrain station, ushering the Fool over to a set of chairs. Trahearne took a seat next to him, leaving the sword lying over the armrests while he fished a small rock out of his pocket. At this size it was nearly a pebble, painted green in some effort to distinguish it.

Trahearne took this pebble and pressed it against the Fool's skin near his wound. "Just concentrate on the stone's energy," he directed, "And that will do the job. Once it's done healing, the energy is spent, but I make a good handful of these in a week's time. I haven't had cause to run out of them yet."

At Trahearne's request, the Fool complies and takes a seat on the bench within the skytrain station. Around them, people continue coming and going as they will, sparing only the most cursory of curious glances towards the two Dreamfolk. Perhaps the odd actions of those brought to the Seaglass City by the Dreaming have become commonplace for the residents, over the years.

All this to say that the Fool and Trahearne are not interrupted as Trahearne presses a small, peculiar stone against the Fool's arm near his injury. The flesh around the laceration is tender enough by proximity that he tenses out of instinct, but he nods once to his friend to make it clear that he understands. "What peculiar magic," he muses aloud nonetheless, even as a little furl forms between his brows, indicative of his concentration.

"I find it strange as well. Were it not for this Talent, I imagine that enchanting even a rock would be a lengthy process."

Trahearne kept a careful eye on the Fool's wound, watching as both the edges began to pinch together and close up seemingly of its own accord. If it was deep enough to scar, then there was little Trahearne could do to prevent that, but the magic did knit his skin back together without so much as leaving a scab behind. He swiped away some of the blood with gentle fingers, then satisfied that the stone had done its job, he whisked it away back into his pocket... right before simply wiping his bloody fingers on his leaves.

"There we are. Perhaps you ought to take this sword. Just carrying a weapon can be a good deterrent against - ah, why did that kin'nal attack you?"

It is a little disconcerting to see Trahearne wipe that blood onto his own leaves, but the Fool says nothing about it. Instead he lifts his arm to examine the healed tawny skin; he allows only a hint of his dismay to show at the faint, pale line of scar tissue left behind, but truthfully, this is far preferable to the alternative. "Thank you," he says quietly before he says anything else, and gives his friend a look of genuine gratitude, before his expression darkens with frustration at that question.

"Oh, I have no idea," he signs and gestures after the kin'nal, who has left no trace of himself behind besides that sword. "This is hardly my first run-in with the criminal element of this city, but in truth I think he saw who he thought was an easy mark and thought to prove himself a manful sort of thief." A gentle scoff follows.

"I would bet that particular thief is rethinking his choice of career right now," Trahearne commented with a growing smile and a mischievous glint in his eye. He couldn't deny that scaring the mulch out of someone that deserved it had been fun. Cathartic, even. He'd be very surprised if the kin'nal ever so much as raised his hand at another unarmed Dreamfolk again.

"That's an even better reason to take this. Openly carrying a weapon gives the impression that you know how to use it. At the very least, opportunists like that will think twice when they see that you're armed." Trahearne lifted the sword by the flat of the blade, offering the hilt to the Fool with a slight flourish and a bowed head, as though it were more ornate than your basic garden-variety steel. "For the sake of your now and future clothing, will you accept?"

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

[OPEN] you can paint me any colour and i can be your clown

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