wolfe. (abstention) wrote in emillion, @ 2014-03-16 21:56:00 |
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Entry tags: | !complete, !log, jareth monaco, wilham wolfe |
you could say i saw him once; he was not at his best.
Who: Jareth Monaco & Wilham Wolfe
What: A reunion between former traveling partners who know too much about one another.
Where: The Greasy Spoon.
When: Backdated to mid-February, after this.
Rating: Language, because hello, it's Jareth.
Status: Complete!
This wasn’t how he’d expected to spend his evening - he’d wanted to go home, stare at the wall, smoke, go to sleep. Instead, he was walking into a tavern he wasn’t familiar with to have dinner with a man he hadn’t seen in over a year. The only other person in Emillion who knew exactly what he was, aside from Aspel and Li and Divina. Someone that could fuck up everything that Jareth had built - and the realization that that bothered him was something he could smoke away when he got home. A quick glance around the tavern told him that he was there first. Good. He walked in, nodded at the bartender, and took a seat. How the fuck was this going to work? He needed to figure out a way to explain what had happened? Not like he’d changed much, right? He still was trying to figure out how to find the cultists that he hadn’t already eradicated - he was sure that they hadn’t gotten them all. Still, he hadn’t been as focused on that as much, not with Banes missing and the new squire. And Aspel calling him on her whims. He glowered at the table. Maybe a few pints would make it easier. To contrast, when the door opened and the sturdy geomancer entered, it was without trepidation, without anxiety. Once Wolfe scanned the room and located the familiar face camped out at a table in the back, the mage’s face immediately split into a smile. “Jareth Monaco,” he said in a wondering tone once he approached, standing over the table. “As I live and breathe. It sounded like you on the networks, close enough, but I couldn’t be absolutely certain until I’d seen you in person.” He simply seemed glad to see the other man, voice warm with pleasant surprise. But for those who knew Wolfe well—and over the period they’d spent together, day in and day out, hours whiled away in each others’ company, silently carrying each others’ weight both in battle and out, Jareth had managed to carve his way onto that list with axe and blood—there was an audible note of thoughtfulness, assessment. The two men looked at each other, and faced each other from the year they’d been apart: it wasn’t enough time to have changed overly-much, but they were both cleaned up from the road. Better-washed, hair less greasy, clothes less muddied. City living suited them. Jareth stood up, reaching his hand out to clasp Wolfe’s. The other man had changed; maybe he’d found his peace. He’d heard that doing that changed a person, but Jareth didn’t know shit about that. Nonetheless, it was a subtle difference, almost unnoticeable if he didn’t know Wolfe as well as he did. Travel forged bonds, and Jareth had silently clung to the other man’s presence when he’d walked away from the Guard. But seeing him just brought reality crashing down. Wolfe knew Jareth was a Fell Knight, had seen him use his skills; Jareth had even talked about it in minimal words. And that just didn’t mesh with the life Jareth had concocted (built) for himself. “Been a while,” he said, sitting back down. “Pull up a chair. I hear we don’t have to cook the food ourselves here.” “Frankly, it just doesn’t taste the same if it’s not burned on a skillet over a roaring fire,” Wolfe said, flickering a smile. He then did as encouraged, pulling up the chair and planting himself into it across from the fighter. They’d both looking for something out there, restless men gouged out by loss—they rarely spoke of it then, but had recognised it in each other nonetheless. The question was already hovering on Wolfe’s tongue, the curiosity bristling: Did you find what you were looking for, in Emillion? But he knew they should ease into it. A more oblique approach, something approached aslant through the genuine desire to catch up. “How long have you been in the city?” Wolfe asked. “I didn’t arrive until early Sagittarius, around the plague time.” A wave of the hand was enough to summon the server and start their orders for drinks (something to loosen this newfound gap between them, helping the transition). “Taurus, last year,” he said, leaning back in his chair. Trying to keep some distance; it would be too easy to backslide into comfort. He needed to keep his head clear, consider his words. “Heard a rumor, thought I’d check it out.” Ended up staying longer than I’d thought. Fuck if this wasn’t awkward. They should’ve met somewhere else, somewhere without other people. Not that the clientele here was inclined to listen in - they all seemed too concerned with their own lives. Thankfully, the Greasy Spoon was one of the more private dive bars, where patrons studiously ignored each other and pretended the others didn’t exist—but there would presumably also be other times, other opportunities to delve further beneath the surface. He wanted to ask if the other man had found his peace. Instead: “Still finding places in the woods to hide in?” “Woods. Caves. Lakes. Practicing geomancy is a handy excuse to get out and about, I’ll say that much.” Wolfe gave a dry almost-smile. “I’m trying to stay in one place this time, however. Less sticking my head in the sand, more remaining in the open. And you, what sort of rumour was it?” Shit. “Cultists,” he said shortly. Wolfe knew enough about why Jareth disliked them - he’d briefly explained that they’d killed his wife and child - but he’d never gone into detail about how he expressed his dislike. For some reason, he hadn’t wanted to give the other man that reason to part ways. “Turned out to be true.” A ripple of surprise went across Wolfe’s face, which he scrubbed away in time to stare into the well of his drink. “Cultists, here? I hadn’t heard anything of that nature—but granted, the city was afire with some other matters when I arrived. It seems you may have found what you were looking for, then. How did it go?” No point in hiding it. “Taken out. Might be a few stragglers, but if there are, they’re quiet.” It had been a while since anything remotely related to cultist activity had happened, so long that he’d almost forgotten about it. Almost. Jareth took a draught of his mug. “Find what you’re looking for in Emillion?” Might as well dive in. The other man pursed his lips, mulling the question over. Even after the better part of a year, Wolfe still wasn’t entirely sure of the answer. So he said so. “I’m not sure. The other group I took up with, which I mentioned on the networks? They’re called the Disciples. Pharist adventurers, take zero payment for their—our—actions.” Money was a sore point; he’d seen the effect it had had on him in the Black Lions, the avarice which sank in like tar, until nowadays Wolfe refused all payment and instead let it circle down the drain, shunting his guild paycheque from missions towards charities. “Being with them was one of the few things I found which helped. But then more of them came back to Emillion and struck up camp here after a year on the road, so I followed suit.” Pharist organization. Go fucking figure. “Hm,” he said, taking another drink of his beer. “Finally started getting paid and I like it,” he admitted. The Guard hadn’t paid, at least, not the way the Guild had. They’d been allowed to keep spoils, and in cities lodging was paid for out of what they’d hoarded. Actually having coin lining his pockets was a novelty, even if it was sunk into the abyss of drugs and living expenses. Which brought him to what he’d wanted to talk to Wolfe about. “Joined up with the EKP when I got to town,” he said. “Figured they could use a berserker.” He looked Wolfe straight in the eyes, as if trying to make him understand that that’s what Jareth was on paper. That particular choice of word made Wolfe pause, and if hadn’t, the significant look would certainly have done it: the mage was riveted, noting the message and filing it away with a simple “Ah.” He swirled the liquid in his glass slightly. They both had warts to hide, their own history scribbled out with the Fell—Wolfe’s was simply more visible. Too many people in Emillion knew how his brother had died, and whose magic had gone out of control. So Wolfe nodded. “The Knights of the Peace,” he said. “How’s that going?” A beat. “Returning to that, I mean.” Jareth let out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. He’d probably have to explain later, but then, maybe not. He never knew what Wolfe would press on. He shrugged. “Different,” he said. He’d told Wolfe that Liana had been his partner back home. That that was how they met. Seemed like a lifetime ago. “Current partner is missing.” Dead. “Maybe not so different,” he added quietly. Sometimes, in their worst moments, it seemed like they might all be trapped in a cycle: endlessly looping and winding in on themselves, history repeating itself. “We learn from our mistakes,” Wolfe said. “We keep going in the hopes that it’ll be different this time.” For the first time in a while, it wasn’t a piece of bastardised Ordalian philosophy cribbed from flaking texts (Jareth had seen him reading the books around the campfire many a time, swallowing catechisms and proverbs in the hope of finding something that made sense). It was an original sentiment, this time. “Not always so damned lucky for it to turn out different,” he remarked wryly, slamming back the last of his beer. “Least this time I wasn’t married to her. That’s different, right?” And he sure as hell wouldn’t be marrying Finch, either. Although he couldn’t honestly say he’d be so damned torn up about Finch going missing. “This group you joined up with,” he started, then stopped. Did he really care? If they’d helped Wolfe, then maybe a little. “What the fuck do they even do?” “Apprehend criminals—so perhaps we’re just another type of peacekeeping force, eh?—recover lost and stolen goods, heal the sick. Always for people who can’t afford the better help. It’s hard work, but emotionally rewarding. Not that I don’t respect what I did before, but…” Wolfe faltered to silence. The Black Lions were a twisted Gordian knot in his heart, something inseparable from brotherhood and brother and self and the martial prowess that he took so much pride in. A home away from home. A family. “I don’t suspect many people ever join the EKP for glory or for the gil,” Wole said. “We want to help, don’t we?” Jareth snorted. “Help who? The helpless nobles and their petty fucking squabbles?” It seemed like that was all he ever dealt with. Anything worth doing - the cultists, disappearances - always remained unsolvable. “But maybe,” he allowed. “Just don’t see how anyone is doing any damned good.” “Better than doing nothing, sitting at home and twiddling our thumbs.” “Might be better off,” he muttered. They’d always had ideological differences; this was one of them. Time to change the subject. “We eating or what?” Wolfe’s smile was weary, but warm. Even this disagreement was familiar, and something he realised in hindsight that he’d missed—blunting his own idealism against Jareth’s cynicism kept them both in check (all things on this earth demanded balance, and geomancy supported this theory fully). And it even, yes, reminded him of Mathis. “We are. And it’s still on your bill, I’ll remind you; as you can see, I’m nothing but a humble penitent now, my shoes worn through.” Another wave of the hand and their server returned to their dark, secluded corner, ready to take the order for their meal. There would be other occasions to catch up properly. They were back in each others’ lives at least, this time rooted in a city rather than the endless drudge of pitching tents and starting fires and eyeing the darkness for the monsters waiting outside themselves. Things would be different this time. At least, Wolfe certainly hoped so. |