she wonders if nox will show up - she's not found the starry-coated woman in the days since resting at the lagoon and she's itching to see her, again. after this little bit of business is completed, wither knows she'll go to the caverns to find her moonchild. she'll surely be there, haunting the halls as they had when the three of them first came to this wicked, wicked island. but before that the assassin knows there is the issue of her collar to deal with. she'll do this publicly, if only to ensure that the pale fucker wouldn't be able to drag her back to the mire. at least not without an audience. they'll all see the truth of the heir if he shows it here.

it feels a little like cowardice as she limps her way into the pit. it's familiar in many ways, the woman having watched combatants scramble all over one another here, time and time again.

it feels like it's been years since she lost consciousness here - and woke in hell.

swallowing tightly, the woman rests on all four feet ( the front right subtly bearing no weight ), head tilted slightly up. the dawn has barely cracked open the sky and the snow is nearly at the level of a blizzard as it swirls down around her. it settles over her black shoulders and she lets the chill of it seep in, steady her.

she issues the call to @Alaric, but she supposes anyone could come if they so cared to. she half expects @Tinúviel to have followed her. wither doesn't imagine her friend will be... enthused that she's chosen violence to be the first way she asks for leave of the mire.

but she doesn't care - not this time. that soft gaze isn't enough to deter her from her intention.

wither v ?
for wither
0/3

_CODE

he doesn't know her. there is a faint recognition when he spots the woman sitting in the pit, but she does not wear the scent of the mire and he cannot say he has ever spoken with her, so he is entirely clueless as to the nature of the summons.

or at least, clueless to an extent.

he isn't a stupid man, and so he is more than capable of piecing together at least some of the puzzle. she wanted a fight and she had called for him specifically. since it wasn't a challenge for his home he could only assume it was for freedom, and considering his sons penchant for claiming...

"if it is release you seek you only need ask," he rumbles as he approaches, on guard in case she decides to press for a fight anyway. alaric has little desire to engage, but he will defend himself if it comes to it.



( alaric vs. @Wither
0/3
for wither )

THE THUNDER OF THE DRUMS

table by sentinel / art

he's no fool - and she appreciates that, at least. tinúviel has chosen a man with a brain if nothing else. she regards him steadily as he approaches, flashing a smile full of teeth and no humor at his comment. is that so? she presses lightly, a faint hint of scorn in her tone. she blames the father for the sins of the son ( or, perhaps, it's merely his sex that she blames him for ). she drums her toes against the ground, her unsheathed claws tapping lightly on the stone. but rather than continue to square up at him, she rocks onto her haunches. then release me. she says, simply. your prisoner slipped free a month ago, anyway. it's not aggressive, the way she says it - but she inflection is stressed if only so he knows.

wither is sure that tinúviel has told him some - she said as much when the assassin literally washed up on her shore - and she's sure he can easily fit two and two together.

she's quiet, after, waiting. watching. scheming thinking.

you're tinúviel's husband, @Alaric. she says it simply, her tone shifted to a lighter and more casual one. she makes a little noise in the back of her throat, something like a hum. i'm her....friend. there's only a moment's hesitation, there, even though her heartbeat skips when she says it. wither rimesong. her gaze searches his face, looking for something. even she isn't quite sure what.

_CODE

any suspicions he had before she spoke were confirmed by the snap in her voice, the snark that she cannot help but lob his way. wither demands the very thing he had offered, and alaric has no reason to deny her of it. "consider yourself a free woman," he confirms, clearly unbothered by the ire she tosses his way.

however there is a brief flash of... something.. and it is followed by something unexpected. "for what it's worth... i didn't know." consider it an apology. or as close to one as she was going to get. alaric starke may be many things but he was not a man that believed in torture. nor the keeping of prisoners, for that matter.

he expects her to leave. expects no response to his words or his release. @Wither surprises him by speaking further, and carrying on to introduce herself. "i am," he confirms, thinking of the tiny medic so dear to his heart and softening. the confirmation is unnecessary, he knows, but some part of him wants to claim tinúviel as his at every chance he gets.

"any friend of tinúviel's," it is an olive branch even as his voice trails off, even as he does not finish the statement. wither might not want alaric as a friend, but as far as he was concerned she now fell under the umbrella of his protection, whatever that may mean in the end.

THE THUNDER OF THE DRUMS

table by sentinel / art

@Alaric frees her - swiftly. and suspicion only blooms stronger in her chest. wither scowls at him, never a woman able to hide feelings ( only to twist them, should she desire ). and then the next words on his tongue has her mouth parting slightly, brows lifting. it's not a true apology - they both know it - but she gets the feeling it's the closest she's going to be given. she makes a soft noise in the back of her throat, a little hmph of dismissal, consideration.

she doesn't accept his half-there apology - and she hopes he doesn't expect her to.
you can't apologize for something like this.

perhaps you should have. wither continues, voice pitching low - trying for disinterested and failing. she lifts a paw and flexes her toes, reaching to pluck a chunk of wood from between them. her eyes don't wave from the mire king as she does, her brows tightening. if you don't know what goes on in your own kingdom... perhaps it is time to step aside for someone who can.

a dangerous game she plays - but she drops the truth at his feet.
the man is aging - and if his son steps to the plate... she's loathe to think of what might happen, then.

we both have a vested interest to keep her safe. wither adds, her own expression warming at the edges, life spreading through her teal gaze. her paw drops to the stone and she presses against it, claws unsheathed against the unforgiving ground. no matter the danger. a threat? a promise?

there's no obvious indication of what the assassin means by this - but her gaze is unrelenting, steady on the man's face. waiting.

_CODE

this world is dying in our arms

it is a half-apology at best, but at the end of the day it was not his apology to give. while alaric could not entirely wash his hands of the situation by proxy of being the ruling monarch, he would not carry the heavy burden of guilt, either. she pushes, though, and his expression hardens. "at most i am guilty of giving too much trust to those undeserving of it," his voice was as hard as his expression, his patience wearing thing. alaric had come to her summons and had released her without question and yet she stands here and lays the blame at his paws. "i am certain there are no others in my kingdom more capable, or i would not hesitate to hand over the crown." when that day came -- when he saw one more deserving of the rule -- alaric would happily retire in to the background. the burden of politics was not an easy one to carry, for blame was often directed his way when he had nothing to do with it. conversation shifts to his wife and he is uneasy, uncomfortable with speaking freely to one who knows not at all. wither is little more than a stranger to him, and it is only tinny's relationship that gives him the patience he wields. "have i not proven my devotion to her?" alaric had rent his family in two for tin, had stood beside her time and again in public spaces (to the detriment of his other marriage, surely). somehow he had the inkling that it was not enough for @Wither, but he didn't entirely understand what it was that she wanted from him..

code // art

she can feel his annoyance pressing at the edges of his control and her expression shifts to something of vague amusement. his proclamation that none so worthy for the crown brings a darker smile to her lips, fangs flashing. there's a challenge in her gaze, a wordless thing that she doesn't express - but the intent is clear for him to read. none? truly, none? "me." is on her lips but she presses them together, swallowing against the wild urge to speak it.

she doesn't want the mire yes you do. she doesn't want the phantoms that lurk there, the memories that twine 'round her mind like a constrictor you want to burn it.

instead, she makes that noncommittal noise in the back of her throat, something between disappointment and agreement.

you don't make worthy souls. she says it not quite in agreement, not quite in question; he said it, after all. the pride was all but filled with his spawn - she smelled as much when she was there - but none were able to carry the crown better than he?

@Alaric's question gives her only a moment's pause; has he given enough? has he proven his devotion?

what does she say? wither presses, her eyes turning to pin him to the cold stone beneath them. do you see the answer in her gaze? it's a hypothetical question, for the woman is already rising to her paws with her dark tail curling over her hips in a silent farewell.

they part as not-enemies-not-allies with enough from the other to ponder, she's sure.

exit unless stopped

_CODE

this world is dying in our arms

he isn't surprised that she would turn it back on him, twisting his words to put him down. alaric isn't angered by it; instead his lips twist with amusement. "it is not their worth that is in question," he tosses back, unable to resist the need to defend his offspring, "but their experience." there was no need to throw a child on the throne when he was more than capable of holding it until they were ready -- the time would come soon, he knew, but with the recent upheavals it had been postponed. for now. he gives no answer to her hypothetical questions, watching her leave without another word. there is no need to answer for it is not her answer to have. alaric would keep some things close to his heart, away from this woman who he imagined would not hesitate to have his head. nevermind that he cannot say for certain what his answer would be, but he is not about to show her any inkling of that doubt. instead he holds his head high as she leaves, watching until she is out of sight and then turning back towards home. -exit- @Wither.

code // art