(Further warning for fairly graphic violence in this part. Should two blows be enough to knock our evil bard out, game mechanics-wise? Probably not. But in practical terms, it totally could, so I'm rolling with it.)
---
No one's expecting the stranger to go for Moira, least of all Moira herself. The woman's staff hits her square in the jaw. There's a sort of crack-crunch sound of shattering bone, but Moira has no time to react before the staff hits her again on the other side of the face. She does down hard, like a sack of rocks, unconscious before she hits the floor. Juneau catches the moment the spell breaks. Caleb's expression is exactly what she expects at first: the horror and despair she's used to seeing. But then a steely resolve settles in. He shoves off the older man he'd been sitting on. There's no attempt to keep him where he is. No one's sure what comes next.
"Caleb," the woman in blue says. She's a little wild-eyed. It only makes Caleb seem more eerily calm by comparison.
"Beauregard," he says, "do you know the saying about discretion and valor?"
"What?" the woman snaps.
"We should leave," Caleb says. The woman -- Beauregard, apparently -- tightens her grip on her staff, but glances around. Finally, she nods. She slings an arm around his shoulders (missing the way he flinches, or ignoring it) and guides him toward the door. No one stops them. They're almost to the door when conversation starts up again.
"Well, fuck," Lucas says. He nudges Moira's body with his foot. "Any clerics around?"
Juneau makes a decision that will seem sudden to everyone around, but it's been a long time coming. She slips a knife under her apron and walks out of the kitchen, across the floor of the main room.
"Let me have a look," she says. But she's not there to look, once she kneels down next to Moira. She drives the knife into the side of Moira's neck. Moira gurgles but doesn't wake. A great gout of blood gushes across the floor. Neck wounds, well-placed, are messy but quick. Silence falls again. Juneau looks up at the sea of shocked faces. "This doesn't happen again. Not ever."
It's not justice, not by half, nor does it make up for previous inaction. But it's better than nothing.
---
Caleb snaps back to self-awareness so suddenly that it feels like a slap. Time for that later, his memory supplies in the voice of a dead friend. The woman who brought him here, who did this to him, is unconscious on the ground. It's Beau standing over the body. She looks ready to take on the whole of the tavern. But she's not, after all, the kind of fighter who could do that and succeed. Especially with Caleb at his most useless. She's effectively without backup. She says his name, raw and ragged. He's going to have to talk her out of doing something stupid.
"Beauregard," he says, "do you know the saying about discretion and valor?" Surely she does. Discretion being the better part of valor: you have to know when to disengage.
"What?" she says.
"We should leave," Caleb says, for the sake of clarity. The other patrons might snap out of their shock at any moment. Beau gets it. She puts her arm around his shoulders. He feels himself flinch and fists his hand in the back of her sash. They're together in this, and they're getting out.
The quiet lasts longer than it should. When they're halfway out the door, he looks back. There's a small woman with red hands. The floor is red, too, and slick. But it's not their business anymore.
"Are you okay to walk back with me?" Beau says once they're out in the street. "Do I need to carry you?"
"We need to go to her rooms," Caleb says. "I know where they are."
"What?" Beau says. Again. She's not stupid, not by a long shot, but she seems almost willfully obtuse tonight and it's getting on his nerves.
"My books, Beauregard," Caleb says sharply. "It's enough that I've been humiliated. I won't be incapacitated as well."
"Yeah, okay," Beau says. Her jaw is tight. She's angry, and he's not making that easier, either by denying her the fight she wants or being impatient now.
"And my boots," he says, more softly, by way of apology. "It's too cold to go barefoot."
"Shit," Beau says. "You sure you don't want me to carry you?" Caleb laughs, low and tired.
"It's not far," he says. Two blocks down, up a narrow flight of stairs. She'd put aside his boots and his books to sell, and his clothes -- presumably -- to burn. She hadn't bothered with it yet, though, as they're still beside the firewood on the hearth. He slips off the gown without preamble and Beau curses under her breath. He ignores her. There's no call for modesty now.
"You want some privacy?" Beau says.
"I can turn around, if it bothers you," Caleb says. He avoids the tub and goes to the pitcher of water on the nightstand. Aside from the come and the makeup and the grime on his feet, he's still fairly clean. That, and he'd been nearly drowned when he gave her trouble at first, before she got the spell to take hold. Better not to revisit the scene of that. He needs to hold himself together at least until he's alone.
He should be better at handling this. The body is a tool, whether used as a weapon or for other purposes. He'd been young and charming and confident once, unafraid and unashamed of using that youth and charm and confidence to get information. Then he'd been starving, desperate, with no resources except his own body and mind, and he'd used both to stay alive. Perhaps the shame of it is the fact that he wasn't the one to decide this time around.
"Jester might get in touch soon," Beau says. "Long-distance. She said she'd check in with us when we went to look for you. You want me to tell her to be ready to heal anything?"
"There's nothing an ordinary healing potion wouldn't put right," Caleb says. A little bruising, maybe, but she'd wanted to keep him docile. No real harm done.
No harm done, except the things Caleb knows will accumulate in the weeks to come. How Nott will shrink into herself when he can't bear to be touched, not even by her. The bright shock of trepidation when Fjord's hand will rest too-heavy on his shoulders and he'll wonder if he's meant to get to his knees. Having to excuse himself to retch when Clay serves them jasmine tea that smells too much like his short-term captor's perfume. Jester prodding at him, wanting to solve a problem that it would only hurt her to know about.
Beau will keep her peace, though. Caleb trusts her that far. She's been very good about keeping his secrets up to now.
fill: "under the influence" Caleb/others, E, suggestion spell, cw: noncon, 2/2
Date: 2019-01-02 04:42 pm (UTC)---
No one's expecting the stranger to go for Moira, least of all Moira herself. The woman's staff hits her square in the jaw. There's a sort of crack-crunch sound of shattering bone, but Moira has no time to react before the staff hits her again on the other side of the face. She does down hard, like a sack of rocks, unconscious before she hits the floor. Juneau catches the moment the spell breaks. Caleb's expression is exactly what she expects at first: the horror and despair she's used to seeing. But then a steely resolve settles in. He shoves off the older man he'd been sitting on. There's no attempt to keep him where he is. No one's sure what comes next.
"Caleb," the woman in blue says. She's a little wild-eyed. It only makes Caleb seem more eerily calm by comparison.
"Beauregard," he says, "do you know the saying about discretion and valor?"
"What?" the woman snaps.
"We should leave," Caleb says. The woman -- Beauregard, apparently -- tightens her grip on her staff, but glances around. Finally, she nods. She slings an arm around his shoulders (missing the way he flinches, or ignoring it) and guides him toward the door. No one stops them. They're almost to the door when conversation starts up again.
"Well, fuck," Lucas says. He nudges Moira's body with his foot. "Any clerics around?"
Juneau makes a decision that will seem sudden to everyone around, but it's been a long time coming. She slips a knife under her apron and walks out of the kitchen, across the floor of the main room.
"Let me have a look," she says. But she's not there to look, once she kneels down next to Moira. She drives the knife into the side of Moira's neck. Moira gurgles but doesn't wake. A great gout of blood gushes across the floor. Neck wounds, well-placed, are messy but quick. Silence falls again. Juneau looks up at the sea of shocked faces. "This doesn't happen again. Not ever."
It's not justice, not by half, nor does it make up for previous inaction. But it's better than nothing.
---
Caleb snaps back to self-awareness so suddenly that it feels like a slap. Time for that later, his memory supplies in the voice of a dead friend. The woman who brought him here, who did this to him, is unconscious on the ground. It's Beau standing over the body. She looks ready to take on the whole of the tavern. But she's not, after all, the kind of fighter who could do that and succeed. Especially with Caleb at his most useless. She's effectively without backup. She says his name, raw and ragged. He's going to have to talk her out of doing something stupid.
"Beauregard," he says, "do you know the saying about discretion and valor?" Surely she does. Discretion being the better part of valor: you have to know when to disengage.
"What?" she says.
"We should leave," Caleb says, for the sake of clarity. The other patrons might snap out of their shock at any moment. Beau gets it. She puts her arm around his shoulders. He feels himself flinch and fists his hand in the back of her sash. They're together in this, and they're getting out.
The quiet lasts longer than it should. When they're halfway out the door, he looks back. There's a small woman with red hands. The floor is red, too, and slick. But it's not their business anymore.
"Are you okay to walk back with me?" Beau says once they're out in the street. "Do I need to carry you?"
"We need to go to her rooms," Caleb says. "I know where they are."
"What?" Beau says. Again. She's not stupid, not by a long shot, but she seems almost willfully obtuse tonight and it's getting on his nerves.
"My books, Beauregard," Caleb says sharply. "It's enough that I've been humiliated. I won't be incapacitated as well."
"Yeah, okay," Beau says. Her jaw is tight. She's angry, and he's not making that easier, either by denying her the fight she wants or being impatient now.
"And my boots," he says, more softly, by way of apology. "It's too cold to go barefoot."
"Shit," Beau says. "You sure you don't want me to carry you?" Caleb laughs, low and tired.
"It's not far," he says. Two blocks down, up a narrow flight of stairs. She'd put aside his boots and his books to sell, and his clothes -- presumably -- to burn. She hadn't bothered with it yet, though, as they're still beside the firewood on the hearth. He slips off the gown without preamble and Beau curses under her breath. He ignores her. There's no call for modesty now.
"You want some privacy?" Beau says.
"I can turn around, if it bothers you," Caleb says. He avoids the tub and goes to the pitcher of water on the nightstand. Aside from the come and the makeup and the grime on his feet, he's still fairly clean. That, and he'd been nearly drowned when he gave her trouble at first, before she got the spell to take hold. Better not to revisit the scene of that. He needs to hold himself together at least until he's alone.
He should be better at handling this. The body is a tool, whether used as a weapon or for other purposes. He'd been young and charming and confident once, unafraid and unashamed of using that youth and charm and confidence to get information. Then he'd been starving, desperate, with no resources except his own body and mind, and he'd used both to stay alive. Perhaps the shame of it is the fact that he wasn't the one to decide this time around.
"Jester might get in touch soon," Beau says. "Long-distance. She said she'd check in with us when we went to look for you. You want me to tell her to be ready to heal anything?"
"There's nothing an ordinary healing potion wouldn't put right," Caleb says. A little bruising, maybe, but she'd wanted to keep him docile. No real harm done.
No harm done, except the things Caleb knows will accumulate in the weeks to come. How Nott will shrink into herself when he can't bear to be touched, not even by her. The bright shock of trepidation when Fjord's hand will rest too-heavy on his shoulders and he'll wonder if he's meant to get to his knees. Having to excuse himself to retch when Clay serves them jasmine tea that smells too much like his short-term captor's perfume. Jester prodding at him, wanting to solve a problem that it would only hurt her to know about.
Beau will keep her peace, though. Caleb trusts her that far. She's been very good about keeping his secrets up to now.