February Fallout + March Catchall

[silentsavant]

Who: Soren & OTA
When: March (some late February)
Where: Your Heart's Desire (or wherever designated)
What: Various. Soren is suffering from difficulties with his memory and bouts of disorientation after being brainwashed.
Warnings: Mentions of past event (blood/violence; brainwashing)

i. nameless faces
Maybe you're passing by the dragon on the streets of the Haven, or down in the Harbor District, or perhaps the Coven grounds. Maybe you know him and decide to greet him. Maybe you don't and do it anyway. Or maybe you're not the type to exchange pleasantries and instead offer him a passing glance of acknowledgment.

Or maybe you did none of these things, and Soren should still be able to recognize you. Maybe he doesn't, but thinks he should anyway. For some reason, he's offering a blank, nonplussed stare, long and hard like you're wearing someone else's skin. Realizing this faux pas, Soren snaps out of his brief trance and mumbles an apology.

"Oh... Excuse me." The way he shifts, he looks like he might just be thinking about evacuating the unintended social situation.

ii. lunatic (foeuveur 28th)
The Looking-Glass House was once devoid of a single soul besides the Dragon. Moonlight streams through the windows, full and bright. It's the witching hour. He cannot sleep.

He holds his horned head pressed to the surface of one of the many mirrors lining the walls as if in deep contemplation or to nurse a migraine. The charged and eerie silence echoes in mantras on his soft voice. If one treads closer, they will begin to hear snippets of what he murmurs to himself:

"He is not here. He never was. Don't let this infernal world get to your head..."

iii. fall back
Navigating the crush and flow of traffic in the Shopping District today is no mean task. Bypassing the crowd by taking to the air should come naturally to any Monster equipped with wings, but for whatever reason, this simple, frequently employed solution appears to have eluded the tactician.

It may not even cross anyone else's mind to begin with, being as there are plenty of shops packed together and stalls set up for the purpose of meandering through to browse. Soren pushes though as if on a mission to get out, but in the bustle and confusion, someone wheels around and clumsily smacks Soren in the back of his head hard enough to rob him of his footing.

The Dragon takes a skidding tumble into the streets, dropping bags and books. He gets trampled and tripped over a couple of times before passersby begin to notice, then throng him in a cluster of concern and curiosity. Soren blinks up at them in a daze, but then he blanches with fear. The crowd murmurs and shouts various questions and remarks, mostly whether he hurt himself or why he won't say or do anything, but it's difficult to parse among the cacophonous backdrop. His mouth hangs open and he tries to make himself smaller. One person reaches out, but he withdraws even harder, flinching as though they mean to strike rather than lend a hand. This show forces some of the people to shake their heads at his refusal of help and move on with their day, while the few who remain offer each other questioning glances as if asking each other what to do if he's going to act like this.

[[ Will also create custom starters or plot something different! Hit me up via wingything or discord (paingel#4140) or shoot me a PM if you want to hatch or discuss something! Please feel free to use script format in tags if that's what you prefer. ]]

Comments

iii

[noblegarnet]

[Soren's not the only one with wings who hasn't been using them properly... at least not to their fullest extent. It's something he'll think of later, but for the moment he's on the same level as the Dragon, making his way through the crowds like every other earthbound being and looking just as human as any native Witch. He's not in a particular hurry, and the commotion catches his attention after a moment, drawing a frown of concern to his face. He takes a few moments to peer around others and get a look at what's happening from a distance before deciding that—well, no one else is helping, so why shouldn't he?

Ferran calls out, almost authoritative despite not being the most imposing of figures—at least his voice is deep enough to draw a proper response from at least a few onlookers.]

Back up, give him space.

[He pushes past them, gesturing for them to step back. It's a shame he doesn't have his charming magic anymore or his words would be more effective... What he does have, though, are illusions, and while they might not keep people away, they can muffle the sound of the crowds around them as if a wall has been placed there. Hopefully the relative quiet will help the other man calm down, if that is what he needs. Ferran kneels a couple of feet away from Soren, keeping his hands to himself and his voice softer but still clear.]

Hey, can you hear me?

[silentsavant]

[Charms or not, the gaggle of onlookers step aside upon his command, their consciences assuaged by letting someone who seems to have a better idea how to handle the situation take the reins in lieu of them. The Dragon remains curled up at the curb with peeled eyes, more like a frightened Puca frozen by a pack of Turnskin. They flash toward the newcomer as he approaches and pin to him. Magic tints the air. His sense of hearing seems to shift, parting for the person who kneels before him. Instantly, habitually, he doubts he can trust him, wonders if he feigns goodwill, wonders what sort of trap he could be setting for him. The burn of being tricked by an offering of food just to be mocked and hurt still pains him, and he would not like to repeat his mistake.

Soren's mouth parts again, but the words no matter how simple just won't come out. He nods.]

[noblegarnet]

[Ferran lets out a quiet sigh at the response, a small smile of relief relaxing his expression. Although nonverbal, the answer and the Dragon's clear focus on him is a step in the right direction, he thinks.]

Good...

[But—there are clearly still problems to be solved here. What were those steps he learned, again? Something about making sure the person isn't disoriented... Although he's optimistic about Soren's clarity, he stays still for the moment. Reaching out physically clearly didn't work with the others who tried.]

Do you know where you are?

[silentsavant]

[Soren blinkingly permits himself to perform a quick scan of his surroundings, more mindful of a sense of place than before. These streets... Wasn't he just in the village? Wait; that would be very strange. The Shopping District of Aefenglom is a far cry from...

Gallia. Oh no. Not this again.

The helpless, childlike fear starts to dissipate as feels a little bigger than he was before, and he focuses on this stranger. Oh, he hopes he's a stranger, because he would hate to confront yet another page ripped out of his memories that he must rebind. It's better for him if he can, but the emotional toil is not easy, and he's run ragged as it is, and this current confusion doesn't help. Soren swallows, takes a breath, and focuses on reining in the mental faculties he needs but lost. In a positive turn of events, he rediscovers that he can, in fact, articulate himself.]

Sh... Shopping District. [There. Talking wasn't so hard, now was it? He reclaims one of the toppled bags, scoops in some of the various herbs and tinctures that had taken a spill on the streets. Uncertainty still haunts his bearing as he tries to pull himself together.] Um... Thank you. Who are you?

[noblegarnet]

[It seems like the guy is starting to sort himself out, and although the Fae isn't about to leave until he's a hundred percent sure, it's at least enough where he lets go of that mental checklist. He nods to confirm the answer, and smiles a little more genuinely at the thanks.]

My name's Ferran. [He nods towards the scattered items that Soren has attempted to gather, pushing back the urge to immediately ask for the Dragon's name in return. He'll get to that in a bit, when they're in a less crowded space, perhaps. More importantly:] Can I help you with those?

[Thankfully he doesn't have any bags of his own to get in the way, as his purposes in the district were more about acquiring employment than goods.]

i.

[worldcleansing]

Light isn't a familiar face, even before any memory issues might have happened, but there is no way someone suffering as Soren suffers could be sure of it. Even a healthy mind can play tricks.

It takes a few seconds for him to notice the stare. Blinking in surprise, he's just about to speak when Soren speaks for him. The stare didn't look angry or interested. Just... odd.

"Are you looking for somebody?"

If Light has to place a name on the look, it would be vague recognition that obviously lead nowhere.

[silentsavant]

"No. I just..." He shakes his head. "I must have seen you somewhere else before. I was trying to figure out where, is all. This is the first time we've met, I'm sure of it."

He hopes he's sure of it, that is. Light can confirm or deny for him. The Coven? Likely. That horrible gathering at Alder's estate? Possible. It's chilling to contemplate the very probable idea that he's forgotten about someone entirely, no matter how far back they go. He's forgotten his old commander's name just this morning, for example. Couldn't recall how to go back to their base of operations until he realized it was impossible to reach on any road in Aefenglom... or this world entirely. He's even struggled to recall information on the very people he's Bonded to. Maybe talking to this person will help straighten him out a little.

[worldcleansing]

Light nods in confirmation. His time in this world has been short enough that he remembers the people he met, if not in perfect detail.

"I spend a lot of time at the Coven."

He was also at the Alder's estate, but the night was so terrible that it isn't something he brings up in conversation. Light managed to escape unscathed, but many others were much less lucky.

"Until recently, I also helped out at a toy shop, but I don't think you were a customer during my time."

The chuckle is light-hearted as if amused by the situation.

"So, the Coven would be my guess. Unless you become really engrossed in your books, I'd be hard to miss."

[silentsavant]

He shakes his head at mention of the toy shop, for he has never set foot in one nor had any reason to.

Soren? Always lost in his books? Never!

"Well... depending on the subject matter," he admits, though in most cases he's aware of his surroundings even with his nose buried in texts, but not enough to notice every single passerby who crosses his path. He plants a clawed hand to his hip. "You're probably right about that."

Though he did see him at the gathering. Or, at least, he's quite sure of it. He's perfectly content to accept the most likely location. What does it matter?

(Quite a bit, for reasons unknown to the both of them.)

"In any case, I might as well make an official introduction out of this. My name is Soren."

ii

[ranyaulf]

"... he never was."

Those words, softly repeated, from somewhere over Soren's shoulder. The cat laguz had followed his partner away from their home. To see him return to the Looking-Glass House isn't surprising. Neither is him speaking to no one in particular, except for himself--- to try to remind himself that missing hole in their hearts is still quite whole and hadn't been truly filled.

"And if he does appear here one day, we'll be there for him. Like you were for me."

Ranulf doesn't reach out. He stays an arms length or two away, just in case. Just in case... well. He doesn't know. It's not fear that stays his desire to embrace Soren, but the common sense approach of not wanting to crowd the dragon whose emotions may still be volatile. Just like his own. Except, not with the fragmented and scrambled memories.

[silentsavant]

Ranulf's presence draws him out of his meditative but troubled focus. Soren is not exactly surprised to hear him there, for a part of him sensed that he wasn't alone, even if he'd been more distracted by the scatter of his disconnected thoughts to the point where he would notice the feeling and forget about it shortly after. The cat is right, though. No matter how hard Soren tries to impress upon himself a level of composure, his nerves are quite tangled beneath his attempts to set his head on straight. He'd even traveled to the aristocratic district thinking he would be returning home to see Ike before correcting himself, remembering with shame and misery that his loyalty had been tampered with, and rerouted course to the house of mirrors, the closest link he has to what he has left behind.

But it's just a mirror right now. The only thing he gets is his own reflection, distorted from what it used to be almost two years ago. He slowly lifts his head to see Ranulf's silhouette cast in moonbeams. Ranulf can sense it when the dragon's heart finds solace in him here, reinforcing what he needs to understand.

"One day..."

One day. Soren is far from an optimist, but if he doesn't believe in this one day, whether it be here or on Tellius or some other far-flung land, he might just fall to pieces or go numb and lose all hope. He clings to it like to prayer beads. The spines that line his back and tail on this full moon relax just a little.

"... I'm not doing well," he admits with a quick sigh and a shake of his head, freely and without concern for guarding his vulnerability. "I'm having an even more difficult time separating fiction from reality tonight. What's worse, I..." A pause. Tension fills the air, flows between them. "...keep getting confused about Ike. Things I used to remember, I'm... drawing blanks. I'm not even sure if I'm remembering the sound of his voice correctly."

[ranyaulf]

That he's been trying to work through it as hard as he can... with whatever strength he can draw from, is a testament to Soren's resilience. Whatever techniques that the cult employed on him had to have been powerful, and Ranulf isn't surprised that his Bonded is still feeling the effects to this day. But that's why he's here--- to ground him as best as possible, to keep him from losing himself again. Even if it means he has to act as some kind of sobering truth to what is happening and what has happened, and what might need to happen.

"Honestly, I struggle to remember what he sounds like as well." The cat leans back on his heels, raising his head and closing his eyes. What can he remember, other than a face and body? Other than an expression that never really changed, though when it did--- it always delivered directly to his heart. "But those days, I don't think about that. I think about what he's said, what he's meant to others."

A scene in his head, in his heart: Ike asking the goddess Ashera for a final chance, to allow them to make amends. He remembers that day perfectly--- how couldn't he? A fight to save their world is hardly forgotten. But words that he said still rang true to that day, and to this day.

"'We’re not perfect. Sometimes our brains tell us one thing, while our emotions tell us another'. And you're not perfect, Soren. You're fighting to keep yourself whole. But don't forget I'm here, too. I won't lead you astray."

Then Ranulf smiles sheepishly, truly channeling his inner Ike.

"I'm not going to be able to replace your brain or your emotions, but... I promise your well-being has always been a priority to me."

[silentsavant]

His grip tightens over the frame as his personal concern is cheapened by some universal product of how the passage of time is meant to erode a normal memory, as Ranulf embitters him with the notion that even one facet of Ike isn't important enough to remember. He is. And that's where you and I differ, he stews with a flick of his tail. I still think about that. I always will. Who cares what he means to others right now; what about what he means to me?

Not perfect? Absolutely. Soren's soured mood quells by the time he recognizes he's drawing on Ike's words, and then his own offering for support and guidance, and at last he renounces the reflection of Ranulf for the real thing with a turn of his head. He relinquishes his hold on the mirror and empties himself of a sigh with all the breath he had been holding.

Those eyes of the dragon burn red as ever, though that hue has drowned out his sclerae and pupils entirely, just like when they first crossed paths in the Wilde. It serves as a minor frustration to Soren that everything at once is in focus, for he doesn't care about anything else detailed in his vision but his Bonded.

"Actually, I'm quite grateful that you can't replace either of them," he remarks. "Ranulf... It was Ike who said that, wasn't it?" A tinge of hopefulness colors his tone. "Do you mind if you... tell me a little more about that time? I want to hear it."

ii

[themogget]

[Mogget goes where he likes, more or less whenever he likes, and the Looking-Glass House is no exception. Though he doesn't often come here, sometimes it's the only place where one can be guarateeed of a long period of solitude in which to take a lengthy nap.

When he arrives this time, however, there is someone already there. The small white cat stands silhouetted in the door for a moment before he strolls in, tail held high and lightly twitching at the tip. With his hearing, he doesn't need to get too close to hear what's being said.

He lets out a soft 'prrp' and strolls closer, not speaking just yet.]

[silentsavant]

[Perceptive as Soren is, especially as a dragon on the full moon, he fails to detect the cat's lightfooted approach until he emits a noise. Soren raises his head and pulls his eyes open to see the reflected silhouette of... a mere housecat. Or, at least, what appears to be a mere housecat.

His frown remains. Lately, his antipathy toward felines who aren't Ranulf keeps returning to his heart like a bad rash. Seeing Mogget slots him further into a bad mental place. He sighs, his own tail flicking in minor annoyance, and chooses to ignore the cat. That's what they deserve, really. He continues talking to himself in an effort to clear his troubled head.]

That imposter is good and dead. He was not Ike; he was nothing like Ike. Ike is not and has never been a part of Talam. You are twenty-four years old, not five; you are currently in a city called Aefenglom, and that is just someone's stupid roaming cat, nothing more. Don't make the same mistake twice, you idiot.

[themogget]

[Now, this is curious indeed. He's used to being mistaken for a regular cat, or a familiar, so he isn't terribly offended by being taken for either... but this person is obviously battling with something.]

And what mistake might that be.

[It's the calling him a 'stupid' cat that does it. Mogget is not without his pride, and he feels it gently needled at the insult. The tip of his tail lightly sweeps the floor as it flicks.]

Making assumptions?

[silentsavant]

[Mogget may be used to being mistaken as a regular cat, but it might come as a surprise to know that Soren is actually quite accustomed to talking, sapient cats. It doesn't appear like it, though — not at first. The catlike entity pulls the dragon away from his one-on-one pep talk with a turn of his head.

Beyond the quickness of the reaction and the twitch of his spiked tail, it's tough to read any shock on his face when the color red washes out any sclerae or pupils. The cat... spoke? It couldn't be anyone else. His tongue darts out. No one but the white cat glowing in the moonlight.

Though he may be used to talking cats, the truth is, the talking felines he's familiar with aren't really cats, and as adults they would be much larger than Mogget. If Soren in his fragile mental state didn't have a gut reaction to the cat revealing itself as something more, he would have been able to reason that it's most likely one of two things: this is a witch using transmutation magic to assume the agile and stealthy form of a cat, or an incredibly small turnskin on the full moon. But in his shock and his abruptly distorted mind he is about to make the same mistake he had been telling himself not to.]

So you're not just a cat.

[There's an almost accusatory and defensive quality to the way he says that and the tension in the way he stands. He scoffs and folds his arms, shifts his weight to one hip as his tail betrays some agitation fomenting in his nerves. As he continues, a palpable sneer coats his voice.]

Funny, then. That you would deign to speak to something that doesn't exist.

[soren what are you talking about]

But maybe you're simply too young to know any better. Go ask your parents. I'm sure they'll know what I am better than I do.

[seriously you're embarrassing yourself]

i... ish

[tryhard]

Waver stares back, brows furrowing to form two little lines above the bridge of his nose between them. There's a long silence, in which he seems to be expecting Soren to say something after his excuse me, assuming he'd spaced out and was about to answer the question Waver had just posed.

"Well?" he prompts finally, with a note of impatience.

They're standing before a jar- and bottle-laden shelf in one of the apothecaries Inkchanted regularly sources ingredients from. Behind them, the clerk busies himself rearranging something on the counter, casting over curious glances but too polite to interrupt. They're regulars here, though more often than coming together, Waver does the shopping or asks Soren (occasionally one of the others) to do it.

This time, Waver has asked Soren to come along with him so they can do some in-person comparisons checking the quality and price point of a certain rare, magically potent ingredient needed for a more complex commission someone has ordered, a warding spell meant to activate in response only to certain people their client doesn't want within a specified distance of their person.

The Turnskin picks up one of the bundles of dried leaves and flowers in front of Soren, waving it slightly and earning a faint frown from the clerk.

"What do you think? Your sense of magical perception is better than mine, so please pay attention. Should we buy them here or hire someone to pick them fresh from the Wilde?"

[silentsavant]

Soren snaps out of his very odd fugue spell blinkingly and with his constricted eyes darting from the ingredients to the shop to Waver, caught off-guard as if waking up to find that he'd fallen asleep in someone else's quarters. He tries as quickly as he can (and with little success) to scrounge back some self-possession.

"Oh... Erm." What... were they doing again? It doesn't matter, he tells himself to avoid stalling and arousing more annoyed suspicion: just inspect the goods. He takes the bundle from Waver and rotates it, holds it close and pries at the stems. He licks his lips, to which the clerk tuts preemptively for Monsters not to put any unbought wares in their mouths. Soren casts a judgmental look to match his and examines the leaves with a soft hum.

"We can do better than this. I know of at least three more shops in Melior that..." He halts himself, stunned, and for a few beats retrieves what he was really trying to say. "...Aefenglom... that are likely to have more potent ingredients."

This blunt assessment takes the man at the counter lightly aback, and with a slight frown he accuses Soren of trying to get him to lower his prices for him again.

"I'm not making you do anything," he responds. "Besides." He waves the bundle dismissively. "Price is no issue to a Dragon Bonded to an aristocrat."

Hmm! What! Is going on here! Even the clerk looks surprised. It's not like he knows much of his Bonding situation, but that's quite a fact for an outlander prone to haggling who works at a magical tattoo parlor to drop.

[tryhard]

...is this some sort of new haggling tactic Soren is trying out here or what?

Waver gives him a strange look, listening to the herbalist argue and try to back up his claims that the plants are well-sourced and potent ingredients.

"All right," he cuts in finally. "We'll keep you in mind, but you know as well as anyone that a smart shopper looks over all their choices. There's healthy competition for a reason. Come on, Soren."

When they get back out onto the street, Waver stares straight at Soren, eyes narrowing suspiciously.

"What Melior? What aristocrats? Are you high?"

[silentsavant]

"What? No, I..."

Judging by the way Soren stares blankly at him after the initial bout of mild annoyance at insinuating he was on drugs, it's clear that what he demonstrated back there was no unusual bargaining maneuver. It takes him a few beats to first register why Waver is finding any of this odd, cross-compare that with what he knows of himself, and then try and stack up all of his personal facts in an order that makes sense. His gaze shifts along the cobblestones as he processes this, fear eating at the edges of his otherwise tranquil expression.

He'd been managing well enough in Waver's company for a while, with only a few hitches of absent-mindedness and memory blocks that were easy to keep private and conceal. If anything, he just seemed to take longer to think about things. What happened just now, though... It was strange. It felt as if he'd known Waver for much longer than a couple of years. Like he'd known him since the time he'd already been on Tellius, that somehow he'd wedged himself into the picture somewhere. Now that it's clear he'd been making a fool of himself, a flushed tint starts to encroach upon his pale, scale-bordered cheeks.

"I'm..." It's tough to grapple with his sense of time. He glances around himself, at the populace with their dark coats and ruffled dresses and tall hats. A curious stare snags one of the youth on his way down the road, but the shame of being caught double-taking prevents him from lingering. This is Aefenglom. The Shopping District, to be precise. He draws this mental map for himself, for he knows it well by now. A sense of place is all well and good, but where he falls in it, who he's attached to... That's the trouble, isn't it?

A hard fact wallops his already beaten pulp of a heart, causing his shame to wan somewhat forlorn. Ike isn't here. Wasn't here. That charlatan who thought he could assume that position for him is good and dead, and there's no reason for him to be upset about his death. No, he should be rejoicing it. He shakes his head and hopes his scattered memories will shake back into their proper alignment.

"Just... confused, that's all," he admits, leveling eye contact and trying to return to his usual composure. "My memories keep falling out of order. Just a second ago, I thought... I was in a city of my home realm. I didn't even question the fact that you didn't belong there. It seemed perfectly natural, even though I know better. And then the next moment, I..." He swallows and glances back toward the shop they left behind. "I thought I was the person I was brainwashed to be."

i.

[hearthebell]

[While L's had far less time for it since he and Light opened a detective agency together, he does try to volunteer at least once or twice a week at the orphanage. It brings him periodically to the Harbor District, where he seems inherently out of place; something about L just seems best-suited to an environment contained, perhaps behind glass, certainly indoors. What's rough and gritty does not suit him, goes beyond being unpleasant or an inconvenience and all the way into the territory of threat.

A man like L finds threats in all sorts of places, admittedly, and not all of them are unexpected. By nature of his personality and his work, he has a tendency toward implicating himself in the thick of things. That's how it was the night of the Circle gathering, and while he escaped whole and with his life in spite of close brushes and a Cwyld infection, a lot about that experience has stuck with him, uneasy and quietly damaging like treacle layered thick on teeth.

Soren would certainly recognize the pale, fragile-looking man, shabby in a wan academic way but certainly not a gritty one. He stands out in the Harbor District, in other words, slender and hungry-eyed as the orphans he's just been to tutor.

It's mutual, of course; L recognizes Soren too. It would be difficult not to, after their last highly tense and personal encounter.]

Excused...

[He's not good at this, either, but he bears no ill will toward Soren. Everything in his gawky posture communicates that fairly clearly; though he packs an unprecedented amount of magical power that few expect, he still seems physically unintimidating, even meek.]

You're alright, since...?

[Also nosy... but to his credit, the concern comes across as sincere enough.]

[silentsavant]

[Leaving him now that he's apologized should be easy as it ever is, but the concern holds him up, the reason why he should be alright forced into the spotlight. No... That's wrong. He's not the one who...

Soren bristles at the reminder of electric shock. The memory seems to have power all its own to jolt him into the correct time and place, slough off all the remnants of the brainwashed sense of self that was threatening to harden over him now. There you are, that false form of him growled at first sight of L. You won't escape now. I'll do away with you once and for all. But the billowing sea wind smells incompatible with the stale air charged with life-giving and death-causing bodily seepage, and the Soren who should recognize this triumphs blinkingly. Despite his utter discomfort being lodged in this social situation with someone who looks about as ill at ease as he does, he tries to untangle this in a way that actually confronts what went wrong back then. He can't look directly at the witch. He crosses his arms and shifts his balance.]

... I'm fine. [Not quite.] It was just a little shock. [Now that, he's recovered from. His stomach drops as he recalls how he'd preyed upon him, how his blood tingled in his mouth and stimulated him like the perfect drug... Oh, that was bad. What else could he have done? Soren hates losing control of himself. The crumple of his facial features as he finally looks at the shabby, unassuming man resembles guilt, and there's some to be had there... but more than feeling sorry for L, his regrets focus inward, on the monster that keeps rearing its head unbidden by his own will.] I wasn't in my right mind, though... I'm sure you garnered as much. That said, um... What about you? My memory isn't...

[hearthebell]

[It's awkward, certainly. There is a sense that this is off-kilter and strange, and would be no matter how it was approached... but fortunately, L is kind of blithely accustomed to awkward. He takes it gamely in stride, always, because the only other option is to hide away, shrivel and shrink in undying shame until there's nothing left. That's not a practical option, for one who has resolved to survive and do a job.]

It was quite a powerful shock, actually.

[By any measurable standards, more even than L intended by merit of his claustrophobic pain and panic. L's brow furrows, and his thin hand wanders toward his own neck where Soren's teeth had dug in. Light had healed him of all his injuries that night, including the Cwyld infection and the injury he'd sustained from the marauding shade; by comparison, the bites and lacerations from near-copulation with a dragon scarcely registered.

Except, of course, for being the source of the infection in the first place.]

I know.

[The answer comes quick, sympathetic.]

I'm a diviner. I did try to help, but... I regret that there wasn't more I could do to pull you out of it, at that time.

[He'd thought he had a chance. He still believes that his odds were good with an aware and willing subject and no pressing, urgent danger to force his hand or cow his efforts.]

You're a victim; your acts were compelled against your will. I defer all due blame to Alder.

[silentsavant]

[He shakes his head, collecting his sober and sensible disposition back up.]

What happened that night has already unfolded. Besides, you were in the thick of danger with me. I was very much intent on disposing of you; I remember that. It would be hard to succeed at divining my messed-up mind with your life on the line.

[Now that his memory is catching up to the recent past, he recalls intrusive sensations, ones easily mistaken for his sensitivity to physical intimacy. That faint tug, the bout of confusion when it came to his own bonds. The idea that his private collection of memories and old secrets, his relationships and the nuances of them had been sifted through by this interloper unsettles him. He's been guarded about himself for so long and by necessity that he can't help the violation that shivers through him. It's the idea that he has no idea what he could have seen, what he knows that even Soren might have misplaced. But after having just treapassed into a darkly familiar scene from the witch's hazy, distant childhood, anything that might have turned up in the pages of his own history book is hardly noteworthy.

...Something's out of place. Soren's sureness in bearing begins to slip, reveal another pensive bout of confusion as he tries to pinpoint where and when they currently are for fear of lapsing into the wrong place and time again.]