This thread/story details events happening with/to the folk of Clan Endro. Our main thread can be found here. The following events involve Wencel, Archer, and other clanfolk. (No content warnings apply, this is friendly.) :)
A wooden thunk sounded upon Wencel's door. Recently discharged from Piertrov and Rusalka's care, he'd sought the shelter of his quarters to recoup his social reserves. For all that his present guest might come with good intentions, he wasn't sure he wished to answer.
Regardless of Wencel's unspoken desires, another wooden rap echoed at his door. Wearily, numb--why won't this numb feeling go?--Wencel climbed out of his downy bedding and crossed his den to crack the door open.
Archer, staff held lightly at his side, looked back at him.
Seeing him again, though he was sure his friend and colleague had visited him in the infirmary during his feverish delirium, resulted in a strange stirring of surprise and sadness.
"It must be a relief, to escape?" Archer offered, calmly direct.
After a moment's consideration, without breaking the mage's gaze, Wencel shrugged. "I'm not sure I have... but, oh, come in?" He pulled the door wide, allowing room for his friend to enter.
"Actually," Archer began, features shifting into a mischievous smile, "I'd hoped, if you're up to it, of course, don't feel obligated, but... as those stuffy herbalists likely forgot to inform you, tonight's the Eve of the Gala. I wondered if you might join us for food, stories, and song?"
Conflicted, Wencel dropped his gaze to the floor. "I, well, everything will need to be tuned, and I don't-" he stopped, suddenly, tingling with sudden adrenaline. "I don't feel a great deal like singing, as of yet."
Upon looking up, Wencel found Archer shocked into silence, eyes wide.
"Forgive me, I didn't mean... I'd hoped only for your company. You needn't-" Archer, clearly remembering the events deep in the moulin, trailed off.
As quickly as it had vanished, Wencel's prior numbness returned. Suddenly feeling tired and foolish, Wencel sighed. "It's all right. The memory, it's all rather sharp, still. It's not as though I have to tune my pipes, and I'll bring a book. If I feel inspired, perhaps I'll join in. The Gala, so soon. It's been weeks, hasn't it?"
Archer, expression sober and somewhat sad, merely nodded his assent.
"And, oh. I'd better change," Wencel added, glancing at his present attire. "They'll send me back to the infirmary if I show up in these linens."
"Would they?" Archer queried.
"I, yes-" Wencel paused, remembering his friend was... somewhat challenged, insofar as matching apparel and attire were concerned. "You look good, though."
"Do I?" Archer grinned. "Ponds dressed me," he admitted with satisfaction.
Wencel, despite the numbness, found himself surprised into a brief snort. "I assumed someone must've helped."
"Oh you know how Eira is, she'd have me go off to find something that matched. It'd delay everything, I'm helping with our display--oh! We'd better go, they'll want to get going shortly. They've really gone all out this year, the hearths have been going since this morning."
While Archer chattered, Wencel returned to his bedchamber to dig through his trunk and wardrobe. Something other than drab linens, especially for the Eve of the Gala. Where did the time go? he wondered, pulling a few things out. As an afterthought, he selected a book from his personal collection. Satisfied, he fished through another trunk for his wooden pipes. Stiffly, he set about shedding garments.
"...and of course, my parents have returned from their diplomatic envoy-"
Half into his tunic, Wencel paused at the sudden realization that Archer was intentionally keeping him company, intentionally chattering to let him know he was there, and unlikely to hurry away as others might, especially considering what he'd recently been through.
Of course, the eccentric mage hadn't scurried away when faced with the very same thing. He'd rescued him, at no small amount of pain on Wencel's part, yet surely if not for Archer's intervention, he'd be dead. Surely.
Pensive, Wencel finished getting dressed and emerged from his bedchamber.
"Excellent!" Archer said, approvingly. "You were right, of course. Funny, that I can never figure out what precisely they expect. It's not as though I get cold, yet there's Eira, there's my parents, all with something to remark on."
He smiled, expression momentarily distant. A second later he returned to the present. "And your pipes! Wonderful. All right, shall we go?"
Dressed, his book and pipes about him, Wencel couldn't help but smile. "All right, yes."
Gorgeous artwork by Magpie!
A wooden thunk sounded upon Wencel's door. Recently discharged from Piertrov and Rusalka's care, he'd sought the shelter of his quarters to recoup his social reserves. For all that his present guest might come with good intentions, he wasn't sure he wished to answer.
Regardless of Wencel's unspoken desires, another wooden rap echoed at his door. Wearily, numb--why won't this numb feeling go?--Wencel climbed out of his downy bedding and crossed his den to crack the door open.
Archer, staff held lightly at his side, looked back at him.
Seeing him again, though he was sure his friend and colleague had visited him in the infirmary during his feverish delirium, resulted in a strange stirring of surprise and sadness.
"It must be a relief, to escape?" Archer offered, calmly direct.
After a moment's consideration, without breaking the mage's gaze, Wencel shrugged. "I'm not sure I have... but, oh, come in?" He pulled the door wide, allowing room for his friend to enter.
"Actually," Archer began, features shifting into a mischievous smile, "I'd hoped, if you're up to it, of course, don't feel obligated, but... as those stuffy herbalists likely forgot to inform you, tonight's the Eve of the Gala. I wondered if you might join us for food, stories, and song?"
Conflicted, Wencel dropped his gaze to the floor. "I, well, everything will need to be tuned, and I don't-" he stopped, suddenly, tingling with sudden adrenaline. "I don't feel a great deal like singing, as of yet."
Upon looking up, Wencel found Archer shocked into silence, eyes wide.
"Forgive me, I didn't mean... I'd hoped only for your company. You needn't-" Archer, clearly remembering the events deep in the moulin, trailed off.
As quickly as it had vanished, Wencel's prior numbness returned. Suddenly feeling tired and foolish, Wencel sighed. "It's all right. The memory, it's all rather sharp, still. It's not as though I have to tune my pipes, and I'll bring a book. If I feel inspired, perhaps I'll join in. The Gala, so soon. It's been weeks, hasn't it?"
Archer, expression sober and somewhat sad, merely nodded his assent.
"And, oh. I'd better change," Wencel added, glancing at his present attire. "They'll send me back to the infirmary if I show up in these linens."
"Would they?" Archer queried.
"I, yes-" Wencel paused, remembering his friend was... somewhat challenged, insofar as matching apparel and attire were concerned. "You look good, though."
"Do I?" Archer grinned. "Ponds dressed me," he admitted with satisfaction.
Wencel, despite the numbness, found himself surprised into a brief snort. "I assumed someone must've helped."
"Oh you know how Eira is, she'd have me go off to find something that matched. It'd delay everything, I'm helping with our display--oh! We'd better go, they'll want to get going shortly. They've really gone all out this year, the hearths have been going since this morning."
While Archer chattered, Wencel returned to his bedchamber to dig through his trunk and wardrobe. Something other than drab linens, especially for the Eve of the Gala. Where did the time go? he wondered, pulling a few things out. As an afterthought, he selected a book from his personal collection. Satisfied, he fished through another trunk for his wooden pipes. Stiffly, he set about shedding garments.
"...and of course, my parents have returned from their diplomatic envoy-"
Half into his tunic, Wencel paused at the sudden realization that Archer was intentionally keeping him company, intentionally chattering to let him know he was there, and unlikely to hurry away as others might, especially considering what he'd recently been through.
Of course, the eccentric mage hadn't scurried away when faced with the very same thing. He'd rescued him, at no small amount of pain on Wencel's part, yet surely if not for Archer's intervention, he'd be dead. Surely.
Pensive, Wencel finished getting dressed and emerged from his bedchamber.
"Excellent!" Archer said, approvingly. "You were right, of course. Funny, that I can never figure out what precisely they expect. It's not as though I get cold, yet there's Eira, there's my parents, all with something to remark on."
He smiled, expression momentarily distant. A second later he returned to the present. "And your pipes! Wonderful. All right, shall we go?"
Dressed, his book and pipes about him, Wencel couldn't help but smile. "All right, yes."
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