video; un: deathweaver

[respired]

[ Koltira's back to his usual self once again--his hair pale as ice, his eyes burning with lichfire. His skin sallow, tinted with hypothermia, and shot through with spiderweb cracks. He wears the black ALASTAIR uniform as he sits on the edge of his bed, twisting a new ring around one gloved finger.

Beside him, his lynx cub rolls around sleepily.

His voice is still deceptively lilting, but the ethereal echo, the underscore of a guttural scratch, haunts him. ]

I must ask for a favor, should you have the capacity to grant it.

[ He glances back at the lynx cub. ]

The dead are not meant to care for the living. If one of you would take responsibility for this creature, I'd consider myself in your debt.

[ A pause. He frowns slightly as he goes on. ]

Recently, some of you met me as I once was. Understand something now. That man is gone. He died nearly twenty years ago, and nothing--nothing--of him remains in me. His house is ash, and cannot be recovered.

[ Not entirely true, though Koltira maintains otherwise.

Another beat, longer this time, as if he's unsure whether to keep talking. But, eventually: ]

Many of you recognized me, yet you did not ruin the past with visions of the future. For this ... I thank you.

[ And that's all. ]

Comments

[respired]

[ He makes a noise of frustration in his throat. ]

I know this. You--

[ He's not as good with words as he once was, either. ]

You are different. But you are not ... transformed.

[ Not a monster. ]

[fateality]

That I ain't a dead man? Whatever it is you are?

Suppose not.

[This is getting to be too delicate of a topic.]

Ah, c'mon. Not like it matters now, right? We'll just both leave it in the past.

[respired]

[ He thumbs the ring, agitated. ]

You are not monstrous.

[ But.

He shakes his head, sets his jaw. No, it doesn't matter. ]

Yes. As you say.

[fateality]

[There's a quiet chuckle in return.]

That's almost a compliment. Careful there.

How are you with blacksmithing, with your wide versatile skills?

[respired]

[ His ears press all the way back on either side of his head, like an agitated cat. ]

It is merely a statement of fact.

[ He sighs, a stuttering, echoing sound, like wind through a broken window. ]

Considerably better than my skills with leather.

[ Necessary, in order to maintain his own weapons and armor. ]

[fateality]

I like compliments that are statements of fact.

[He chuckles.]

I want you to look over somethin' of mine, then. Make sure that it's in good condition. Simple thing, just a dagger.

[respired]

Tch.

[ Annoying. ]

Fine. I've forged several daggers since coming here.

[ Mostly for Ramir. ]

[fateality]

[g o o d]

Lucky me, I suppose. When do you have a chance to look at mine? Just to make sure it's in good condition.

[respired]

I have no appointments.

[ I.e., whenever, wherever. ]

[fateality]

Good to know.

I'll bring it by when I have an opportunity. Not all of us have such a clean schedule.