Private ✪ Stokbon Beneath the Weeping Tree

[Cain Darlite]

The Silver Willow Tavern had changed, as all taverns do. The lustre of its silver spooned years had fallen off to a muted, dull gray, its patrons seeking more lavish establishments as the fashion of the grand capital of Falderen changed. Shadows loomed thickly over the smouldering embers of the soot-covered hearth, and only half the tables in the tavern were for customer use; the rest would be unoccupied regardless. The proprietor polished his mugs and dreamed of the past. The patrons sipped at warm wine, dreaming of future fortunes. A waitress leaned against the wall, counting the seconds, and the chef peeled potatoes in their lonesome, too occupied with menial tasks to craft the meals they once did. The grandfather clock swung back and forth, and yet, the hands never moved. It was just another night, albeit for the man who sat on the stage, before a small piano.

His hair was of the midnight sky, and his attire was foreign. His eyes were a dull gray, and his face drew a passing resemblance that reminded of another. But that bard from four years ago had disappeared alongside all other adventurers that had once sculpted the land to their own liking. And even if this pretty boy was the same, what of it? What substance laid within the poetry of someone who didn’t truly have to live?

The first note played. Ungloved fingers danced upon the keys. Soft ripples of music, with a delicacy, a restrained pain. And then, a voice, trembling. Like a string drawn too taut. Like a string unfurling, each individual fibre.

♪
Frozen stars, abyss in blood red
Settling goodbyes left unsaid
Despite our promises, here I am following your steps

Drop by drop
As an unchanging reality dampens my sleeve
You peeled them off, off
Past the fibres of my interlaced grief.​

Substance sounded like thunder. The pianist, the singer, drew in breath. There was no showmanship, no harmonic glamour. Just a removal of restraint, his eyes widening as he emptied his lungs. The embers of the hearth stoked themselves; the embers of his heart roared to life. What delicacy possessed him revealed itself to be jagged, brittle. A cloak of razor blades and bramble thorns, tearing flesh and snagging skin, all to render flesh raw upon the butcher’s block.

And stripped down to the core, he continued resolute, fingers striking keys hard enough that the impact itself could be heard beyond the notes, yet remaining measured enough that the tempo was perfect. It was rage neither impotent nor directionless, but rather, vulnerability tempered by the wisdom of retrospect. Retrospect, leading to regret.

I am fire!
Burn those who dare to care for me!
And my fuel are memories,
They perish with the heat,
So I can move on.

World of titans allows me to live
Only in the mud at their feet
Though you're not with me
I'll never admit defeat!
Every nice thing about me has become numb.​

It was indeed regret. A regret bitter, a regret that carried long after the heartache ceased. But as the numbness settled in, as the notes slowed and softened, carrying to major scales, to gentle arpeggios, that nameless performer’s voice softened. Sweetened. Like fruit ripening in the sun, decaying with time. He hunched over upon the instrument, hair obscuring his features. Voice ragged, the restraints, the control, wrestling back that furious vulnerability he had once released. Until it was naught but a whisper, accompanied by quiet, miserable notes.

Still you showed me, I still had an umbrella full of love inside me
So thank you for everything​

He leaned back, raising his face to the ceiling. Sweat beaded his brow, slid down his throat. It was clear as the sound of the piano that he had not been playing for the audience. But the silence in the room wasn’t one of apathy or discontent either. It…just was.

The man stayed there alone on the stage.

Tick. Tick. Tick.

And he was good to go again! Rising with that characteristic vigour of a truly confident performer, Cain Darlite, Flagbearer of Miracles and Applesun Village Rebuilding Project Manager, turned to the audience without setting his gaze on any one of them, and gave a grand bow, favoured them all with a brilliant smile, before exiting stage left.

Before exiting the tavern entirely.

The nighttime wind drew in the smell of barbequed meats and perfumed lovers. Summer was in the air, and sorrows had no place under the sun. But beneath the weeping boughs of the tavern’s namesake, Cain could lean for a moment and enjoy the taste of well water flavoured by the interior of a leather waterskin.

Then, he frowned.

“Ah shit. Forgot to do the promotion.”

 

[Kyupin Felnya]

The grandiose capitals had never failed to awe Kyupin, no matter how often she had visited in the past. Now, returning to Stokbon for the first time after four years of shelter in her small hometown, it had become… Terrifying? Impressive? Overwhelming? Many things. Different, at the very least.

Kyupin's head cranes up, up, up to see the tops of towering buildings, and her ears twitch away, away, away from the noisy bustle of the late-night streets. A fancily dressed couple swerve around her, tsks trailing in their wake at the foreigner just standing around without sense or manners. Kyupin ducks her head, her hasty apology mingling with their tsks as she scuttles from the main street to a quieter alley.

Not quite quiet enough, though. Not for her aching ears. She continues on, letting her feet carry her away from the racket. The district she finds herself in is distantly familiar; little more than a hazy memory of the Stokbon she'd once known; of gentle breezes slick with sea salt, of rickety boats drifting down canals, of… a soul laid bare in music, each note echoing to the heavens. When had she gotten here? Her eyes lock on the sign of the tavern, its chipped paint that had once been vivid and fresh. Another hazy memory, of purple and white and wolves and fire. Of disappointment - at herself or at...?

The front door opens, blowing away the fog of her mind. Four years have aged him some. They have her, too, in the length of her hair and the fit of her clothes. But it's hard to forget a man like him.

"Cain?" Her voice is soft, wavering with uncertainty. This marks him the first. The first familiar face she has run into. And despite the memories that spring up unbidden at the sight of him — a fragile fury shattering an already fragile friendship(?) — all she can feel is relief. Not that it eases the awkwardness of her smile any. "You came back too, huh?"

 

[Cain Darlite]

Blonde hair past the willow weave and his heart skipped a beat.

But it was a familiar face, not a dead one, and he felt his stomach begin to churn instead, a simulated nausea matching genuine anxiety. It was the weight of four years, of fractured relationships despite a mutual connection. She’d heard of Valentina from Sabine, but there was no communication beyond that, and more importantly, though the emotions of that incident remained, the contents of the words they exchanged had faded.

And, beyond even that, beyond the awkward smile on her face, the reluctance for either of them to really converse, there was a…bit of happiness. That she was alive. That she had access to Terrasphere. That she could meet Gwyn, if only virtually. No need to catastrophize. No need to think too hard about it. Danielle had worked on herself, had forged her mind for moments like these. And Cain had decided that it was enough to be happy for others.

“Yeah,” he said, standing upright, but remaining beneath the silvered tree. “Just out of spite, really.” Self-immolating spite, knowing what they all knew now. Four years to get over the fact that the game that gave him so much and took away even more was, in fact, the sort of game that only death cults would truly wish to be a part of. And still, no clean break, even when so many other options emerged for virtual reality now. Still, the two of them here, by chance or by fate, standing awkwardly with nothing to distract themselves with.

The muse coughed. Late spring dreams and the decadence of Stokbon all seemed so distant now. Like the world was pulling further apart the longer he stayed here.

“I’m done singing.” For the night? “Wanna grab something to eat?” So something could fill the silence? “And catch up?” On what?

On anything that'd give an excuse to be moving, likely.

 

[Kyupin Felnya]

It's not a joke, she realizes after the awkward chuckle has already escaped. "Well, as good a reason as any, I guess." Had conversation always been this difficult? Silence stretched on and on, despite only lasting several seconds at most. Several seconds too long. Her hands clasp together in front of her skirts, asbent-mindedly fiddling with the fabric.

Thankfully, Cain's a words guy. Much better at the distracting thing.

"Food?" She forces her smile a touch wider and nods, hand rubbing at her belly as if the unsettling weight there was hunger and not a creeping, nauseating dread. "Food sounds... really great right now, actually." She couldn't actually remember the last time she'd eaten since logging in, if at all. Maybe an odd overripe berry or dirty mushroom that she'd found on her path Eastward, but she'd been so focused on staying on the move that everything else had sort of… fallen to the wayside.

"You got any recommendations?"

 

[Cain Darlite]

“Really?”

He let out a soft snort, then left the eaves of the tree completely, brushing away the hanging branches as they pushed against his hat. Above, the hue of the night sky was muted by the lighting of the streetlamps, spirits of fire and lightning racing through pre-determined paths to grant luminance upon the still-bustling streets. He was exposed again, to grilling meats and fruity perfumes, aromas so delectable that it overwhelmed with its ripeness and fullness. A quiet place would be nice, but more than that, a quiet place would be the worst.

Open and lively, but removed from the polite society that neither of them were wholly comfortable with right now. It came into mind as naturally as breathing, as if he had never left. Perhaps this body hadn’t.

“The Kingfisher’s Wharf has a selection most grand. It’s an offshoot of the King’s Bay, as I understand it, selling the cooked catch of the men of the sea. Though more a promenade than proper dining establishment…” He glanced towards her as he strode to the main road, straightening his posture to match the environment. The wear and tear of her outfit was clear enough. Sweat stains and splotches of dried mud. The scuffs of her boots, the dullness of her hair. “...I’ve little chance yet to stretch my legs over this particular day. What say you, Kyupin?”

 

[Kyupin Felnya]

She fidgets with the hem of her cloak as he studies her worn state, suddenly all too aware of how she must look and—a discrete sniff wrinkles her nose—smell. The exhaustion of her journey, of the fierce pace she had set for herself and her mount, catches up as a deep ache that begs her to just rest. Even the thought of walking has her body cramping up something fierce. Don't, Kyupin! It cries. You need rest, not company!

"That sounds lovely. We can walk and talk!" she says instead, beaming. Her legs cramp in complaint, nearly tripping her as she rushes to follow after him. She settles into his shadow, shrinking close when the crowd grew thick and the noise loud. The bustle of the nightlife crowds out their own potential conversation, folding Kyupin's ears flat against her head to muffle it all.

Work hours had drawn to a close, but by the waterfront, a noisy workday meant even noisier unwinding. Groups in blue and gold congregate, bits and pieces of their conversation drifting in the air; "Did you see those fruit from the Tangleweave? I nabbed one—" "God damn it Josh, if they find out—!" "—trying to relax here, stop talking about work—!" "The star shower was pretty, wasn't it? Makes you think of—" The smell of brine is ever thick in the King's Bay, and thought distinctly fishy still, as they make their way further to the Kingfisher's Wharf, it is mellowed by sharp spice and crisp char. Stalls line the street, grills blazing and pans sizzling. The chefs themselves chatter with nearby customers, more focused on the loyal than trying to rope anyone else in. They needn't advertise their wares, for the delectable smells wafting over did all the talking for them.

Kyupin points over to one such stall.

In the back, a sun-weathered woman leans over the counter, filet knife working under the flesh of a silvery fish. A sleeveless shirt shows off two swallows flying across the back of her shoulder along with a nautical star on her bicep. At the front, a man works a wide grill, flipping skewers of various seafood. Though his laughter cannot be heard, it is visually loud, brightening and crinkling his face. Two customers lean against the stall, ragged clothes marking them as poorer laborers despite the several empty skewers collecting on a plate in front of them. Good value, then?

"How about there?" Kyupin reaches into her cloak, pulling out a coin purse tied securely within. Her flat ears flick up as she smiles again. "My treat?" She'd let him order first, always one step behind.

 

[Cain Darlite]

Nightlife crowded out conversation, but that was for the better. It was easier for Cain not to think when he could immerse instead, drawing in snippets of conversations he’d never hear the start or end of, gazing over at the multitude of stalls that he’ll never stick around to learn of. Occasionally, he turned back, ascertaining that Kyupin was still there, before continuing on into the bustling waterfront. Cobblestone turned to wooden planks, creaking beneath the weight of workers and tourists all looking for an evening’s meal, drawn to either to acclaimed chefs and their pop-up restaurants or to the medley of spices that danced upon cast-iron grills and woks.

Woks? The muse paused for a moment, caught by another anachronism. The cook looked at him, recognized a fellow Traveller, and smiled.

But neither lingered, and he followed Kyupin’s gesture instead, towards a stall further in the back, away from the hubbub and closer to the lapping waters. Grilled fish, freshly caught and seasoned with just enough salt to bring out the flavours. It was simple and affordable, things that Cain shied away from specifically because it would be too close to reality. In this case though, he could make an exception.

“Sounds lovely,” he nodded, making his way out from the crowd with the Beastfolk Huntress. “If you’ll pay for the food, I’ll get the drinks.” Drawing from the hammerspace inventory that remained such a wonderful convenience for those not of the land, Cain pulled out a bottle of grape juice and four glasses, the crystals clinking musically as he set them against the counter of the stall.

“My companion and I will take four to start, chef,” he said, pouring them full. One for himself, one for Kyupin, and the remaining for the other customers. A smile, lopsided, formed. “Cheers, fellas.”

And he raised his own glass towards Kyupin for a toast towards nothing in particular.