You will be the father of something terrible

Perhaps he should have been intimidated by the wolf, but Blaine was a son of the city, and the feeling that nondomesticated animals were a myth had been bred into him.

The wolf shook itself, and shifted. Harbard as a man probably should have been just as intimidating as Harbard-the-wolf- he was a hulking, scarred, beast of a man, covered in a thatch of hair nearly as thick as his wolf pelt. But Blaine could no longer be bothered with fearing anything on this plane, or any other, for that matter. There was too much of the serpent left in him for that.

"Huh." Harbard stayed in a low crouch, and scratched behind his ears. "You still smell like a thief."

"Really?" That made Blaine smile, inexplicably. He supposed it was good, that Tyrin wasn't completely dead. "I haven't been one of those in years. Decades, really."

Harbard made a noise halfway between a snort and a growl. "Like a criminal, then. What do you want?" He surged to his feet, and stalked across the room to a cupboard against the far wall. He took out a set of clothes and began dressing. "I was sleeping."

Blaine leaned against the desk, and thought that, as far as these things went, Harbard wasn't bad looking. Older, yes, but not so many years older than Blaine himself, and nowhere near as old as Silverlock. He was, by all reports, a good man. Fair with his men. Loose enough with his morality to, if not condone, perhaps at least to understand what it meant to be an assassin. And he was a Malestri, which meant more than the rest combined in the end.

But Blaine wasn't the one in danger of marrying the man, so he supposed it didn't really matter.

"I want you to stay away from my daughter."

Harbard finished pulling his tunic over his head, and laughed. Clothed, he looked less like some sort of creature born out of snow and jagged rock, but there was still something feral in his laughter, something a little too like the sound of howling on a moonless night.

Blaine crossed his arms, fully well aware of how thin he was now, and how Harbard could, theoretically, snap him in half one-handed. Theoretically. The other man would have to catch him first. "It wasn't my intention to be entertaining."

"I'm sure it wasn't, little man. I'm sure it wasn't." Harbard's eyes in human form were meant to be blue, but right now they were golden, and a little too round. Wolf eyes. "But you're no more her father than I am, and have even less right to be saying such things to me." There was a snarl in his voice.

"What I am to her exactly is of little relevance, I think." Blaine could hear the edges of the serpent curling his tongue. He hadn't intended to get into a pissing contest with a captain of the Watch, but he'd never been overly fond of bullies. "The fact remains that she is my family, and your attentions are unwanted. So: stay away from her."

"Or what, little criminal? I could have you jailed for threatening me. I could have you jailed as an accessory to murder a thousand times over, too." Harbard stepped closer, his height and bulk overshadowing Blaine. The growl in his voice became more pronounced. "Or I could see how you fare against the wolf. She's not your responsibility, human. She's Malestri."

He smirked, and forced the serpent back- he had no need for it here, now. "She's an assassin, Captain Halverness. First, last, and above all else. I'm not threatening you- I'm warning you. After all, if you don't leave her be, there's nothing I can do, save put you back together, perhaps- but she's more than capable of taking care of herself."

Harbard actually looked startled, and seemed to shrink slightly in his surprise. Blaine's smirk deepened. Bullies. He pushed past Harbard, toward the door. "Have a nice day, Captain Halverness."

Outside Harbard's office, the Liutenant managed to look completely casual, as though he hadn't just had his ear pressed to the door, listening. Tim was not quite so suave, and nearly caught the door with his face when it opened.

Blaine rolled his eyes. Kids. "Good evening, Lieutenant, Tim."

"Evening, Your Holiness!" Tim scrambled back to his desk, blushing fiercely.

The Lieutenant nodded, still pretending to be engrossed in paperwork. "Bright welcome to you, Mister Torkehaav." He looked up, and tapped his pen against the desk thoughtfully. "If you see Miss Foxbird-"

"I'll tell her you said hello."

The Lieutenant nodded, and turned back to his work.

Blaine shook his head as he left the Watchquarters; kids, indeed. He was getting old.

I could be your father, I could be your brother, I could be a flower, rise up in the dirt

Blaine's parents are awesome, but his dad is such. a. dork.

(As always, three times longer than it needs to be! *chews off fingers*)
---------------------------

It had been, to put it mildly, a long week. He'd spent the last five days in a summoning circle, and had been running on adrenaline and raw aether for three of them. It had been worth it, certainly- he now held the true name of one of the Greater Shrive, but at the moment, all he really wanted to do was sleep for a week or three.

Living on the edge of Candlemark only meant he slept with one eye open, even when half dead from exhaustion. The sound of the window opening jolted him awake for half a moment- just long enough to throw a paralysis cantrip in the general direction of the window. He vaguely heard a thump and a clatter before turning over and falling back asleep.

He woke again a few hours later, to the sound of Master Sorlin moving about the kitchen. The smell of the weak green tea Master Sorlin drank was almost enough to rouse him from where he'd collapsed on the couch, but it would take far more caffeine than was contained in a watery cup of tea to entice him to move.

He was just about to drift back to sleep again when Master Sorlin slammed the teakettle down on the stove with a crash. "I know you're awake, Estri. I don't keep you around to be lazy- I'll be at the university all day, but I expect the workroom and the kitchen to be spotless by the time I return."

He muttered something halfway between "Yes, sir," and "Fuck you" in reply. His head hurt, and he wanted to go back to sleep.

Sorlin barked a short, derisive laugh. "I'll be back late, so there's no need to wait up for me- but I mean it about the kitchen." A moment later, he was gone.

Estri stretched, and luxuriated in the feel of the blessedly empty apartment.

His eyes snapped open. "Oh, hells."

There was a dagger driven into the kitchen table, its blade gleaming with something slick and purple. The owner of the dagger, dressed in black from head to toe, was sprawled beneath the window, caught in the same position he'd fallen in. Master Sorlin had pulled his hood back and he looked up at Estri from underneath his elbow; his neck had to be cramping terribly by now.

"Sweet Natasha, I am not awake enough for this." He rubbed his eyes wearily. A migraine began to throb behind his left eyebrow, the sort of pain that lodged deep in the bone, all the way down to his soul. "I'm making coffee. Would you like some?"

"Er. I'd have a rather hard time drinking it from here, wouldn't I?" The assassin grinned a little lopsidedly. He had incredibly bright blue eyes.

"I'll give you a straw. Or. Whatever. I'll think of something when I'm awake." He rummaged through the cubpoards, assembling the pieces of the coffee press. "I hope you don't mind if it tastes like magic."

"Can't say I've ever tried any before."

"Vaguely lemony. You get used to it after a while, but it's still...ngh." Estri left the water to heat on the stove and pressed the heels of his hands into his eye sockets, willing the pain to go away. Exhaustion and aether drain, and the assassin on his kitchen floor was keeping himself too calm for Estri to leech anything from him. His magical senses were worn raw, nearly to the point of bleeding.

The pain receded slowly. "It's still an acquired taste for most people."

"I'm sure I'll manage. And. Um. I do hate to be a bother- and, I mean, it looks like your day hasn't been much better than mine so far- but this is a remarkably uncomfortable position to be lying in."

Estri raised an incrdulous eyebrow at the man, and turned back to the stove without answering.

The coffee was dark and syrupy; he drank the first cup straight, and had to cling to the counter with white knuckled hands for a minute afterwards, trembling with the urge to retch.

The assassin let out a low whistle from the floor. "Brave man! I've seen coffee like that kill a man at thirty paces!"

Estri smiled weakly as the caffeine hit his system like a hammer and killed off the last vestiges of his headache. "It's remarkably useful in necromancy rituals, actually." He poured two more cups, dosed them both liberally with sugar and cardamom, and set them on the table. He sat down, and stared at the assassin. "So."

The man's grin faded slightly. "So?"

Estri sipped his coffee, feeling slightly less like death warmed over. There were few things that cured the ache of aetherial exhaustion as effectively as coffee. "I assume, from your garb and the knife ruining my table, that you came here to kill Master Sorlin."

"Well. Yes?" He looked a little sheepish. "Sorry. I suppose you're going to call the Watch, now."

"Mm...no. I've been ordered on pain of death to never let the Watch set foot in this house. And I am, above all else, obedient." He placed his palms together and bowed slightly, mocking. "I just need your assurance that you won't try anything stupid, if I release you from that cantrip."

"You have it. Sorlin made it clear before he left that it would be in my best interests to abandon this job. Killing you would have been sloppy before- now, it would be downright unprofessional."

He broke the cantrip with a gesture, and felt the release of it like something snapping quietly inside his skull, easing pressure he hadn't even noticed. The assassin uncoiled himself and stretched the kinks out of his neck and back with a hideous series of cracks from every vertebrae.

There was something in the way the man moved that reminded him of his brothers and sisters; he hadn't thought of them in years, but the sudden memory of them hurt less than he'd expected. "Come, sit. You owe me at least a little conversation for all the trouble you've caused me."

"Trouble I've caused you?" He sat, and cradled his cup of coffee in his long-fingered hands. Musician's hands, or a strangler's. "I'm the one out a job, you know. A screw up like this will be hell on my reputation." He was still smiling, if a little ruefully.

"Should've thought of that before you went breaking into a mage's home." Rummaging in the cupboard produced a loaf of bread, a piece of cheese, and a few apples. He set them on the table and the assassin obligingly produced a knife from his person and began slicing.

"Rather, I should just accept that I'm shit at solo missions. Planning isn't my strong suit, I'm afraid." He dipped a corner of the bread in his coffee.

"Then why not find yourself a partner?"

"I've got one- but she's on probation. Healer's orders, you see- broken ribs, punctured lung. She'll be fine, now that the healer's tied her to the bed and taken her off the mission roster." He shook his head. "She'll be up in another day, though. Not too fond of being tied down."

Estri chewed on a piece of apple and smiled slyly. The man was completely transparent, even if Estri was too burnt out to use his empathy. It was...cute. "To beds, or in general?"

The assassin flushed, and dropped his bread in his coffee. "Well- I-" He avoided the question by gulping his coffee. He flinched; the coffee had still been hot enough to scald. "I wouldn't really know."

Estri didn't laugh, though he dearly wanted to. "Perhaps you should ask her? I imagine it's not so much that she objects to the tying as to the person who is- or isn't- binding her."

Even his ears turned red. Charming. He took pity on the poor man. "It's something to think about, at any rate. Have you a name?"

"Hawk. Hawk Samarkand. And yourself?" He leapt on the chance to change the subject, but then his eyes widened, and he was flustered again. "That is- I mean- I don't have many dealings with slaves and if you don't-"

"My given name, for the time being, is Estri. But most of the neighbors have taken to calling me Silverlock," he said, touching the streak in his woefully shortened hair. "And I find that suits me better, these days." He stood, and cleared away the cups.

Hawk stood as well, smiling but still flushed. "Well met, Silverlock." He held out his hand; his grip on Estri's wrist was almost a threat; it was a completely unconscious gesture on Hawk's part. "Should you ever find yourself wandering the halls of the Guild, look me up. I owe you a cup of coffee."

His clumsy charisma was endearing, to say the least. "I'll hold you to that, Hawk." He still had a few years left to his indenture, but afterwards- why not? "Take the door out- the wards on the windows can be twitchy."

The assassin left, and Estri cleared away the rest of the food. He briefly contemplated cleaning out the workroom, but was asleep on his cot before the thought could fully formulate itself in his mind.

His dreams were prophetic, but he would not remember any of them upon waking.

----------------
----------------

Silverlock had been keeping track of the assassin's aura for the last ten minutes as he wandered the catacombs. Even so, the woman's knife knicked the side of his neck when she finally attacked; he just barely had time to put up a barrier between them before she attacked again.

"Ch'. Mages." Her knife disappeared and she crossed her arms impatiently. "If it is the necromancer covens you seek, you'll have to look elsewhere. This is assassin territory." She spoke with a faint Dzyrachan accent, all lilting vowels and softened gutterals.

"I'm not looking for any trouble, milady." He spread his hands, and did his best to project harmless innocence. "I'm looking for a man- about so tall, blue eyes, goes by the name of Hawk."

She snorted. "Then you are looking for trouble, for that man attracts it like little else. I hope you're not looking to hire him."

For some reason, Silverlock was not surprised in the slightest. "Nothing of the sort. He owes me a cup of coffee."

"Fair enough." A faint tremor shook the air- some sort of set spell. "Hawk will vouch for you if you speak truly- and if he does not, I'll try out each my knives on your pretty barier until we find something that cuts you." She leaned against the wall, the very picture of casual threat.

"You'll forgive me if I stop your heart the moment you try? I'm not so keen on having my throat slit." He projected an air of indifference in response to her spoken and unspoken threats; in an unfair fight, he was fairly certain he would win.

"You're welcome to make the attempt, mage. But better than you have tried and failed."

He sensed the other presence in the tunnel before a man stepped out of the shadows, but he wouldn't have felt it if he hadn't been looking for it. It seemed that Hawk had gained a few skills in the years since their first meeting.

His smile was still disarmingly open. "Silverlock!" He stopped, and looked nervous. "That is- if that's still the name you go by, I'm not-"

The woman elbowed him sharply, cutting off the stream of babble before it could start. Hawk rubbed the back of his neck, embarrassed. "Civ, do you remember, a few years ago, when I completely botched the mage job in Eastmark?"

She rolled her eyes and relaxed minutely. "How could I forget? You, then, are the one who didn't turn this poor fool over to the Watch?"

"That would be me, milady." He gave her a proper bow, with an exaggerated flourish. "Silverlock D'Alestri, at your service."

"A pleasure, I'm sure." She touched her forehead in a particularly Dzyrachan gesture of respect. "Civet Samarkand. And I suppose, if he's promised you coffee, I'll be the one making it." She gave Hawk a fondly exhasperated look.

"The pleasure is all mine, Lady Samarkand." He glanced at Hawk; the man's ears still turned red when he blushed. "I wouldn't want to trouble you-"

"What trouble? My husband has brought me far more troubling things than the chance to drink with an ally, and possibly a friend." She had a beautiful, deadly smile. "Come. I will show you proper hospitality, something of which these city-bred northern barbarians know little, indeed."

She gestured to the darkness of the tunnel, and Silverlock followed. Hawk fell into step beside him, and he glanced upwards at the other man, then forwards to the swaying cadence of Civet's hips as she strode silently ahead of them. "You, my friend," he murmured, "are the luckiest man in the world."

"I know." Hawk's grin was just as charming as he remembered.

It was good, he decided. Upon descending the steps of Master Sorlin's home for the last time, he had sworn that his life would always be interesting, if nothing else.

His gaze drifted back to Civet, and he permitted himself a small smile. Being free of his indenture was already less boring than he'd dreaded.

----------------
----------------

He stared at the ibrik in Blaine's cupboard; it was the sort of look he usually gave to uncooperative Shrivebeasts and other recalcitrant demons. "Huh." It was a lovely antique, its tall copper sides etched in swirling geometric patterns. The lip was dented, though, and the handle had a deep scratch in it.

"What? Is my coffee pot possessed now? Knew I shouldn't have taken it from that shifty eyed man at the bazaar, but he was giving it away for free." Blaine leaned down and rested his chin on Silverlock's shoulder. "You look like you've seen a ghost."

"Not a ghost. Just a memory that I'd not visited in quite some time." He closed the cupboard and turned around, looping his arms around Blaine's waist. "It's a very familiar coffee pot, that's all." He remembered the dent, and how much Civet had yelled when Hawk dropped it.

"Hm. I'll make you coffee some time- proper, Dzyrachan coffee." He smiled into Silverlock's hair. "Black as sin, strong as death, sweet as love."

"Careful now, someone might accuse you of being a romantic." He pulled Blaine a little closer, and raised an eyebrow suggestively.

"We can't have that. My reputation would be ruined."

"Don't worry." He leaned forward to steal a kiss, and did not say that Blaine had his mother's eyes, but his father's smile. "I can keep a secret."

_______________________ __________________________ ________________________

Hawk? Is the biggest dork to ever dork his way through assassin training in his own dorky, dorky idiom. I kind of adore him, in all his henpecked glory. (He looks rather like Daniel Craig, actually. Same eyes, same doofy grin, just make him about fifteen years younger for this particular fragment.) He and Civet are really amazingly cute together, but he's utterly useless without her, even if he does grow much less incompetent with age. After she dies, he...fades, a little. Leaves the Guild, becomes a regular at Templar's Rest, since that's where old characters go if they don't die in a horribly tragic manner.

Blaine tracks him down at some point, when he's much older, and they have an incredibly awkward and sad conversation, and then never see each other again. (Silverlock doesn't see Hawk again after Hawk leaves until after Blaine dies, and when he does finally go, he drags Foxbird with him for moral support.)

And yeah. Silverlock was kind of in love with Blaine's parents. Hawk and Civet sponsor him as an apprentice in the Guild, but once he earns his tags and particularly once Tyrin is born, they drift apart. He might have seen Tyrin once or twice, but they were never actually introduced.

Dzyrach is kind of Rothcar's equivalent of the Middle East; an ibrik is the sort of pot used to make Turkish coffee. Civet is actually a lesser princess of some sort in Dzyrach; eleventh daughter of a fifth wife, that sort of thing. She underwent her assassin apprenticeship there, under her family's spymaster, and transferred to the Rothcaran Guild to earn her tags.

Blaine grew up speaking Rothish and Dzyrachan; Civet made sure that, in the unlikely event that he did meet any members of his extended family, he wouldn't be a complete embarrassment to her. As an adult, he still speaks Dzyrachan, though he's only barely literate in it.

Song Call: Johnny Clegg, "Dela"

Last one of these for a while, I promise, but since I'm on a Blaine and Silverlock kick (as I have been for the past...well, a really long time, but whatever). This is them from Blaine's point of view, at the beginning. In this case, it's more the lyrics than anything else- in particular, the translation of the Zulu lyrics as "I am content," which is a particularly Blaine-like sentiment to express.

-----

One day I looked up and there you stood
Like a simple question looking for an answer
Now I am a whale listening to some inner call
Swimming blindly to throw myself upon your shores
But what if I don't find when I have landed?
Would you leave me here to die on your shores stranded?

I think I know why the dog howls at the moon.
I think I know why the dog howls at the moon.

I say:
"Dela! Dela! Ngiyadela!
(Content, content I am content)
When I am with you!
Dela! Sondela mama, sondela!
(Closer, closer, come closer mama)
I burn for you!

I've been waiting for you all my life -- hoping for a miracle
I've been waiting day and night -- day and night!
I've been waiting day and night -- waiting for redemption
I've been waiting day and night -- I burn for you

A blind bird sings inside the cage that is my heart
And the image of your face comes to me when I'm alone in the dark
If I could give a shape to this ache that I have for you
If I could find the voice that says the words that capture you
I think I know, I think I know
I think I know, I think I know

I think I know why the dog howls at the moon.
I think I know why the dog howls at the moon.

I say:
"Dela! Dela! Ngiyadela!
(Content, content I am content)
When I am with you!
Dela! Sondela mama, sondela!
(Closer, closer, come closer mama)
I burn for you!

I've been waiting for you all my life- hoping for a miracle
I've been waiting day and night- day and night!
I've been waiting day and night- waiting for redemption
I've been waiting day and night- I burn for you
Burn for you, I burn for you
-Johnny Clegg, "Dela"

Song Call: Duncan Sheik, "Home"

Yes, Blaine, fine, you can have the entirety of Duncan Sheik's first album as your soundtrack, go ahead. And yes, you can have some of the tracks off "Daylight," too, but not all of them.

Wangsty little fucker. *rolling eyes*

The lyrics are horribly saccharine, but I'm fond of "Home" as a relationship song for Blaine and Silverlock, more from Blaine's point of view. It's less the lyrics than the tone and the melody, honestly, and something about Duncan Sheik's voice makes me think of Blaine.

-------

Don't get me wrong, I'm feeling O.K.
But when I'm without you, it's just not the same
Don't misunderstand me, I'm feeling alright
But when I'm without you the day turns into night...into night
You dream of a future...a possible place
Where we lie together face to face
And I'm looking forward
I will not deny
I dream of a future made for you and I
You and I

...and then I'm with you
No longer alone
When I'm with you
It feels like I'm home
And you are with me
No longer alone
How could it be?
It feels like I'm home
It feels like I'm home

I look through the darkness into the sky
The moon up above me brilliantly shines
I've never been happier watching it glow
I'm here by myself, but I know I'm not alone...I'm not alone
I look through the brightness into the sky
The sun up above me, spitting out fire
Call me a child, call me naive
The world is much brighter
Than it ever used to be

-Duncan Sheik, "Home"

On roleplaying (Blaine in Districtmancy)

So, Districtmancy. (Shit, this got really, really long. >.>)

I'm not sure what it says about Blaine and Silverlock that whenever I roleplay them, they end up separating. In Dead Inside it was perfectly understandable, and mostly Silverlock's fault- he's occasionally very easily distracted by shiny things. And Drake is a very shiny thing; most of Blaine's dislike of the man stems from jealousy. Too, in Dead Inside, Drake and Silverlock were trying to take over the world, and Blaine will put up with a lot of nonsense, but he draws the line at world domination.

Blaine in Districtmancy is much, much less stable than Blaine is in his original incarnation. As much as it irritates him on occasion, his immunity to drugs and alcohol in Toggle saves him from a lifetime of battling addictions. And taking care of Foxbird gives him something positive to live for during the more difficult transitional periods of his life. He doesn't have either of those things going for him in Districtmancy; when his mother dies (unfortunate traffic accident), he starts stealing things and ends up getting thrown out a window by the police when they catch him. (Hence the scars on his face- face, meet plate glass window.) He's in juvie for a few years after that. Then his father dies (heroin overdose), and he gets sent to NYUAA for healer training, where he's an antisocial punk. He doesn't have many friends on Governor's Island; he's sixteen when he ends up there.

Orrin is four years younger, and a firemancer, but also something of a punk. He attaches himself to Blaine for no good reason that anyone else can discern. (Orrin is actually an incredibly accident prone kid- he mostly sticks to Blaine as a survival instinct, since Blaine never goes anywhere without a plentiful supply of bandaids.)

Between med school and keeping Orrin from cracking his skull open on things, he gets his life somewhat under control. He finishes off school and his residency a year or so early and gets a job at Columbia Presbyterian in the ER, and becomes addicted to his work. When he can't handle being addicted to his work, he gets addicted to cocaine, too. (It was actually a series of particularly brutal ER cases that pushed him into drug use as a coping mechanism.)

(Mildly entertaining things- chain smoking and twitching are characteristics of users, but Blaine didn't start doing either until he went into rehab. Jason may occasionally comment on this, but Blaine has been clean for the last five years, apart from the cigarettes and the occasional drink, and would take accusations of being back on drugs about as well as he takes reminders of the kidney thing.)

His dealer eventually stopped taking money and instead charged favors, which was how Jason and Co ended up busting him in the middle of harvesting an illegal immigrant's kidneys for sale on the black market. Blaine's only excuse was that he was higher than a kite on something new and unidentified at the time. He only used cocaine up until that point, but his dealer suggested he try something new, in exchange for a bigger favor than usual.

He sees that point in his life as hitting absolute zero; he comes out of rehab with an incredibly rarefied sense of self loathing that six years of counseling has just barely begun to dent. The real reason he hates Jason so much is not because he thinks Jason is an irritating fuckwit (though he does), but because Jason serves as a tangible reminder of how low he'd sunk as a human being, and how precarious his grip on stability really is. It's a touchy subject for him, which is why he flies off the handle and tries to hit Jason when Jason brings up the kidney thing.

He hates Orrin in part because they were best friends, and Orrin ratted him out to ARC- but primarily because they were best friends, and he never wanted Orrin to know how incredibly screwed up he was. At some point in the future, when Silverlock asks him if he'll ever forgive Orrin, his response is, "There's nothing to forgive." Which is true- he doesn't blame Orrin for turning him in, and he is, in fact, almost grateful for it. He hates himself now, but he hates who he was before even more. He hates Orrin as a defense mechanism- he doesn't think Orrin will ever be able to forgive him for sinking so low, and he certainly doesn't think he deserves Orrin's forgiveness.

He works for Paige, at Templar's Rest. Maddel worked with him at the hospital and at NYUAA, and got him the job- Maddel mostly did this because he knew Blaine could be useful, and he would be, at the very least, entertaining. (As surrogate father figures go, he kind of sucks.) The lower level of the Rest is an upscale lounge/bar; the upper levels are occupied by art galleries and private rooms that can be rented by the hour. Most of the time, he really does just do security work- he makes sure no one goes upstairs without a proper escort, makes sure clients treat employees with the proper respect, that sort of thing. When necessary, he beats people about the head and torso with the butt of a sawed off shotgun. Occasionally, someone from Faery with a few bullet wounds shows up in one of the rooms upstairs, and then he gets called on to deal with that.

More often than not, his patients give him a 0_o look over the fact that he's human. Blaine tells them this is merely an unfortunate accident of birth, and not something that should be held against him. He does genuinely enjoy being around citizens of Faery; something about their auras, if not their incredibly racist and bigoted attitudes, is soothing to him.

He meets Foxbird on his operating table; about a month later, he meets Silverlock, who thanks him for putting Foxbird back together. (And by "thanks him" I mean they kind of have sex in Blaine's office after Silverlock uses the worst pickup line in the history of ever. I kind of really want to write that scene, because it's hilarious for me.)

My characters are a lot sharper in Districtmancy; Maddel is more of a racist Nazi asshole, and Silverlock is more of a sociopath. (I need to stop watching Oz, or at the very least, stop equating Blaine and Silverlock with Beecher and Keller. It isn't pretty.)

Blaine and Rien (though Blaine and most of the people at the Rest call him Silverlock; I imagine Drake would, too) are together for about four years prior to the start of the game. Silverlock gets attached to the point where he would actually be monogamous if Blaine asked him to- but Blaine doesn't ask, because Blaine has no self esteem. (One would not characterize their relationship as being particularly healthy, no. But Blaine is less fucked up with it than without, so go figure.)

Life is fairly uneventful, until three days prior to the beginning of the game, when Blaine lets himself into Silverlock's apartment and finds Orrin there, mostly naked. (At some point when they were both in college, it's possible Blaine and Orrin hooked up drunkenly? And then never spoke of it again? But neither of them ever stopped thinking about it, except they tried really hard to forget about it because it was really weird for everyone involved, especially me? Yes.)

To be fair, Silverlock had a plan here- he was hoping to eventually get them back on speaking terms with each other (he meets Orrin by coincidence, but he knows all of Blaine's backstory, and he's seen pictures of Orrin). It was a very half assed plan, and he went about it in a very stupid manner, but he did have a plan. Both Orrin and Blaine flip out, and there is a minor brawl; Orrin's nose gets broken, and Silverlock ends up with a black eye and a split lip. Blaine gets out with a bitemark on his shoulder, because Orrin can be really fucking vicious sometimes.

Two days later, Jason shows up at his door, and points out that, hey, not only is Blaine a healer, but he's something of an expert on dark aligned soulmancers with ties to Faery! Blaine points out that Jason is as annoying as he is ugly, and also, fucking someone for four years doesn't make you an expert on their mancy. And Jason smiles, and says, sure, fine, sorry for bothering you, I'll just go ask Brannskada if he'd like to help- I'm sure he would, he's NYPD to begin with and this sort of case would look great on his record- and Blaine tells Jason to shut the fuck up and get off his porch, and also he'd better be getting paid in cash.

So, three days after his violent breakup with Rien, he goes clubbing for great justice with a necromancer and a cop; four days after, he has to go and visit Drake of all people, who feels the need to remind him of said violent breakup. Also, he gets attacked by an invisible stalker. Five days after, he gets attacked by a werewolf, finds the mutilated body of a fourteen year old girl, and becomes a vague older-brother-figure to the same werewolf that attacked him. And if the game stays on schedule, he'll be stuck seeing Silverlock exactly one week after their break up.

It's a good thing he's got a murder case to worry about and a bunch of crazy teammates to keep in one piece; if he didn't have something to distract him, he'd probably be finding himself a new dealer. As it is? He's still probably having a bad day.

only amounts to a couple of tears

Ugh. Writing anything lately is like pulling fucking teeth. (Case in point, I wrote that sentence hours ago and couldn't find it in myself to write anything further.)

Been having nightmares, which is always fun. I suppose there's something to be said for being predictable, but that doesn't mean I particularly enjoy it.

Build up to Blaine's death, because I can't, you know, write something upbeat for once. I blame it on listening to an excess of Duncan Sheik, and the heat. It's impossible to be upbeat in this weather.

-------------------

He knew most of the apprentices by name; all of them ended up in the infirmary at some point or other. Theirs wasn't a safe or easy profession, and training left scars.

"Thank you, Healer Torkehaav." The girl called herself Mist, though her mother had named her Cecily, and Blaine had been there to cut the cord when she was born. He wondered when he'd gotten so old, sometimes. She flexed her fingers carefully.

"My pleasure, Lady Mist. Your hand won't be back to full strength for another few weeks- don't strain it, or I'll put you on probation for stupidity."

"Aye, sir." She grinned. "As you say."

"Off with you- get out of my infirmary, I'm sick of seeing you here." He pushed her towards the door and she ran out without another word.

Blaine slumped against the examination table, head bowed. Mist's hand had been completely crushed- an accident with a locked vault, the sort of thing that happened more often to thieves than assassins. He stared at his own hands, which still surprised him with their lack of scars. His reflection in the mirror still startled him on occasion, though that was as much because he avoided mirrors out of habit as it was his appearance.

He clenched his right hand into a fist, and uncurled his fingers slowly, one by one. Then he clenched his left- but his fingers would only curl weakly towards his palm.

He touched the examination table, then tried to pick up a crucible- and he cursed when it slid through his fingers. He wasn't quick enough to catch it before it shattered on the floor.

Fighting down panic and despair, he took down a scalpel from the rack along the wall. He couldn't feel the edge of it along his palm, couldn't feel the tip of it pushing into his fingers. Just numbness, and the sight of blood pooling beneath his hand.

Maddel found him on the floor some time later; he'd sliced his hand to ribbons and hadn't bothered to stem the bleeding.

"What the fuck are you doing?" The elf knelt beside him and began binding the cuts with magic and bandages. "Idiot."

Blaine smiled weakly, and ran his good hand through his graying hair. "I think I'm dying," he said quietly. "What do you think?"

Maddel paused and stared him in the eye. Blaine could feel the soft brush of aether against his senses while the Masterhealer examined him.

"Well?" Blaine asked, after Maddel was silent for a little too long.

He looked away, frowning, and tied off the bandages around Blaine's hand. "I think you're right."

Blaine laughed humorlessly. "I hate it when that happens." He leaned his head back against the cabinets and stared at the ceiling.

Maddel sat back on his heels and lit a cigarette. "You only just noticed?"

"Aye."

"It's just the hand for now, but it'll spread- extremities first, then-"

"I'm aware of how it progresses, thank you, sir." Slow nerve death, his borrowed body grinding to a halt. He'd be bedridden within a matter of weeks, and then it would be a race to see whether his brain would die before his internal organs. Slow, messy, and inevitable.

"You'll have to tell your family."

His family. He almost laughed. "Not yet."

"Torkehaav." Maddel's voice was serious enough to pull Blaine's eyes away from the ceiling. "Don't be a fucking coward. You have to tell them."

"I'll tell them." He looked away. "But not yet." His good hand scrabbled for purchase against the counter, and he pulled himself to his feet. "I need a few days off, sir."

Maddel sighed, and rubbed his eyes. "Fine. You have three days, and if you try to disappear, I'll hunt you down and drag you back myself."

"Duly noted." He touched Maddel on the shoulder. "For what it's worth, old man, I'm sorry."

"Get out of here before I hurt you, Torkehaav. You know full well I'm not above hitting someone who can't hit back." Maddel's glare was fierce. "And don't you dare apologize to me again."

"Wouldn't dream of it, sir." He left Maddel staring at the shattered crucible on the floor, and pretended he didn't see or feel the hurt in the elf's stance.

Theoretically, he could live for months while his body broke down; the thought sickened and infuriated him. Some gods held suicide to be a sin, but his had never been one of them. It was time to pay the Avatar a visit.

one more casualty

Bleh. My creative processes are dysfunctional at the moment. I have a bunch of writing prompts to finish, and they're going nowhere fast. (Three of them are about Nick, and I'm really not in the mood to write for him.)

Well, that's kind of a lie. It's just that most of the things I want to write for Nick involve Aya. And I do want to write their final battle, but that's amazingly, incredibly depressing and involves Liall getting raped, or at the very least severely assaulted, and the fallout from that nearly leads to their divorce. And then, you know, she and Nick die, and they don't even die together. Nick's horse also dies. Aya has her fourth and final miscarriage, and loses her eye. It's really depressing.

So instead I'll write bits of the actual story...like the part where Blaine dies! Because that's not depressing, either.

--

The rifthorror crawled closer.

The elves had fled, seeking higher ground. Their order was meant to fight, but nothing mortal could stand before this. It was a nothingness older than the universe, so old and empty it could not contain even a proper name.

Blaine could barely remember his own name- he was too human for this, too mortal- and so he'd become something else, not human nor god but something in between. His god was busy elsewhere, distracted by a war on the aetherial plane. The only one listening was Natasha, who could not touch him. "Who am I supposed to pray to if this doesn't work?"

She laughed, her voice faint over the sound of rushing water in his head. If this didn't work, there would be nothing left to pray to, except perhaps the undead gods of Radrezaria with their strange, opaque magicks.

Venani might be ignoring him, but the Avatar's death had opened a doorway in his soul, and he drank in aether with abandon. His skin grew scales, and his soul swelled, stretching to the bursting point, like a balloon overfilled. There was water everywhere, and it answered his call, rising up from the stones beneath his feet.

The rifthorror crawled closer.

The water rose higher.

It had swallowed pieces of the city, devouring the soul of the earth itself. It was no bigger than a man to the naked eye, but to those with aethersight, it expanded beyond the limits of what could be measured. And where it walked, life simply...ceased.

The water rose higher.

He began to choke. He could breathe water as easily as air, but it choked him now, filling his lungs. The horror was looking at him, and they were both drowning and it wasn't fair. The power he was using came from Venani, and Venani had marked him from the moment of his birth. Do no harm. Not even to this thing of nothingness and death that came to devour the world- and he could see it in perfect detail, and he knew exactly how to destroy it and he knew- knew- exactly what it would cost him.

There was no one to hear him scream but Natasha- and where she walked, so too did her brother.

The rifthorror stood before him, close enough to touch.

(you are so small, so young) it said. (and I am so old) (this world used to be mine) it said (it was mine)

He could see the outlines of the souls it had swallowed sparkling along the edges of his consciousness. He could see its eyes, like stars, and he could see its hunger. He could feel its sadness.

His hands- still rippling with scales- plunged into the center of it. He couldn't feel anything anymore. His world became the soft echo of its voice and the rush of water as the waves crashed over them both and he became, for a single moment, a perfect conduit of power.

The last thing he thought was that it was terribly ironic- and then the sound of Natasha's dice, her brother's footsteps and-

(you are so young)

-------------

Silverlock was running on adrenaline and aether- his senses were in overdrive, leading him to the tower. All around him, he could feel the tiny lives of the vermin in the catacombs, and those few larger creatures that hadn't fled. Above, he could feel the rifthorror like a pulsing wave of rot- and then it disappeared in a wave of pure, distilled aether.

His left arm burned with sudden, exquisite pain. He stopped short, clawing at the source of the pain, and then tearing at his skin with his knife when he realized the cause.

The talisman was a match for the one he'd kept in his right arm, woven with the same spells and protections, and keyed to Blaine the way its twin was keyed to Foxbird. Her talisman was now around his neck, still whole. If he needed to, he could use it to find her; if not, as long as it was whole, he knew she was alive, and well.

The small crystal disc burned white hot, cauterizing the wound even as he ripped it out of his arm, and it shattered when it hit the ground.

He stared at the broken talisman for a full minute, blood rushing in his ears, unable to feel anything but numb.

And then he could feel nothing but rage, and rage was good because rage was power- and may all the gods help anything that stood in his way.
---------------------------------------

The rifthorrors are made of anti-aether, for lack of a better word; they're the stuff that was left over at the creation of the universe, and they're keyed to certain elements the same way the aetherial plane deities are. The seven horrors weren't shattered in the sundering at the start of the Fourth Era; this one is one of the lesser six, the one representing Fire.

Basically, Blaine got lucky, otherwise he'd never have been able to touch the thing. If he'd been elementally aligned to anything but water (technically water, earth, and life are Venani's elements, but Blaine naturally takes to water far better than to the other elements), the thing would've eaten him.

Silverlock likes keeping tabs on the people he cares about; he made locator talismans for Foxbird and Blaine (he has them for a few other people as well), and kept them embedded in his arms. (Yeah, okay, it's a little gross, but it means that no one's going to find them unless they know where to look; talismans of that nature are dangerous in the wrong hands.) They explode when the person they're keyed to dies.

Blaine gets better, of course, much to Silverlock's vague consternation and relief. ("I'm, um, sorry. For, you know, dying..." "Don't worry, I intend to take full advantage of your guilt for the next, oh, ten years or so." "You could try to not look so gleeful when you say that.")