"This Is Ridiculous!" Maxwell Gripes, Looming Over The Star-speckled Girl To Stare Down At The Corpse.

Oh, good lord. She's speaking to him.

Static crackles in his mind and in the silent night air, and Maxwell looks at her, stricken.

...no, not speaking. And not to him. The spirit is just... coming into existence, that's all.

That's all.

"Thank you," he mumbles, something he's only ever said sarcastically to his typical puppets, but which is entirely genuine when spoken to her. He shivers under the pale blue of the lantern. He should be dead right now. Like her...

IT LOOKS AT HIM.

"Stop that!" Maxwell snarls, eyes wide and terrified. He takes a step back, freezing when he nears the edge of the ring of light.

What is he thinking? Of course she isn't looking at him. He's just lost what was left of his sanity summoning her, that's all.

That's. All.

"We're going home. I-- I'm going home. Come. And don't you dare drop that light."

With spectral candlelight, the spirit materialises.

It has no will. She. SHE. SHE. SHE. SHE. SHE WAS-

The absence of anger, of feeling is noted as its feeble attempt dissolves into radio static, lost and numb. It moves, conjured with its lantern to illuminate the surrounds. It knows it does this, even if it does not see. Vague stimuli to give it a perception, of course, but only what is necessary. The darkness. Objects. It notes its summoner, moving before and beside him, crowning him with protective light.

It feels again. So, it tries to speak, ultimately useless when it has no mouth. However this time, perhaps from something it can percieve stirring in its core, it does face him. Looking. That's all. It wishes it could cry, only for a moment. It can't wish. It is bound to the summoner, but in this moment it has managed more than it had in its past. It seems, even if fleeting, aware.

Maxwell's lip remains curled in a snarl. There is... a point to be made, yes, that the Librarian's words were nothing more than an empty threat. At the same time, it's a matter of respect. And lack thereof.

"Oh, please. As I said before, I always hold up my end of a deal. Just because you'd resort to violence doesn't mean I'd do the same."

Is Maxwell really trying to claim the moral high ground after everything he's done?

"If it's such a non-issue, then just apologize and let us get on with things. Unless your pride is more important to you than your pursuit of knowledge, Mr. Librarian."

The Librarian chuckled, a deep noise.

"Between us...if I have assessed you correctly...an empty threat as it was, for I did admit that I did not have my blade on me...should be nothing more than a trifle, yes?"

"Or are you such a stickler for this polite, respectable folly that you won't admit that, if within your power, you'd attack and peel the knowledge from my bones?"

That makes Maxwell falter, and not for the reason the Librarian might assume.

He hasn't been called a human in ages.

Demon, certainly. Vampire, on occasion. But human?

... ..... .........

"Don't touch me." There's no real bite to his tone anymore. With a pained grunt, he pushes himself shakily to his feet, clutching at his wounds.

"...four." Which means he's probably experiencing more of a five to seven on the pain scale, because he certainly can't be trusted to give an honest account of how badly the Librarian has beaten him.

"You may assist me in finding a good place to sit and stop the bleeding." What a gracious offer.

"Ah...human skin really is so brittle...so easy to tear..."

He breathed heavily, not having expected to exert himself like that today. He sat up and slowly got himself standing despite his own wounds.

He was acting tough in the moment but the claw marks he'd received were nothing to brush off.

"Oh shush. No need for drama. I'll be doing neither. Death means nothing here and leaving you would leave me at a loss, all that arguing for naught.

How severely do your wounds hurt you? I shall either pull you to your feet or pick you up, depending. One through ten measurement should be sufficient."

His smile drops in an instant, irritation flashing across his features. No, no, no. That's not how this works. His playthings don't get to question him and add terms of agreement and try to trap him in something clean-cut and binding like he's a genuine demon.

"Well, that goes without saying, doesn't it?" And he hasn't said it. Technically, it's still not part of the deal. ...he'll certainly need the Librarian's information translated, though, as that little demonstration has shown. How frustrating.

"I don't appreciated being taken for a fool. If you insist on beleaguering me over every little point, perhaps you would care to learn my secrets from someone else. Now, do we have a deal or not?"

His gaze is stone cold, revealing nothing.

"Just a moment, if I may," He rumbled.

"For the sake of clarity, of course." The Librarian was playing too. He knew Maxwell's type; he was one of them. Though, his methods of getting his way perhaps differed. He rarely used honeyed words.

"For one another's portions of knowledge, are they expected to be transcribed in the common language of Radial Island, which we all have inexplicably learned without study?"

Then his mouth opened again and the sounds of chimes and gongs came out instead of words. Or what most would consider words.

create something in my workshop.

a necklace.

bit by bit, you’ve crafted a beautiful piece of jewelry, one that gleams in the sun and glitters in the low light, one that draws attention and admiration and glowing words. you step out into the world and the world turns to you. eyes are caught by the shimmer. hands reach out to touch. gasps fall from mouths at the very sight of you. you feel like the center of the world until you realize that what people are really looking at is the necklace. you haven’t made eye contact with another person in weeks. this thing that you’ve made is gorgeous. it should be a point of pride for you, a a glow of achievement over your chest. with it glimmering across your collarbones, nobody has even noticed that you’re there.

Maxwell grits his teeth against the kind, considerate mockery of his own habitual greeting to his former pawns. Eugh. He doesn't need pity! ...except that's exactly what he needs, and the very reason he waved this man over in the first place. Right. His pride can wait.

"Do you see any horses around here?" he snaps. It comes out sounding somewhat flat and breathless from exhaustion, and he gives a halfhearted apology immediately afterwards. He has got to learn to bite his tongue around people who can literally choose whether he lives or dies.

"I have no mount. What-- what can I offer you for the use of yours?" Max pauses, then admits, weakly: "I don't think I'll be able to make the journey on foot. I can barely... stand."

Balduran had decided to take a small break from his exploration of the Mistwood- the Castle of the Forest King had proven itself much more difficult to find- and he wasn't too keen on being stranded in the forests during the night. To remedy this, he'd simply pushed forward- right into the Land of Burnt Umber. He'd quickly become friendly with the locals- a perk of that natural charm of his- and they'd told him of the Bones of the Forgotten. As any good adventurer would, Balduran made sure to prepare for a long day in the desert heat. He was lucky enough to have found a few desert carrots. He was told the creature he rode was called Jewel of the Desert. Luckily it seemed to be just like riding a horse.

Balduran let his steed drink at a strange oasis when they both became wary from the heat. He found that he could not bottle any of it. At least, there was a place to come back to if he needed to rest.

When he set out again, it wasn't long before he spotted someone who looked about ready to pass out. A man in a suit- ❝ Hey- ❞

❝ You look like you've seen better days- There's an oasis not far from here- at least not if you're riding on horseback- ❞

“of course, take your time…”

Eugh. Maxwell doesn't bother to hide that he's rolling his eyes.

"Yes, memorized, go on." He's watching the other performer's hands, of course, and doesn't miss when the card goes up into his sleeve. Classic, predictable, boring. And here comes the "oh no, I'm totally, honestly, really messing up!" bit. A typical diversion with a bit of showmanship to sell it all.

"Get on with it." The card's in one of the man's pockets or in his other hand or somewhere equally--

Something slips from Max's shoulder and he catches it, staring at the three of clubs.

"This would be impressive, if you hadn't used real magic to do it."

The entire point of this exercise is to practice stage magic, not spells! Is he just trying to rub it in that Maxwell's own magic is on freeze right now?

The magician pouts like a petulant child and looks down his nose at Nikolai.

"All you've done is proven you need to rely on your extra abilities to perform the simplest of acts. I bet you couldn't entertain a theater full of children without resorting to these parlor tricks!"

A LAUGH spills out of him at the defensiveness. he understands, though ! the pain of seeing a trick go awry. even the most seasoned magicians slip up from time to time, right?

nikolai himself works very hard to keep his skills sharp ( a mistake in his line of work can cost him his very life, after all ) and so he takes the deck and shuffles it. he's smiling, delighted, he loves meeting someone who understands magic and showmanship !

"i am indeed perfect," he agrees, that easy smile on his face. "thank you for noticing."

with a flourish, he draws a card—the three of clubs, but he's not really looking—and holds it up. "memorize this one. now..."

he shuffles the deck again, sliding it into his sleeve and activating his ability, making the card appear out of thin air above maxwell's head, falling onto his shoulder. how long will it take the man to notice?

"drat, where did it go!" he asks, feigning ignorance and patting his pockets as if searching for it.

Maxwell knows exactly what that means; he's too ugly to show his face.

He turns up his nose at the other man, considering snapping back that his features are just fine, thank you very much, but--

He sighs.

"No, I don't object."

This... could be fun, maybe. His would-be employer is certainly polite enough to "mask" his truthful appraisal with that line about mystery, and Max has always been intrigued by intrigue itself...

"I trust you'll find something suitably dashing for me to conceal myself with. What exactly would I be expected to do once you have me all dolled up?"

Cecil's eyes scan the figure from head to toe, lingering longest on his face. It's not...beautiful in the conventional sense, but it carries its own sense of dignity.

❛ For you, more than adequate. ❜

❛ You have a good silhouette, so your strength lies in your figure. I feel that you would benefit from an air of mystery, however— ❜ Here it was, his compromise:

❛ Do you object to wearing masks? ❜

{ isola starter call ! || @corporatevalue ! }

This is unacceptable. Yes, maybe losing his puppets is the price he's expected to pay for protection from Them, but-- but-- the creators of this world could at least give him a replacement for his servants! Dropping him into the middle of an unfamiliar realm with nothing but the shirt on his back and a mockery of his Codex in his hand? It's unfair! It's criminal!

It's exactly what he deserves, but that doesn't mean he has to like it.

...or tolerate it.

"Enough of this beating around the bush. I've made it very clear what I'm looking for, and if that means aligning myself against whatever passes for law enforcement around here, then so be it." How much more direct can he be? He wants something powerful, magical or otherwise, and he couldn't give less of a damn how Ms. Jenson has sourced it.

"So I'll say this one more time; let's talk about your real big-ticket items."