vii. unseelie locked. voice.

[vrykolakas]

I need extra hands for seasonal work, mages in particular; mages who can work with heat and fire, all the better. Or weather, shit. This cold is slowing down work at my spire; the Ninth, up on the coast, devilish cold even without the Roc's influence. We lost a young man to it yesterday. I need ice melted, walkways made safe, snow shovelled, water heated, just more people.

Coppers for ordinary workers, silvers for mages, as well as all my very tenderest and heartfelt sentiments of good will. Do something drastic and lasting and we'll discuss gold.

[LOG POST.]

Comments

action. ikr, i'm enjoying this a great deal c:

[vrykolakas]

'Eat you! Little witch, this one's in much greater danger of—'

Shut up, Accalon, [the Brucolac says, easy and calm,] you cock-gobbling nag. He won't eat you. [He reaches into his pocket and pulls out something he delicately unwraps...ah, it's a mint humbug. When he tosses it into the air, Accalon whinnies with pleasure and whips his head around to catch it, crunching it between sharp yellow teeth.

The Brucolac leans over and extends a hand.] Come on up. Sit before me, its safest. We'll ride to the nearest fairy ring and go from there. Ten minutes at most.

My name's the Brucolac, by the way.