eachdraidh | video. locked to unseelie.

An act of kindness?

[The Brucolac has clearly just received bad news. He looks positively poisonous, wide streaks of silver whorling over his skin. His jaw is stiff with it, even his hair frosted over with strange metal. His right eye burns gold still.]

I am sick to shit of this half-cocked magic. [He shudders—would gesture, but he doesn't want to show off how badly his left arm is faring under the encroaching silver. It hurts to raise it to shoulderheight; above is impossible.] An act of kindness is no godsdamn cure, to be bottled and applied at will!

What is an act of kindness? Is it kind to tax a people, that a city may grow? Is it kind to lie in order to protect the honest? Is it kind to enforce a system of law and punishment?

By the gods, [he drops back, shaking his head, looking weary,] there is no hope for us.

Before anyone tells me to just do something nice, [pitching his voice mockingly higher] I've given my scribe a longer lunch break. [It is midnight.]

And apart from a marked decrease in efficency, fuck all has happened.

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So you're doomed, and your city will crumble by your own hand. It's rather poetic.

[That is the flattest tone imaginable. Hard to tell right now just how serious he's being.]

Perhaps you shouldn't write poetry.

[Just as flat.]

Oh, I'll leave that to the professionals. I'm sure there are still a few of Ganondorf's bards lingering around that would be up to the task.

[It'd be a beautiful poem, with foul-language in every line.]

The Tragedy of the Brucolac, or No Good Deed Goes Unpunished, For Fuck's Sake.

[In fairness, most people with this much of a martyr complex haven't actually been crucified. The fallout had to happen.]

[Amazing. Have the driest clapping possible. It's impressive that he maintains a completely straight face, but. Well. Not like he's been in the mood to smile about anything recently.]

Lovely. Perhaps you can just pen it yourself before you entirely lose the use of your hands.

[A little sharply:]

My hands are fine.

[He pauses, and gives an uncomfortable twitch of the lips. Relenting.] I, ah, do detest being ill. Hasn't happened in centuries.

What about you? Have you silvered over?

[What faint hint of humor there had been in his voice vanishes, and his reply is almost as sharp.]

Somewhat.

[With his long sleeves and several layers, there isn't much skin showing to tell by. He's just been lucky enough that it hasn't spread to his head or hands yet.]

It's fine. I'm working on it.

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