video. locked to unseelie.

[vrykolakas]

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.

Comments

-> private

[vrykolakas]

[He presses something on the locket and it clicks to private. There's a faint frown on his face, but he doesn't look unhappy or irritated. Thoughtful, if anything, and a little surprised.]

No, don't part with it.

Come and see me, after I crack this thrice-dammed silver casing.

Ah, I should have phrased that as an invitation, not...fuck it.

-> private

[selfimage]

[ Loki purses his lips and offers him a quirk of his head as he tries to ... examine that one.

give him a moment. ]

...

Kinda invitation accepted. Erm, yet allow me to clarify ...

... Do you mean come to see you, or come to ... see see you? [ there's a wiggle of his fingers. ]

[vrykolakas]

[A slight squint.]

Do you mean...talk or fuck?

You're a god and I'm 400 sodding years old. I back us to do both should the inclination strike us.

[selfimage]

Great, a little of option A and option B left open.

[ he can't help but look a tad bit amused. ]

You have prime timing for someone of four-hundred years of age.

[vrykolakas]

[He grins at that, entertained, and leans back in his chair.]

What the hell do you mean by that?

[selfimage]

[ there's a gesture of his hand and a Very Serious tone. ]

I mean there's a lot less comical wobble to your knees than I would have anticipated.

You're an awful old person. Maybe two-hundred—max.

[vrykolakas]

Mouthy bastard.

Four hundred is positively sprightly by my count. My knees only give out in very specific situations.

[selfimage]

Oh—yes. "Specific situations." With a mind as rich as mine, it's far too dangerous to leave such details to the imagination.

I'll create a lengthy list of possible causes and send it to you via imp to relay in song.

"The reasons my knees go out, by a four-hundred-year-old ... fellow." [ and a pause. ] So the last bit needs work.

[vrykolakas]

"Lout."

[He rubs idly at his wrist, hidden beneath the desk. And doesn't realise that the silver's coming off a little, easing off with his mood. (His cure, though he doesn't yet know it, is to stop grumbling.)]

Sounds a fine shanty. I expect it on my desk at dusk tomorrow.

[selfimage]

Lout.

[ he parrots a little flatly, brow raised, amused.

is this a challenge? it's totally a challenge. he'll do it. ]

Very well, if that's how you'd like to be immortalized. Just make sure your hair doesn't match your age or your enemies will truly have something to tremble about when they scamper onto your lawn.

[vrykolakas]

It rhymes, doesn't it? You are the one supposed to be good at this.

[Definitely a challenge. He's grinning, the smile reaching his eyes, though it's slightly distorted by the silver marbling his complexion and the stiffness of his metal-coated jaw.]

My hair is too easy a target, godling. You're letting yourself down. Aspire to greater things.

[selfimage]

And what greater thing could I aspire to be than a disappointment? [ it doesn't sound as nearly self-depreciating as it is when he says it so casually. ]

Then life is full of pleasant surprises. Ones in verse, apparently.

Perhaps your mind isn't suffering nearly as much from senility as much as your knees are. [ it's not as much of a barb as it is a poke. there's a hum in his throat that accompanies it, one of clever satisfaction. ]