#anyway i'm sticking my leggy out for u ... are u not entertained ...

[echospast]

@banalras as aridhel islanil : here's to drinks in the dark at the end of my rope . [ feat. simeon sommerfeld ]

" SPECIFICALLY IN THE DARK, HM? THAT TIRED OF SEEING ANYONE? " the mage bites back the immediate impulse to add me too at the end of his sentence, a response very unlike himself, or at least the himself that he offers to the world, and one that he knows might surprise his companion these days, if he thought aridhel had paid his tendencies much mind when they'd known each other back in val royeaux. he doesn't think so ; in fact, he suspects he'd proved little more than a petty annoyance back then, all smoke and mirrors and, by all appearances, shallow as a puddle, consumed by a superficial conception of ideals far beyond the realm of his sheltered understanding. what a fool he'd appeared then. he wonders if that's changed even a little.

the simeon of the veil jumpers and the boy who'd played at being some sort of hero in the city are two very different people, in many ways – and yet, in moments like these, the separation feels thin as a sheet of chiffon, as though he's never grown at all, as though he isn't capable of it. if he had, perhaps he would not so continue to yearn for his old childhood naivety for the sense of belonging he'd had for a culture that was not truly his own – one that, it turned out, had never really existed outside of his mother's own need to make sense of her past, to protect her children and her memories. each letter he writes her, he yearns to ask, mother, have I made you proud? but the more time passes, the more his courage siphons, until the very thought makes him queasy with an odd guilt he doesn't fully understand. how strange, he thinks, that now that he does belong, in a technical sense, as a mage amongst veil jumpers, he has never felt more disconnected from everything, from everyone, more isolated in a dimension all his own, as though the rest of the world merely observes him through panes of glass like some kept creature. some part of him wishes he could express it aloud, wonders if aridhel would understand it at all, especially here in the music room, where everything somehow seems a little more possible.

but as he regards the elf carefully out of the corner of his eye, the words don't come, even to one so loquacious as he. always he has them for moments of jest, for things that simply do not matter, but the moment his thoughts grow real, the well dries up as though the emotion itself casts a drought. aridhel looks different now than they once did, the weight of the years settled upon his bones like a mantle that suits them well, despite the ache of it. simeon, well ... the addition of a mage's leathers and his flamebranch cannot conceal his same youthful face barely changed, his same bright demeanor, lighter than air, static and unchanging, the boy who simply couldn't grow up no matter how many years pass. no matter how he tries. the more knowledge he seeks, the more a foolish pretender he feels. a decade later, he realizes he's never been anything more than a stage player, a compulsive liar, weaving a grand performance for anyone who ever crosses his path – a performance which has never seemed to charm aridhel like the rest.

maybe that's why he only feels compelled to tell the truth here. maybe that's why he can't. maybe that's why this feels a little like refuge, even as he feels so strangely exposed that he itches beneath his skin.

the edge of the pianoforte digs into his spine as he leans back against it, running one hand through his hair as he directs his gaze on the bottle in his other, half full of a pale herbal liquor he favors. even from here, the tempting aroma of juniper berries tickles his nose and he sighs quietly to himself. not much use in denying he's always liked the drink a little too much – but that's a challenge for another day, when he doesn't feel as though his chest is likely to implode if he sits in this quiet for another moment without a sip. smoothly, he reaches behind him around the instrument to where he's tucked a couple of glass tumblers, and almost without looking, pours them each three fingers of the stuff.

" a toast, then. to the end of your rope, rook. although if it's all the same to you, I'd rather keep the lamp lit for now. I don't plan on leaving here sober and I'd rather not try to stumble back to my room in the bloody pitch. " despite his dry tone, a smirk pulls at the corners of his mouth, as though he were far more amused with himself than he feels in reality. he wonders, most days, if he regrets leaving the veil jumpers for this. he wonders, too, if aridhel regrets recruiting him. " see? I'm getting used to it, this ... new name of yours. even though you still haven't really explained it. "