[ The girl who returns to the House at sundown has an armful of vibrant flowers. She is dressed functionally, but feminine. Her dark dress made of strong canvas, her boots sturdy and tall and caked with mud. She is not surprised that the visitor is there, she knows who comes and goes from the Hill as well as Haran does.
However... she is perhaps surprised to find him in her kitchen.
She hesitates in the doorway for a moment before she carries on with her business, laying down her bundle of weeds on the square wooden table where once daughters and granddaughters had helped to prepare dinners and potions. ]
[ The most troubling part of the stranger's presence in the kitchen, possibly, is the thoughtful repose in which he seems to have been caught. Standing, so conscious that he does not belong there, but with one hand resting at the edge of the table like one might on a horse or dog: measuring, analytical. As if one could take the pulse of the House, or perhaps it's the kitchen specifically that caught his interest.
As she enters, he turns smoothly and unhurriedly to face her, the hand slipping from the table just as she deposits her flowers, quite without any obvious intention to do so. Guileless in the face like a child, though he is tall enough to make that effect disconcerting at times. ]
Good evening, mistress.
[ The honorific is a bit antiquated to him as he grew up much more working class than his affectations with Haran would have suggested, but it seems like the right word. Haran is the master of the house, yet Brandon would guess he does not do much living in it. Not in the way he guesses, looking at this kitchen, that she does. And no shirking is possible; he must begin finding out how good at guessing he's been, from now until he's ejected from the premises, bodily or fatally. ]
[ The kitchen is the heart of this House. When entering in the front door, there is only a small landing and two sets of stairs. One leading down into the depths of the cavernous basement where the monsters still cry in the dark, and the other upwards, the first doorway leading into the galley. It has some oddly modern conveniences for a witch's scullery: a small white refrigerator, a gas oven and stove top, dingy white laminate countertops, and even dingier ceramic tiles on the floor.
When the House had been full, so had the fridge, brimming with cuts of meat and pickled organs and drying herbs. It is mainly abandoned now, there is no family to feed and no more meat besides. Haran and the hyenas have picked clean the clan of hill folk who had bred for and fed the witches and their beasts for generations upon generations.
With her home in such a sorry state... the 'mistress' hits Qetzi'ah oddly, like some kind of needling little insult and her mind reels for a moment with odd thoughts: a witch's cruelty, a faerie's mercurialness. She blinks slowly and pushes both away. ]
Qetzi'ah will do. [ She states that cooly. ] And you are?
[ In all that's missing, there's a lot to consider, perhaps even more than there would be if the kitchen were full. The particular weight of emptiness, not unlike the house where Brandon almost died, and first met the necromancers.
He never felt any life at all, let alone malice, from that house; he still retains the property as a work space with no sentiment apart from vague nostalgia. Quite unlike here. Brandon gazes at Qetzi'ah unflinchingly, keeping his eyes and mind open, a passive alertness in case he can catch any of her surface thoughts or emotions. He would not be surprised if he couldn't.
Instantly and agreeably: ] Of course, Qetzi'ah. I'm Brandon, a guest of Master Morrison.
[ Her shuttered reaction to the earlier honorific and the subsequent correction makes him sure that Haran's won't go down any better, but he is an excessively humble guest, after all. ]
It's a pleasure to meet you.
[ This insipid little saying, empty of meaning, nonetheless comes out with gentle sincerity, as if anybody could really be pleased to find themselves on these lands and in this House. Yet Brandon is, if not without reservation. ]
[ Her trinkets push back at his inquisitiveness. The faerie rings she wears cloud her like a subtle perfume, when activated with her breath they create a state quite like his own skill of imperceptibility. More obvious, however, is the mourning brooch pinned at her breast: a braid of a dead sister's hair. The protection of a beloved is nothing to be scoffed at. ]
Brandon.
[ She repeats his name with a careful gravity, as if tasting it for its truthfulness. She returns his curious gaze with her dark brown eyes, the appropriate color for a witch of the Hill. Those members of the family with blue eyes have always been so troublesome, and Haran is assuredly the worst by far.
Calling him 'master' is almost more offensive than before. The Hill has never been ruled by a man, and while Haran sits upon the crown of it, he is hardly its master. He was a parasite which had eaten its way through the flesh of its servants, nothing more. He too shall pass, and the Hill will remain... although who will sit upon it in the end is a question yet unanswered. ]
[ Nothing in his expression changes at all, his conscientious receptiveness its own mask, even when it's not covering anything significant. He lowers his eyes finally at her second comment, a small smile briefly there like that was a compliment. ]
I bribed him with gifts and have promised him more.
[ An honest and perfectly safe description of their arrangement, but the posture of honesty is just as important as it is for its own sake, he thinks. ]
Please, Qetzi'ah —
[ The schoolboyisness is less honest, though not wholly a lie. Like calling Haran "master," however, it is something to which he's already committed. ]
— might I offer you a gift as well, in a week's time? And to the rest of the family?
[ Whoever remains. Haran did not say, and Brandon is keen to find out. ]
[ The rest of the family watches from nowhere; vaguely feminine features in the reflection of dirty windows and mirrors, dark eyes in the knotted wooden boards of ceiling, floors, and walls, dark tendrils of hair in dark corners caught in dusty spider webs. They watch. They whisper, they titter, they scream and growl. ]
[ When he takes his eyes off of her, she too relaxes, and moves instead to begin separating out her flowers into piles. Her own gifts to the rest of the family. She pauses when he says that, glancing up at him with an amused expression. ]
There is no one else, Brandon.
[ A lie, on all accounts. Even if she does not include the ghosts, Tavor is still lurking somewhere in the basements. ]
Edited (piles into flowers????????) 2015-12-29 01:52 (UTC)
[ Brandon is not a great magus. He would be the first to admit as much. He is young and too unfocused, pulled in so many directions by people who take advantage of his work ethic, and by his real masters, whose agenda spans centuries.
Yet even at his most raw and lackadaisical, he would feel them, feel the House, as he does now though he strapped on as many blinders as he could before so much as stepping foot over the property line. All the death: not only the stagnant fermentation of bodies upon bodies, cruelty layered upon madness for years and years, not only the vagrant passing of spirits and echoing mutters of ghosts, but vivid darkness, resentful death. Still kicking, as it were.
But he considerately neglected to mention he was a necromancer, and if they don't pick it up off of him, Brandon supposes it may be for the best. It's better to play slightly wide-eyed scholar, with only a firm grasp of diplomacy to indicate he's not a complete naif. ]
Master Morrison mentioned more than one cousin. [ In keeping with that, he still uses "master" with innocence. It would be delightful if she directed him to stop, but he doesn't think she will. ] I would hate to be so rude as to leave someone out.
[ She purses her lips, looking ever so slightly peevish. ]
He means Tavor. He is somewhere below, if you wish to meet him... [ And then she smiles with utmost girlish innocence. ] You should have Haran accompany you.
[ If there was anyone who disrespected Haran's reign more than herself, it was Tavor. He never said quite so much as to fully incur Haran's wrath, but he did refuse to take any part in his little game as king of the mountain. Qetzi finds it enviable in a way, if only she too could simply accept the call of the faeries in the pretty clearing and never come back here again... ]
[ This part of the game, such as it is, makes Brandon feel almost at home. It's a nice smile that doesn't mean nice things, and he recognizes it without any outward acknowledgment. He only smiles back, as if this conversation were happening somewhere else about other things entirely, perhaps in another time as well. A crisply produced costume drama in which people converse civilly and nothing ever seems to happen until, all of a sudden, everything falls apart. ]
Thank you. I'll make sure to do that. In the meantime... [ He lets some conversational warmth creep into his voice, intruding upon his careful politeness, his hand absently brushing up against the table edge once more. [ Could I do anything for you? Fetch anything?
[ Her eyebrows go up. How did one look around this dusty blood-stained House and think there was anything of use to be done? It was a fool's errand when outnumbered by the wretched hyenas. It's almost amusing, and she wonders if he is really that pleasant. Somehow she is forced to doubt it. No one that pleasant would ever come to this place. No one that pleasant would truly be able to win over Haran, no matter the bribes. He was a witch born demon, only ugliness could truly please him, anything beautiful he would sully. She supposes that answers her question then. ]
[ The oppressive process of ruination is one thing, but however bad things are, Brandon's conclusions from his observation of the kitchen before Qetzi'ah returned still hold. It's all a mess, yet she must be the one putting flowers here and there; there must be something for her to eat, or a room she calls her own, even if it's just this one. So there might be something, and besides, the more information he has, the more effort he can put into her gift. ]
Well, I can only entertain Master Morrison for so long. [ The fine thread of irony in that statement can be passed over as self-deprecation, in the interest of plausible deniability. ] And if I could be of any use... please. Feel free to order me about.
[ The easy phrasing of that, the smile that goes with it, it all falls somewhere between childlike and gentlemanly. ]
[ She... just can't stand that. The more eagerly and the more amiably he calls Haran a master the more it worms its way under her skin. She slaps a palm down, leaning closer to him. She herself was an amiable girl, it had always made her a good choice for leading strangers up to the House to meet their deaths. She'd smile at them with her basket full of flowers and promise to introduce them to her sisters, over dinner. But that was when her sisters yet lived, when her mother and grandmother were still here, when she was still able to see her father and her brothers. She can still smile like a pretty girl, but there is sharpness to her now.
[ As prompt as a student at lesson, and with no sign of distress: ]
What shall I call him, Qetzi'ah?
[ From his apparent composure, not even a twitch of the eyelid when her open hand hit the table, she might be able to deduce he was waiting for something like this. Yet there is also no sense of mockery, at least, not overtly. His gaze is alert, almost avid, as if he really might comically leap to pointless, futile work should she snap her fingers.
Regardless of what she tells him, he'll still call Haran "master" when addressing him. But that much should be expected. ]
[ Her eyes narrow. It is such a temptation to snatch his words from his throat, stop him from using her name with such disgusting sincerity. It was a faerie trick, to twist tongues, to coax them in the same way in which she coaxed the brambling vines of her flowers to grow in new shapes. ]
[ The measured blink of his eyes and the uniformity of his breathing is all too deliberate, maintained until she's finished speaking. Perhaps anyone would hear that swell of whispers from beneath (the words indistinct since he's trying his best to block them out but the tone unmistakable), and there's no need to pretend otherwise. He won't risk it. ]
Of course.
[ Perfectly empty and agreeable, as if it's a matter of no importance, all while he remains so unrelentingly watchful. ]
And is there anything at all I can get for you? I ask because I only have two messengers, and one is already out.
[ Qetzi 'hears' them loud and clear, but then she always does. Every creak and shudder of the House is their rage, she hears it but she does not always listen. Certainly not this early in the evening, closer to the witching hour she might speak with her sisters in private, whispering promises and curses, not sure which will bring this House better fortune.
She sighs, whether at him or them, unclear, but when she does speak it is addressed to the living, ]
[ He nods agreeably, not revealing he's already done so. There is nothing that comes from this land he would willingly eat, save, maybe, for an offer of bread and salt. And even then, it probably wouldn't be worth it.
Or, worse luck, if Haran insists... well, that's just a whole other category of unpleasantries. He'll cross that bridge when he comes to it. ]
And if I called a deer? Would the hyenas take it first?
[ Not a hunting type at all, what with actually calling the deer. All he does is smile faintly for the hint of derision. What else have all twenty years of his life been but being trained to withstand others thinking poorly, or not at all, of him. ]
I won't neglect their gifts, either. How many are there?
[ She considers it, imagines the stupid animals fighting over the gifts, ripping each other apart out of greed. If she could just distract Haran long enough to keep him from interfering in their fight.... ]
Twelve, but you don't need to appease all of them. Just Dinah.
[ She imagines Hekate's resentfulness to be ignored. ]
[ This sounds like useful information and Brandon lets his interest, bird-like in its non-threatening alertness, show. Inwardly, he has to reserve some judgment since she's obviously far from enamored of him; it could be misleading, purposefully or otherwise, or perhaps it serves some private interest of hers. ]
Oh? She leads them?
[ Brandon is definitely picturing literal hyenas, albeit ones that have grown more intelligent, fierce, and bloodthirsty through association with their masters and this place. ]
[ That is certainly a question, and Qetzi'ah chooses to shrug in response. ]
They have their own rules. They always have, they are not like us.
[ She keeps the disdain from her voice, her tone light and pretty, but really how much more clear could it be that the hyenas are creatures of low consequence. They exist to eat and fuck and kill. Dogs on the vast and treacherous grounds of an empty, crooked mansion. ]
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
" YOU WILL LIKE MY COUSIN. "
However... she is perhaps surprised to find him in her kitchen.
She hesitates in the doorway for a moment before she carries on with her business, laying down her bundle of weeds on the square wooden table where once daughters and granddaughters had helped to prepare dinners and potions. ]
Good evening.
[ Polite, but softly chill. ]
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As she enters, he turns smoothly and unhurriedly to face her, the hand slipping from the table just as she deposits her flowers, quite without any obvious intention to do so. Guileless in the face like a child, though he is tall enough to make that effect disconcerting at times. ]
Good evening, mistress.
[ The honorific is a bit antiquated to him as he grew up much more working class than his affectations with Haran would have suggested, but it seems like the right word. Haran is the master of the house, yet Brandon would guess he does not do much living in it. Not in the way he guesses, looking at this kitchen, that she does. And no shirking is possible; he must begin finding out how good at guessing he's been, from now until he's ejected from the premises, bodily or fatally. ]
May I introduce myself, if I won't be in the way?
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When the House had been full, so had the fridge, brimming with cuts of meat and pickled organs and drying herbs. It is mainly abandoned now, there is no family to feed and no more meat besides. Haran and the hyenas have picked clean the clan of hill folk who had bred for and fed the witches and their beasts for generations upon generations.
With her home in such a sorry state... the 'mistress' hits Qetzi'ah oddly, like some kind of needling little insult and her mind reels for a moment with odd thoughts: a witch's cruelty, a faerie's mercurialness. She blinks slowly and pushes both away. ]
Qetzi'ah will do. [ She states that cooly. ] And you are?
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He never felt any life at all, let alone malice, from that house; he still retains the property as a work space with no sentiment apart from vague nostalgia. Quite unlike here. Brandon gazes at Qetzi'ah unflinchingly, keeping his eyes and mind open, a passive alertness in case he can catch any of her surface thoughts or emotions. He would not be surprised if he couldn't.
Instantly and agreeably: ] Of course, Qetzi'ah. I'm Brandon, a guest of Master Morrison.
[ Her shuttered reaction to the earlier honorific and the subsequent correction makes him sure that Haran's won't go down any better, but he is an excessively humble guest, after all. ]
It's a pleasure to meet you.
[ This insipid little saying, empty of meaning, nonetheless comes out with gentle sincerity, as if anybody could really be pleased to find themselves on these lands and in this House. Yet Brandon is, if not without reservation. ]
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Brandon.
[ She repeats his name with a careful gravity, as if tasting it for its truthfulness. She returns his curious gaze with her dark brown eyes, the appropriate color for a witch of the Hill. Those members of the family with blue eyes have always been so troublesome, and Haran is assuredly the worst by far.
Calling him 'master' is almost more offensive than before. The Hill has never been ruled by a man, and while Haran sits upon the crown of it, he is hardly its master. He was a parasite which had eaten its way through the flesh of its servants, nothing more. He too shall pass, and the Hill will remain... although who will sit upon it in the end is a question yet unanswered. ]
I'm surprised he didn't have the hyenas eat you.
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I bribed him with gifts and have promised him more.
[ An honest and perfectly safe description of their arrangement, but the posture of honesty is just as important as it is for its own sake, he thinks. ]
Please, Qetzi'ah —
[ The schoolboyisness is less honest, though not wholly a lie. Like calling Haran "master," however, it is something to which he's already committed. ]
— might I offer you a gift as well, in a week's time? And to the rest of the family?
[ Whoever remains. Haran did not say, and Brandon is keen to find out. ]
( 1/2 )
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There is no one else, Brandon.
[ A lie, on all accounts. Even if she does not include the ghosts, Tavor is still lurking somewhere in the basements. ]
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Yet even at his most raw and lackadaisical, he would feel them, feel the House, as he does now though he strapped on as many blinders as he could before so much as stepping foot over the property line. All the death: not only the stagnant fermentation of bodies upon bodies, cruelty layered upon madness for years and years, not only the vagrant passing of spirits and echoing mutters of ghosts, but vivid darkness, resentful death. Still kicking, as it were.
But he considerately neglected to mention he was a necromancer, and if they don't pick it up off of him, Brandon supposes it may be for the best. It's better to play slightly wide-eyed scholar, with only a firm grasp of diplomacy to indicate he's not a complete naif. ]
Master Morrison mentioned more than one cousin. [ In keeping with that, he still uses "master" with innocence. It would be delightful if she directed him to stop, but he doesn't think she will. ] I would hate to be so rude as to leave someone out.
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He means Tavor. He is somewhere below, if you wish to meet him... [ And then she smiles with utmost girlish innocence. ] You should have Haran accompany you.
[ If there was anyone who disrespected Haran's reign more than herself, it was Tavor. He never said quite so much as to fully incur Haran's wrath, but he did refuse to take any part in his little game as king of the mountain. Qetzi finds it enviable in a way, if only she too could simply accept the call of the faeries in the pretty clearing and never come back here again... ]
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Thank you. I'll make sure to do that. In the meantime... [ He lets some conversational warmth creep into his voice, intruding upon his careful politeness, his hand absently brushing up against the table edge once more. [ Could I do anything for you? Fetch anything?
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You'd like me to put you to work?
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Well, I can only entertain Master Morrison for so long. [ The fine thread of irony in that statement can be passed over as self-deprecation, in the interest of plausible deniability. ] And if I could be of any use... please. Feel free to order me about.
[ The easy phrasing of that, the smile that goes with it, it all falls somewhere between childlike and gentlemanly. ]
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Her voice lowers, ]
Men are not masters in this house.
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What shall I call him, Qetzi'ah?
[ From his apparent composure, not even a twitch of the eyelid when her open hand hit the table, she might be able to deduce he was waiting for something like this. Yet there is also no sense of mockery, at least, not overtly. His gaze is alert, almost avid, as if he really might comically leap to pointless, futile work should she snap her fingers.
Regardless of what she tells him, he'll still call Haran "master" when addressing him. But that much should be expected. ]
( 1/2 )
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He has a name, insolent as it is.
[ Haran, the mountaineer. ]
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Of course.
[ Perfectly empty and agreeable, as if it's a matter of no importance, all while he remains so unrelentingly watchful. ]
And is there anything at all I can get for you? I ask because I only have two messengers, and one is already out.
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She sighs, whether at him or them, unclear, but when she does speak it is addressed to the living, ]
Send for food, there's nothing for you here.
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Or, worse luck, if Haran insists... well, that's just a whole other category of unpleasantries. He'll cross that bridge when he comes to it. ]
And if I called a deer? Would the hyenas take it first?
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Of course they would. You would have better luck going out hunting yourself.
[ There's a hum of dispersion to her tone, she doesn't think he's much of the hunting type. ]
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I won't neglect their gifts, either. How many are there?
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Twelve, but you don't need to appease all of them. Just Dinah.
[ She imagines Hekate's resentfulness to be ignored. ]
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Oh? She leads them?
[ Brandon is definitely picturing literal hyenas, albeit ones that have grown more intelligent, fierce, and bloodthirsty through association with their masters and this place. ]
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They have their own rules. They always have, they are not like us.
[ She keeps the disdain from her voice, her tone light and pretty, but really how much more clear could it be that the hyenas are creatures of low consequence. They exist to eat and fuck and kill. Dogs on the vast and treacherous grounds of an empty, crooked mansion. ]
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