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[ridofthethrone]

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For holiestlove

[ridofthethrone]

[Continued from here.]

[Logan's own car is black and sleek, everything a person would expect of someone rich and classy. He doesn't waste time in accelerating out into the road again. It would be reckless if it wasn't so smooth. Only once he's checked the mirrors to make sure there isn't anyone following them does he glance over at Jonathan.]

There are bags in the glove box in case you need them... Are you all right?

<3 thanks!

[holiestlove]

I shouldn't; it is already gone.

[ His polite way of saying his body has already rejected it. Though he looked ill, like a human might, despite being undead. ]

I will be alright; this is a mistake I have made more than once. And the hunters don't hurt humans, so everyone there will be safe now that I am gone.

No problem!

[ridofthethrone]

Your car might not be, if that's what they followed. [Speaking of which, he does another check of his mirrors again, just to be sure.]

Will it be safe to take you home?

[holiestlove]

I can send one of my models to collect it.

[ That photographer job did have its perks at times.]

I know a good mechanic who can search it for bugs. Though, it may be time I consider putting it up somewhere and getting a new car for the time being.

[ridofthethrone]

You don't have to get rid of it. Just keep it in a garage for the time being. And get it painted while it's off the road.

But what I meant was: Is it safe for me to take you home? Or do you need to lie low elsewhere for a while?

—the past is prologue.

[elsecall]

Life before death.

[ Eyes shut; breath steady. She stands with her spine against the wall, a grounded posture. Each word she whispers like a fervent little promise, hoping they might reach across the worlds and draw Ivory to her. Ivory, her spren. Ivory, her companion over the past six years — through whose bond she could access powers, skills, strength. All gone, here. Not even a lick of stormlight left in her veins to demonstrate the fundamental facts of where she's from and what she is. ]

Strength before weakness, [ Jasnah continues, soft. The nearest she's ever come to prayer. Reciting the First Ideal. With her eyes still shut, her head tilted back against the tapestry, she works her left hand into her glove. Even here, she keeps it covered. Only the left. The right, she leaves bare. ]

Journey before— [ A knock on the door. Her door, although she's loathe to think of anything here as hers. It's been a scant few days, and although she's reached an uneasy detente with her host, she remains alert. On edge. Steeling herself with a belly-deep breath, she opens the door. Although she's maintained her gloved safehand, she's since changed into a simple green dress of the local style.

She greets Logan: ] You came. Good.

[ As if she somehow doubted he'd make good when he gave his word that he'd seek her out today for a tour of the grounds. ]

[ridofthethrone]

[That reaction is met with a slight stare before he nods.]

Good morning.

[What else did she expect?

After her appearing here, after the Queen's court taking so much time to deliberate over her situation, of course he was here. His sister is far more welcoming than most, so of course she offered Jasnah support. That's what his sister does. Though he can hardly comment on her merciful nature after he's benefitted so much from it. He did, however, agree with her advisors that she's far too busy to be committing her attention fully to whatever Jasnah needs.

That's where he comes in. Assigned to provide Jasnah with help and protection while she figures out what to do, it keeps him out of trouble and somewhere everyone can keep an eye on him. He might not be overly keen on the restrictive task, but he is serious about doing his duty. In whatever form that takes.

So of course he would come.]

Is everything to your satisfaction?

[elsecall]

[ What else did she expect? Imprisonment, maybe. Back on Roshar, if she hadn't already been passingly accustomed to the notion of off-worlders, she would have at least interrogated a newcomer like her. But then again, perhaps this was the interrogation.

She steps back from the door — maintaining a steady, sensible distance. Not fearful, but not friendly. ]

How much of a difference would it make if I said it wasn't?

[ Jasnah asks, choosing not to address the tray of untouched food. The flagon of water, barely consumed. This caution can only last so long. Something, at some point, will have to to give in her stubbornness. ]

[ridofthethrone]

[She steps back and Logan remains exactly where he is. They're scheduled for a tour, so that's what he intends, unless she has something she would like to show him. Some uncomfortable bed or chair for him to resolve like some kind of innkeeper.]

We would try to amend things to your liking... [As he scans the room to see what has displeased her so, he spots the tray.] We have different kinds of food, if you would prefer.

[There have been foreign dignitaries who have commented on the rich, fatty quality of a lot of Albion's dishes. Perhaps that's what's causing her to be so displeased.]

For crashedout

[ridofthethrone]

[Continued from here.]

This is probably a bad idea. What good can come from getting involved with someone who has schematics of the whole city? ... Other than schematics of the whole city.

As an outsider, Logan only has a vague understanding of Sofia's reputation. Mostly in the form of warnings. Warnings he might have listened to a few years ago. These days he's not exactly squeaky clean himself.

Which is why he's at a particularly exclusive restaurant in a tailored suit, watching the people around him as he waits for Sofia to arrive.

[crashedout]

There are many things Sofia can be accused of. There are many things that Sofia is accused of. Sometimes, that intersects.

One of the points that it intersects is that Sofia is an incredible dresser.

Moreso now, than before she was committed to Arkham. Before she was a good dresser, but always trying to hit the right tones of respectability. Lots of wide swirling skirts and three piece tweed suits. But now, with the joy of getting to wear anything else but an orange jumpsuit -- well, now. If she was going to be tarred and feathered as a bad girl, she was going to dress how she liked, with none of her previous concerns.

She sweeps into the restaurant, trailing a coat of feathers. Shrugs her jacket off at the chair, sits down, grabs a bottle of wine and necks it.

"Good choice."

[ridofthethrone]

Logan had been ready to stand and pull out her seat, to play the chivalrous gentleman. He doesn't get the chance. Sofia is like a whirlwind. He barely gets the chance to stand before she's already seated and trying the wine... in a rather unorthodox fashion.

It's so bizarre that it's oddly fascinating. Logan watches with a tilted head as he slowly seats himself back down.

"The wine or the restaurant?"

[crashedout]

Forget the wine. Sofia is digging in, tearing the bread rolls apart, shoveling it down mercilessly. Once, she drank wine and used the correct fork, smiled and presented herself like a proper Falcone daughter should. No matter that the legacy of the Falcone family was death and dope, with a sideline in clubbing and girls. Carmine Falcone was insistent on manners and appearance, and Berto came up all the shorter compared to Sofia's poise. Cigarettes were smoked discreetly, out of shot.

But now, she's the Hangman. The terror, the killer of Gotham. No matter that she's not, she did the time, and no one's willing to listen to her anyways.

So, style counts. Rules don't. And there's a style in stuffing the breadbasket into her mouth with her hands, as her couture train swishes around the legs of the seat. In the hush of the restaurant.

Between bites: "Both, of course."

For viensapresmoi

[ridofthethrone]

(From here.)

[His food is already on the cool side after waiting for decent eating utensils, but Gustave's prompt gets him to eat a bit. He's still being picky, choice of venue aside.]

I prefer traditional too.

What do you dance? The waltz?

[viensapresmoi]

[Gustave resists the urge to settle his hand at Logan's shoulder to steady him. Logan seems to be getting on well Enough sitting there and eating.]

Sometimes. I do like having the excuse to dress nicely for one. We had a lot of folk dances in the square too. A way for people to meet others. I always liked wandering down to watch even when I didn't join in. They usually sell flowers around then in these cute little stalls.

[ridofthethrone]

[Logan stares at him for a moment.]

Did you prefer the dancing or the flowers?

[Because it kind of sounded like he went for the flowers.]

[viensapresmoi]

It depends on who was there. For a long time, I had a partner and I only had eyes for her. So I had no real urge to meet new people when I'd go to the folk dances. Then, when we separated, I usually only sat out when I'd spy her among those dancing so as not to make things awkward.

[Gustave offers a small shrug.]

I do enjoy the dancing though. In case you were concerned.

For unflappably

[ridofthethrone]

[Continued from here.]

You owe me a full explanation when we meet. I expect it's better told in person and over a drink.

[It's really not that difficult for a prince to arrange for a demonstration of medieval weaponry. While he has to make a few requests to ensure he gets the specific weapons of interest, it's not an issue. It's also why they're spending the afternoon at a private historical house. One with a plethora of weaponry on hand, and skilled swordsmen on hand.

Since it's such a lovely day, everything has been arranged outdoors. Weapons in racks at the side, armour laid out on tables, and of course a nice set of chairs and table under a parasol. The height of luxury for a weapons demonstration, truly.

Admittedly, Logan is curious himself, and so when Phryne is brought out to meet him, he's having a closer look at the swords on offer. This is possibly the most curious afternoon someone's ever suggested. He's already intrigued.]

[unflappably]

( Few things instill the same sort of simple joy as the roar of an engine and sunshine-laden wind in one's face, so despite the concern behind her recent inquiries Miss Phryne Fisher arrives with a wide grin and amiable disposition. She bears no passengers today; merely an assortment of baskets, boxes, and containers which either clink promisingly or waft deliciously, depending on their contents, and which she happily surrenders to the staff as they deftly move in to take charge.

She herself carries merely a clutch, though slightly larger than her standard, and a sharply fashionable hat she's still unfastening from its ribbon-held security atop her head as she's led into the Prince's company, shaking out her hair with a pleased breath. ) Your Highness, ( Phryne beams with an exact curtsey, hat akimbo in her offhand, before striding forward to greet him more personably. ) It's good to see you. Thank you for all this; I do hope you haven't gone to too much trouble on my behalf.

[ridofthethrone]

[It's hard not to be affected by such contagious enthusiasm. Logan dips his head in a small bow a slight smile already on his lips.] Miss Fisher.

[The politeness makes him smile more, both because it's well done and completely inaccurate.]

There's no trouble in setting up something so interesting. Most people want me to attend charity functions or dinners. This is rather refreshing.

[Which is par for the course for Phryne. It helps that she's so pleasant with him. Not everyone is, after all. But Logan appreciates that she tends to buck the norm, while also knowing her manners.]

[unflappably]

Much as I adore a good party, a break from routine never goes astray, ( Phryne agrees, amusedly sympathetic. Her own eccentricities mean she gets away with - and from - a lot more than a prince can probably manage.

She turns to regard the weaponry her arrival had distracted from, geniality slipping towards thoughtful consideration, propelling her in measured steps forward. Phryne halts with a hand outstretched, quirking an eyebrow over her shoulder at her host. ) Am I allowed to touch, or does that require a license or waiver of some sort?

For surgicalcynicism

[ridofthethrone]

[Continued from here.]

And three children survived because you did your job well.

[It doesn't have to mean Chishiya's a good person or a bad person. Logan just wants him to remember that he did a good job. That he should be glad of the results. There are no grieving parents or families planning funerals because he was in the hospital, able to provide a skill so few people in the world have. That is a good thing.

Logan wants Chishiya to think of good things.

He sips his wine while Chishiya theorises, sending a rich, fruity aroma across the two of them as he does. Holding the glass on his knee, Logan sighs.]

Instead you're getting drunk with me.

[He considers this quietly before offering,] I could put on some obnoxiously loud music, if you like.

[surgicalcynicism]

[Logan smells familiar now.

It must have snuck up on him in the days and weeks prior. The scent of his soap and shampoo. Some sort of perfume underneath and just the clean scent of his skin.

Something sweet that might be ink from a ballpoint pen and the dry notes of paper clinging to Logan's fingertips.

Chishiya sighs, closing his eyes.]

I don't go for the music.

[He likes the music, how it overwhelms his thoughts and drags his pulse along. How thoughts are harder to catch in the pulsating darkness of a club, with heat and bodies pushing in.

Even time stops having any real meaning there. It's chaos against his sweaty skin and racing heart.]

You hate that kind of music, but thanks.

[Chishiya's hand clench around the wad of fabric in his fingers, pulling on Logan's shirt.]

I wanted to come here more than I wanted the loud music and the sparkling drinks.

[Wanted familiarity and Logan.]

[ridofthethrone]

[The hand that had been holding onto Chishiya's sleeve opens, relaxing again so that a warm palm settles against Chishiya's arm.

He's not sure what to think, what to feel. He's glad Chishiya wants to be with him more than a club. Really glad. It means he doesn't have to worry about strangers rubbing up against Chishiya or enticing him somewhere after he's had too many drinks. Which means he doesn't have to accompany Chishiya and endure the sea of darkness, punctuated by islands of light.

Selfishly, he's glad Chishiya is with him. He always wants Chishiya to be with him.

Except he doesn't know what to do. Doesn't know how to help. Doesn't know what Chishiya wants from him. Nobody every trained him on how to react or what to say in a situation like this. All he can do is guess.]

I'm glad you're here. I like you being here.

[It's true, but said to give Logan time to think as much as anything. To work out what to say, what to ask.]

Would you prefer to talk, or would you prefer to be distracted?

[surgicalcynicism]

[Chishiya hums, head tipped back and his whole upper body resting against Logan.

The hand on his arm is warm.

He exhales through his nose and opens his eyes.]

I'm going to get drunk enough to turn my mind off for a few hours and possibly make an ass of myself during it.

[Not by oversharing, but by being himself.

Quiet and observing, one hand on his knee and the other holding on to Logan's shirt.

Chishiya thinks he came for the distraction. For the sound of someone else breathing in the quiet of a room. For the warmth of Logan's skin and the way the scent of him fills Chishiya with something close to being content.

Or less empty.]

What do you want to do?