What Dreams May Come [Aurin]

[Rune]

"Eshar," The expression on the face only changed a little but the tone of the voice dropped low, and angry, and hungry, "Eshar got us into this mess, they can't give you anything."

Scrambling up, trying to put back together the eager boy whose only interest was a tryst, the man began to crawl across the bed toward Aurin, then the floor. The tremble in his limbs was grew visible, the one in his voice audible, as he held out a hand and begged,

"Please, don't leave, the others won't be so gentle, I'll make it good for you, easy, I promise." His face became a shattered mask of offering, under it the desperation of an addict's plea. "Stay."

He was almost to Aurin now, the shakes more visible, more recognizable to one who'd spent their lives on the streets. Whatever it was he wanted to take from the red head he was as anguished for as any who smoked, snorted or swallowed the pleasure that became their pain.

"You'd never make it up that far anyway, The Menagerie would get you if no one else did." The way he said 'The Menagerie' did not sound like he was talking about a building or even a place, but something living, something conscious.

"It's better this way, for both of us. Come,' He waved towards himself as though offering a quiet ending and sounded as if he meant what he said.

The semi-quiet outside, broken by quiet conversations or the sounds of footsteps in the hallway changed in an instant to loud, celebratory music, the building vibrating with the raised voices of what sounded like a tap room full to bursting all joining in the song. Feet stomped in a rhythm that was obviously dancing and the whole set of sounds was accompanied by the call of men for drink and the clatter of cups and platters. It was as though the quiet afternoon had changed to Mid-Summer's Eve and half the district had crowded into The Menagerie to feast and dance away the Shortest Night.

[Aurin]

Aurin was still smiling when he planted his boot on the man's shoulder and kicked him back. O villain, villian, smiling, damnèd villain. It wasn't much to go on but it was more than he had before. "Stay," he reciprocated, though as if to a dog as his smile turned into a smirk. Surely there was no flicker of compassion in his eyes. "Once this is sorted, we will figure out how to save you."

Then he was on the other side of the door. Looking down at the knob, he did it quick and dirty: breaking the knob off so it would take a locksmith's skill to remove or quite a bit of brute force to knock the door down. Then he was seeking the stairs up. He found them and began to ascend by leaps and bounds; time might be of the essence as even though so much had passed, it was only now that he had been called here. He steeled his heart against the faint tug of his damaged heartstrings back to the miserable creature he had left behind. It was one of his brethren, he supposed, some poor, unfortunate Myshalarai trapped in a Menagerie gone terribly hungry.

Aurin opened himself entirely to his Rune of Semblance, seeking to see through all these illusions—to avoid dangers; to find the path; to locate Eshar. If he could locate them, their aura, he might be able to vault to them and vault them out. It would likely not be that simple; it was never that simple, but he could hope.

Even if Hope was a demon bitch.

"Fuck's sake, Eshar," he muttered to himself, wondering what they had done to make this the new reality for the coven, or what the addicts down below thought they had done, anyway. Benefit of the doubt.

[Rune]

The halls were not empty, people standing here and there, making their way up or down, chatting in corners, but as Aurin opened himself to his Semblance trick paths of aether swirled around him. The whole place seemed made of the stuff of magic, but with his Master trick he could see that some of the faces had nothing behind them, they were constructs spun of air and light, while others were solid, with something behind their faces other than the whim of this place.

The solid ones took note of him, some reaching out in little ways but he ran past them up the first set of stairs he found, one foot in front of them other until...

Aurin's foot came down onto the paved streets that knew him better than he knew himself. He was home. Cathena City. Wet poured down from rooftops and eaves that only someone trying to sell real estate would have called 'rain'. It dropped from everything and slicked the stones underfoot with a combination of mud and the refuse of enough people packed close enough together that it formed a sort of ever present sludge that seeped out when storms fell from above or swelled the river enough to flood. The smells, the sound of his birthplace smacked him about the face harder than Galeas ever had.

"Hey," A whisper hissed at him from an alley just to his side,

"Oren, whatcha standin' there for? Takin' a bath? Gods know you need it but common!" A small figure, rat like but probably human, beckoned him into the dark opening. Jiir, his name was Jiir.

Memories crashed back into his mind like a collapsing building. The job. They had been set on the job by an informant, said there were goods a plenty to be had and flush. They'd had to pay for the information, so it was more likely to be good, and they'd staked out the location two nights in a row to be sure. Now, between the wet and the dark they could slip into the flooding basement with no one the wiser. Get in, get what could be gotten quick, and be out before the well-heeled owner was any the wiser.

Looking down at himself Aurin saw his body, perhaps ten years younger than he was used to seeing it, but that thought slipped away from him like shit sliding down hill. The pull of the take tugged at him, or was that just Jiir's hand plucking at his trews? Either way, standing in the downpour did no one any good.

Taking a final look around the street he saw that most of the establishments, shops and bars, were closed and shuttered, but there was one, down at the far end of what he could see, with the door thrown open. Light spilled from the windows and music could be heard, familiar music, like he'd just heard it but, no, he'd been following Jiir for an hour already, best be on with it.

[Aurin]

Aurin slipped and spun away from grasping hands, even carelessly moving bodies. He could See, and he could sense through it all with other senses as well. Sometimes, when he was really into it, the Semblance trick was more than an augmentation of a mundane sense but truly its own. Aurin sought Eshar; it seemed they might be a lynchpin here, and certainly they were the Myshalarai he knew best. Eshar.

Shit.

No.

For a moment, he knew he wasn't in Cathena City. He wasn't young. He wasn't... He was looking for Eshar among the Myshalarai of the Menagerie. He threw up a spherical ward around himself, tasked against magic, hoping it would block whatever mesmerizing force this was, but he faltered. He was looking for Eshar. He had to get back to Torin. Where was Jamila? Dead. No. Jiir? He was trying to juggle tricks he didn't know. The world was responding to his will. He could sense things. But also... perhaps he was just high.

"Eshar," he said.

Then he shook his head like a bear coming out of its winter cave, casting rain about him.

"ESHAR!"

They were...

"Jiir, fuck off... I..." He ducked into an alley, crouching behind a barrel and closing his eyes, trying to keep a hold of reality. A part of him was on the job; another part of him was fighting against this reality. He had to focus. The light, the sound, they were in another time, another place. They beckoned, but he had to get back to the blacksmith. He didn't know what that meant, of course, but parts of him were struggling against reality. This didn't feel quite like being high or strung out, but he had little else to compare it to.

[Rune]

For a moment reality shimmered, or was it the illusion that shimmered? Everything seemed to pause briefly before whatever was happened gently peeled back the ward Aurin had wrapped around himself, like a parent pulling back the covers to find their child.

The rodent-like boy slunk closer to where the redhead was... hiding? Poking his long nose around the barrel briefly he observed his sometime partner in crime before pulling back to the other side and saying, quietly,

"Oren? You alright, mate? We won't get a better chance at this. We can go find that girl of yours after, have a good 'un or three, yeah? Galeas won't be happy if we muck this up." His wheedling tone only partly obscured the worry in his voice, though whether it was worry for Oren, worry for their profit slipping away, or worry over what the crime boss might do if they failed was even odds.

Oddly, despite the sounds of rain pounding down and echoing all through the alley the music from that one open tavern could still be heard, faintly, as if it were calling to him. It was familiar, not as the city was, but like when you hear a song played professionally and then, later the same day, you hear someone humming the tune and it catches you. A part of Oren was telling him he'd just been hearing that music a moment before. Except, that wasn't possible, he'd been running through the rain until he'd pulled up abruptly here.

Aurin

Tones of gold cut through the bleak grey of the streets under storm, warm where the alley was cold, calling him back toward the music and the tavern that suddenly his mind knew how he knew it. The Menagerie. In the wrong city, the wrong time, but looking the same, as if it had been dropped in by a painter over a scene already finished.

[Aurin]

"Fuck Galeas," he said, the venom in his voice entirely real.

Jiir was dependable—sort of. He wasn't the sort of person Aurin would follow to easy money, not unless he was well strung out. Eshar was the name stuck in his mind; Eshar wasn't a girl, so what was Jiir even talking about? Eshar might be someone to help him get Galeas off his back for once and for all.

He waved Jiir off. "You kowtow the emperor all you want. I'm..."

The rain didn't feel real for a moment. That golden tone resonated through him like a temple bell. Jiir was a distraction. The rain and the gray were distractions. The Menagerie was calling to him. He stumbled back toward it, toward the light and the music, toward the danger and the uncertainty. His mind was fighting something he was hardly aware of, but he knew something was wrong, something he couldn't explain.

As he began to open the golden door, following the golden voice, he felt a pang. That wasn't him. He had tried to bury his feelings under his desires since he could remember.

"Sorry, Jiir... something's wrong."

And then he was inside, out of the rain, surrounded by music and light and too many things. He saw too much and it was overwhelming. He didn't know if this was the right way or if he was following some will o' the wisp into danger, toward one of Galeas' demons. Wait—Galeas had demons. That was a thing from long ago. Years. Too many years for his age. Confusion. He put his back to the wall and pulled out his blades, ready to cut anyone and anything that came for him. Fear crystalized, froze, and his thoughts tried to sharpen and cut through the chaos.

"Eshar?!"

[Rune]

Jiir tried to grab at Aurin when he leapt up and sprinted away but in that moment the redhead seemed to phase through the world, untouched by rain, walls, or rat-like little hands. Between one step and the next tattered boots went from pounding over cobbled stone to intricately enchanted boots coming down hard on the beautifully polished wooden landing of the second floor of The Menagerie. The wood was inlaid with gold on this level, looking almost like stained glass in both design and reflective ability. The music coming from downstairs was more subdued now, a ballad pouring from an exquisitely emotional voice accompanied by a harp, but the feel of the place had not changed.

As Aurin got his bearings, a young woman carrying a tray covered in cloth was coming down the stairs. She hardly seemed to notice him, even with his knives out until she turned to brush past him to continue downward. When she pushed into the Negation wards hugging close to his body her face flickered, the tray dropping from her hands to clatter to the floor with the sound of breaking porcelain. The face that had been broke just as easily, revealing an older woman, though not yet in her middle years. Her eyes were huge with bruises around both her eyes dark enough to make it look like she'd been beaten. Shock held her for a moment before she all but fell forward, clutching at Aurin's coat with a gasp that might have been a sob.

"In Myshala's name, help us! Eshar! It has Eshar, in the top room, it's using them, somehow! Channeling all this through them! Please, I can't fight it! I..."

Whatever else she had been intending to say something pulled her back, beyond the Negation field, with an odd snapping that vibrated not through the air but through the aether that existed in all things. The younger face was back, the tray snapped up, the bowl that had shattered on it reforming and landing back in its place as the woman gave Aurin a friendly but uninterested smile and continued on her way.

[Aurin]

Aurin might have struggled out of her grasp, but he held himself still; he needed to know what was under these veils of glamour. Just a woman enchanted and not the better for it. He considered snapping wards around her, the strongest he could manage, to cut her off from whatever was affecting his coven—because it was his coven even if he didn't like to admit the ties that bind—but he was self-serving above all and, strategically speaking, he was more likely to save her in the long term if he could unravel the mystery of the Menagerie, which seemed tied to Eshar and their golden toned thoughts. It almost felt like when Torin let down all his mental barriers and Aurin let down all those he was comfortable letting down and their thoughts resonated against each other's auras like some form of telepathy.

Eshar. I'm coming up. I will find you.

The errant Myshalarai focused all his wards upon himself, all his Semblance both on his own senses and protecting his mind from intrusion. If only he could sense Eshar, that could prove an anchor to which he warped the slipspace and appeared by their side. As it was, he was having trouble sensing through the walls of the place, so vaulting up a floor seemed unwise. Eshar had taught him the tricks particular to their coven, but he wasn't going to risk the wrath of one teacher—Valencia—in a foolish attempt to save another.

He ran up another flight of stairs. What floor was he on now? How many floors were there to the Menagerie?

In Myshala's name, he thought to himself, echoing the poor wretch of a woman he had briefly snapped out of the mass hallucination. While I'm not the religious type. A little help for your beleaguered faithful would be nice right about now, Mistlord. But he ordered his mind. He didn't want to strike a bargain with the Stitchmother. Nor even wish, lest that count for the same to her mind. No, he pushed on, cateloguing in his mind the tricks and tools at his disposal, including those wonders Torin had crafted for him. He didn't know what to expect, so he tried to stay in the moment, ready to adapt in an instant.

[Rune]

As the redhead turned to the next set of stairs, taking the first few in quick succession he felt the same sort of tugging sensation, as if his mind were being turned inside out, or folding in on itself.

Aurin's foot came down on the plush grass that covered Torin's forge yard. Glade had finally returned and the little plot of earth, saturated with aether and spirits had spring to life with a vengeance, covering over the little well-worn path that ran between the forge and the house and the shop. The whole area was covered in such verdant growth that it was all the residents and their friends could do to keep it in check. The vegetable garden was groaning with fresh produce and all the windows of the house were open to let in the fresh air.

The young runesmith was there, bare-chested but for his leather apron, bare-handed as he delicately manipulated a creation of silver gears and wire. Concentration furrowed his pretty face until he suddenly looked up, not needing a sound or other warning to alert him to the presence of his master when the rune Aurin had gifted him would always do it first. Torin's face split into a smile bright enough to shame the sunlight at the sight of his man. Putting down his tools and quickly stripping out of the apron he trotted over like an eager puppy, except there was something more to him, something solid and meaningful that had grown under Aurin's care.

"Hello, bad man." The smith murmured before pressing them together. He smelled of magic and metal, fire and flesh, as he always did, the warmth of him wrapping around his lover even as a cool breeze ruffled through the yard, pulling away any heat less than perfectly comfortable. Their lips met, the broad body in Aurin's arms stirred and a happy flush covered a face whose expression, that might once have been masked in embarrassment, was now transformed into, if not shameless desire, something much closer to it.

"When did you get back?" Another kiss prevented him from answering, "You have to come see the Valley. It's so alive now!" Blue eyes were bright, excited and proud, "The fields are all planted and the orchards are blooming. The sheep are foaling, and the pond is full of ducklings. Huntress is so excited but she knows better than to scare any of the new mothers so she has been practically vibrating as she watches over them. Then again,"

His laugh, deeper than it had been on the day they'd met, came rushing out of him, "So is Timon. He's there now, I can't help but let him go when he asks, I'd be there myself if I wasn't needed here."

Glancing around Torin stepped past Aurin, ducking into the growing shop briefly before reappearing.

"I locked up. Midday, no one will think it amiss. Come inside," Licking his lower lip he bit it and then flashed a grin, quickfire hot and needy, "I missed you."

[Aurin]

Unfair, Aurin thought as the Menagerie became an idealized version of Kilvin's Forge.

For all his wards, for all his keen sembling, and for all his innate understanding of illusions, he could not simply shatter this one. He could know that this was false, but it still challenged him to look a perfect, warm Torin things that he knew would shatter the real one. He had tried to take the fine metal and forge something wonderful out of him, and Torin had become something wonderful. He always had been, but perhaps some of the bad parts had been untwisted and allowed to shine. To shatter the happiness of even a false Torin felt wrong, but it must be done.

Whatever waited with Eshar or—he had to admit the possibility to himself—become of Eshar was reading too deeply into his mind. The Mists warped all things, and they were twisting past his defenses.

He took Torin by the shoulders to make distance between them, looked him in the eye. He twisted Torin around, gave him a little shove toward the forge. He slapped him on the ass.

"Wait for me in the forge. You know how I like you. I just need to fetch something..."

Aurin bolted for the house. There were stairs going up. He had to keep climbing toward his goal. Death might await him, but it was waiting here as well, wearing a beloved face. His face twisted into a grimace of hatred. Nobody used Torin against him.

Nobody.

Inside, the house was familiar, if more lived in, more improved in every way. Perhaps this was where they were headed. He only hoped the Menagerie hadn't tainted his future happiness. He stopped looking and took the stairs two or three at a time, bounding. He couldn't take much more of this, danger everywhere, seeming pleasureable but hiding poison.