The Nave (and Entrance)

[Gold_Star_For_Robot_Boy]

The pitted, waste-darkened remains of a once fine church. Thick-walled, with few, thin, exits and entrances, it maintains a cheery disposition with its oft-open doors and a welcoming sign (pictured near the left door). The sign reads:
HAVEN
I was hungry, and you gave me something to eat, I was naked and you clothed me. I was homeless, and you took me in. So says the Lord.



The entrance opens into an idyllic, if simple, church nave. Rows of pews, mostly matched, lead to a cloth-draped alter (not pictured) set with baskets of fresh food and chilled juice. Pay no attention to the bars on the windows, the stains on the floor, the row of knives and bindings along the apse. It's a dangerous world; we all have to be able to defend ourselves.

 

[Gold_Star_For_Robot_Boy]

••• St. × Vier


St. Vier had no interest in casual buyers, those strutting, doomed males attempting to establish themselves in an impossible market. Such a person could look at his stock--whatever he had on hand that hadn't been run through his system, had received little personal treatment. He could sell these bare acquisitions without attaching his name to their training, and the weak-hearted 'Masters' could be sent on their way, impressed with themselves.

This customer hadn’t been casual. He’d been restrained, knowledgeable. He had commissioned a very specific beauty—silent, submissive, but also many other things, among them an exclusive bond with the customer that would reduce the slave’s world to the customer and no other.

St. Vier watched the man flinch and try to roll away from one of his Kir’s blows. He watched as the man attempted alternately to go fetal and crawl away from the onslaught. He watched the customer's head hit the dull, stone floor with an audible crack.

His expression would have been serene if it weren't for his eyes--feverish eyes, too wide to really pull the expression off.

Of all the types of customers he disliked, the absolute worst were those who wanted to cancel their contract with him. It rarely happened. Almost never.

But almost wasn't never. And so here he was.

At his feet, clinging to one leg, the slave that had been meant for the customer watched the beating, in apparent distress but unwilling, incapable, of trying to help. The creature was perfect—rather, perfectly what had been requested, and had been trained to respond only to the particular customer’s presence. At this point, ready to be handed over, it barely responded even to St. Vier.

It'd be useless now, a waste of good flesh, and worse still, a waste of St. Vier's time.

Mouth opening in the slightest sigh, St. Vier bent, shook the slave off of his leg, and gently, tenderly, began to choke the life out of it. Servile as it was, trained to be utterly submissive, the slave didn’t fight him, merely staring up into his eyes, making small sounds.

The sounds of flesh hitting flesh faded behind him, and the door to Haven was pushed open with a creak, the barely-alive flake tossed unceremoniously outside.

It didn’t take long before the slave stopped moving, and St. Vier loosened his grip, standing.

“Clean this up” he called to another hulking figure, turning away without confirmation that he'd be obeyed. Usually, this would have been Honey’s job, not something for his guards. But Honey was—out.

Frustrated, St. Vier decided he shouldn't stay inside Haven; not for a little while. If he stayed here he would take out his frustration on his stock, and if there was one thing he didn't need, it was to add even more waste to the disappointment of the day.

This being the case, he went outside, unaccompanied. He ignored the wracking sobs of the customer crumpled on Haven's front steps, the scrabbling attempts by the man to right himself and stumble away. He leaned against what had once been beautiful polished stone—now rough and pitted, eternally close to crumbling and in need of repair.

Eyes closed, St. Vier pulled a long pipe from the loose fabric of his shirt.

The ritual of packing the pipe--pinching out herbs, pressing them into the pipe's mouth with his thumb, lighting, pulling smoke into his lungs--was calming, and he blew a plume of blue-gray smoke out into the city, working to calm himself down.

((Future posts will be shorter, promise!))

 

[Gold_Star_For_Robot_Boy]

••• St. × Vier


Several minutes into the repetitive ritual—light, pull in, hold, breathe out—and St. Vier was beginning to approach the floating, reverent silence that would calm him. Throat sweet and raw, pulling his attention, his posture melted slowly into heavy leaning.

At some point, the customer had successfully dragged himself away, barely a few drops of blood and spittle soiling his doorway to remember him by.

Focused as he was on his self-soothing, he didn’t hear anyone approach, and his eyes flew open at the unfamiliar voice.

For a brief second he turned a clinical gaze on the strange boy, lingering over the fine bones of his face; the long hair; the thin frame and large, golden eyes; resting, finally, on the illusory facsimile of his own pipe.

He categorized quickly, approvingly: attractive; nonhuman; male; thin, likely unsuitable for hard labor.

Most suitable for pleasure or companionship, likely, unless the nonhuman attributes extended beyond illusions. The trick would be to test the limits of the powers, ensure he could be kept until a suitable buyer came along.

No way, really, to tell if he was susceptible to the sleep medication and/or paralytics he drugged the common food and drink with. Nonhumans were always tricky, their metabolisms far more variable.

Still, worth it if possible. Attractive nonhumans were popular, and an exhibition of the illusions, turned to something more—specific—could attract an even higher quality of customer, if St. Vier was careful.

An instant, and it was gone, a shutter closing over his expression, opening again to reveal someone quietly curious, nothing else. His posture shifted slightly, a dozen tiny changes that softened him, opened him, granted a subtle serenity.

”You’re right, of course. I keep meaning to quit, but it’s my only vice, and it keeps calling me back.”

Letting the last breath of smoke drift from the corner of his mouth as he spoke, he lowered the pipe, gesturing with it toward the other’s illusory one.

”Yours, I think, would be safer.” He gave a small smile, bending to lay the still-smoking pipe on a crumbling bend in the middle of Haven’s front, straightening with hands open to show he didn’t have anything else in them.

”…That’s fascinating. How do you do that?”

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Kitty_Mew

 

[Gold_Star_For_Robot_Boy]

••• St. × Vier

St. Vier's delight at the cloud, the snow that was neither cold nor apparently solid, was almost entirely unfeigned. He reached up toward the white flecks, trying to close his fingers around one of them, smile widening as he did and he felt—nothing.

Not just tiny tricks, then. The other was capable of at least slightly larger illusions. More importantly, so far the illusions had only affected one sense: sight. A nonhuman who could fool all the senses—particularly touch, relatedly proprioception—would be incredibly dangerous. Perhaps dangerous enough that he'd have to take much greater precautions before attempting a retrieval, necessitating that he leave the other alone for now.

That would be more difficult than usual, at the moment. He sometimes sent Honey after such people, ordering him to follow the future target around for a while—however long it took to establish anything like a common resting place.

But Honey wasn't here, now. And besides, the aftermath of such missions was typically tedious, with Honey out of commission for at least a day afterward.

”Remarkable” he murmured, entirely truthfully. Laughing at the other man’s last comment, he responded, saying

”I like it like this. It may not be beautiful, but it matches the world. It survived, and I survive inside it. What could be more plainly a gift from God?”

He rested a hand on the building’s dingy front door in apparent affection, knocking lightly on the wood two times. This was, in actuality, a signal to the Kirs inside to make themselves scarce. They were intimidating; they put people on edge just by existing. That was, of course, one of the facets of their purpose to him, but not now.

”Why don’t you come inside—you know, I don’t think I caught your name actually, how rude of me.” He pulled on the door to open it, deliberately dragging the wood both to make it look heavier than it was (and himself weaker in comparison).

”I’ll make it up to you with some lemonade, if you’d like. Of course, I understand if you’re wary. I could bring it out. Least I could do. Everyone’s thirsty these days, right?”

Apologetic as he was, he didn’t offer his own name. He would if asked, but there were circles of people who knew him by name. He could never be sure how far his influence had spread. Better not to say anything at all. He tried to minimize his lies, though of course he’d make something up if asked. They were hard to keep track of, lies, and they—dirtied the encounter, made it duplicitous rather than the natural result of the strong and clever preying on the weak-willed.

He preferred to keep his encounters pure, simple.

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Kitty_Mew

 

[Gold_Star_For_Robot_Boy]

••• St. × Vier

St. Vier paused at the plural, 'gods,' rather than the singular he had used, 'God.' He was particular in the language he preferred to discuss the divine—and the language was different depending upon what mood he was in, what rituals he was engaged in.

Right now, he was playing the good Father. Considering it was an act, a persona, it should have been easy to shrug it off, but there was little St. Vier obsessed about more than the proper relation of man to god, ways to approach and touch whatever it was that elevated and degraded the human form in its entirety. While the trappings of language may change, they were underlain by a core of true, deep sincerity, and this was what he tested the man's phrasing for.

His view on what counted as sincere, as respectful or appropriate, changed rapidly, with deep implications for his mood and behavior. Some days he was a penitent puritan, disgusted with the human form and all other fleshy interpretations of it. Some days, a bacchic reveler, ecstatic and pressing and demanding dissolution of boundaries. Some days, cultish and particular, demanding sacrifice, demanding obedience.

A long moment of tense silence, and St. Vier decided the man's agreement was the important detail, the implied belief in the divine. His expression cleared and he pushed the door further open and stepping inside.

Turning back, he nodded at the name, even as internally he shrugged it off, storing in a part of his mind he might use to ensure the man didn't have any powerful family, a research project for someone working under him. Hearing what sounded like agreement to come in, he started to walk down to the sept where, indeed, a large pitcher of what looked like lemonade was sitting. Social pressures still existed. Often, simply moving inside with an expectation that he would be followed was enough to bring someone inside.

”... but on one condition.” St. Vier stopped, spine straightening as he glanced over his shoulder expectantly.

"Tell me your name."

He liked the man's cheerful demeanor, he decided. It was rarer and rarer these days; few could afford to openly express their emotions around strangers, much less positive ones.

He spread his arms, palms down in a typically welcoming gesture.

”My name is Fr. Adorno, Lokeah.” Another tiny social trick; the small efforts added up. People, almost inevitably, liked to hear their own name.

”It's a pleasure to meet you. Please, come in.” He resumed walking down to the pitcher, which was flanked by the nonworking remains of what had once been a magnificent pipe organ.

”It's lukewarm, I'm afraid, but it is handmade.” At one point, he'd served everything perfectly chilled—he had working electricity, after all, and he'd thought that an actually cold beverage was a rare treat that would be more enticing.

He'd learned, however, that it was suspicious for a small, broken-down church to have electricity, enough electricity that some could be wasted chilling a large pitcher. And so he'd stopped chilling it.

((What do you roll on? I should probably start too, to keep everything fair and whatnot))

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Kitty_Mew

 

[Gold_Star_For_Robot_Boy]

••• St. × Vier

Looking back over his shoulder, stopping halfway down the line of mostly-intact pews, St. Vier confirmed ”Yes, Father” he confirmed, wrongly assuming that the other was simply from a religion that didn’t revere and sanctify men of the cloth like the Catholicism he was presently focused on did.

In the name of unity, having already decided the other was sincere, if not in tune with the particulars of his current expression of faith (but, importantly, had not dismissed or gone against any tenants of said faith either), he graciously added ”if you’re not comfortable with it, just Adorno is fine. It’s been a long time since anyone’s called me by that, mind. I’m not sure I’d respond to it as easily.” It wasn’t that St. Vier wasn’t skilled at lying—indeed, he had some facility with the practice. It just muddied the satisfaction he’d take from what happened next.

It had been a slow week; no new customers except the last, disappointing failure who had crawled away earlier. He was—bored was too mundane a word. He felt dull, under-stimulated. Restless, maybe, was closer. Customers seemed to always come in bursts, with dull periods of inactivity in between. Of course, he was always busy. There was always more he could do. But, admittedly, engaging with customers, with the ‘church,’ was among his favorite of his multiple duties. At least when he was feeling like this.

All that was to say, even a muddled version of this encounter would sate his restlessness, would be worth it. He could have challenged himself to a completely pure approach, but if the other ran before it all fell into place, it could be some time before anyone else came to him.

He let the man pass him in the row of pews, following at an only-slightly-too-close pace at his back, careful not to make any threatening gestures, telegraphing his steps by clicking the heels of his boots against the floor as he walked, in the spaces where the long rug that led from doorway to alter had worn through entirely to the stone foundation underneath.

He didn’t mention the pitcher.

Instead, he moved all the way to the alter itself, briefly kneeling and genuflecting, before straightening to follow the direction of the other man’s gaze.

”Ah—no, I’m afraid not. I’ve tinkered with it a bit, tried to fix it, but I have no real idea how to do so. You can try it if you’d like.”

All the same, he passed an affectionate hand over the carved outcropping that housed the enormous pipe, just above the weathered, yellowed keys.

”There are chapels on either side of this room, too, built for group prayer, choral practice, that sort of thing. I use them for that sometimes, there are lovely frescoes on the walls, even if they are chipped now. Would you like to see them?” He pressed down on one key, shooting a slightly pained look at Lokeah as no sound at all came out. A kind of ‘See? I wish.’

”Oh, didn’t I promise you a drink? The lemonade is on the alter—I offer it to anyone passing by who sees my open door. But I have some other options if you’ll come back to my personal rooms. I’m not much of a drinker, but I have some alcohol too, if that’s what you’d like.” He could tell he was likely speaking more than he should, giving too many options. What he did worked best, usually, with one option, strongly offered and repeated, if the other said no. He couldn’t say why he was offering to show the other into any number of areas of Haven, except perhaps that he saw something in Lokeah that he wanted, something he would have been very disappointed to let slip through his fingers.

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”Kitty_Mew”

 

[Gold_Star_For_Robot_Boy]

••• St. × Vier

An unintended byproduct of the many options he’d offered occurred to him, as the other man acquiesced to a glass of lemonade. The other options he’d given would have made the other more vulnerable, drawn him further into an unknown location. However pleasant St. Vier seemed, Lokeah surely was at least somewhat suspicious. He wouldn’t have lived this wrong—lived free this long—otherwise, even with his abilities. Or what St. Vier had seen of those abilities thus far.

Further inside to apsidal chapel? That was deeper into an unknown building with an indeterminate number of people inside.

To St. Vier’s own quarters? Worse still, that would be following a stranger into a private area further inside an unknown building, perhaps to be straightforwardly attacked.

Huffing a breath out in mild amusement at the way that had lined up without his intending it to, St. Vier moved to the first pew, where he’d set several large bags of cups—cheap, red plastic, salvaged ages ago in mass quantities.

Moving to the altar, he obligingly poured two cups of lemonade, holding one out to Lokeah, taking the other for himself.

There wasn’t any handy substance he could plop in his own cup to neutralize the effects. He hadn’t built up any immunity; wasn’t in any way equipped to stave off the effects. If they both drank a full cup, he would go down just as quickly. This rarely came up. Usually those who came to him were more malnourished than Lokeah appeared to be, just happy to drink anything that might have calories.

Even if he did drink the drugged lemonade, however, the difference, of course, was that this was his Haven, with his Kirs just out of sight.

If he fell unconscious, they could be trusted to follow routine. Of course they would protect him, but he’d want them to secure Lokeah as well, which they might or might not do without orders.

If only St. Vier could signal to them…

He took a first drink of the lemonade to dispel suspicion, letting the other see him audibly swallow it. He had mixed it well, he found; the medicine wasn’t too bitter, with the taste of lemon and sugar to hide it.

St. Vier prepared himself for the dizzying feeling that would soon follow, quite like being in the later stages of drunkenness, followed by a numbness of mind as well as body, followed by unconsciousness. Knowing it was coming, he placed his feet more carefully as he backed away toward a door.

”Mm. I just remembered—I actually have some cookies too, in my room. It’s been a while since I’ve had a guest, please, I’ll go get them.”

He leaned on the door that led to his rooms for a moment, not yet feeling the effects of the lemonade but stumbling slightly as if he were clumsy on his feet, knocking into the door and catching himself with a self-deprecating smile. In doing so, he knocked lightly on the door, letting any Kirs waiting there that he was coming.

He placed his half-empty cup on the side of railing leading up to alter, a sign to Lokeah if he thought to notice it that he wasn’t intending to throw it out or change it for something else in the safety of his room.

Instead, still chattering about cookies, St. Vier walked through, a Kir immediately there, apparently waiting just out of sight. St. Vier gave his instructions swiftly (“when we’re unconscious, secure the man”), striding down the hall to his actual room, rifling around for a moment before pulling out a stale box of shortbread cookies, about 2/3 full.

“Watch, in case I go down first.” It was possible. Whatever else, St. Vier was aware of his slenderness, the basically human state of his metabolism.

Walking back, he could feel the faintest hint of the drug at the back of his mind, a slowness spreading. With only a mouthful, it would be slower to spread. Better to take the whole cup—to have Lokeah take the whole cup, just in case.

He returned with the bag of cookies held out in triumphant demonstration, reclaiming his cup and walking over with them. They were in an unremarkable brown bag, which he opened with a flourish, proclaiming they had been made by the inn a few streets down.

”Wonderful cooks in there.”

Taking one cookie himself, he offered the bag to Lokeah, demonstratively taking another drink, a sip disguised as a longer swallow.

“now, the artwork. I admit I’ve tried to add to it since I arrived, but much of it is original…” He started in on the art, speaking through a mouthful of cookie. He could talk as long as necessary about the frescoes. He did, in fact, like them, after all.


((It would admittedly be pretty funny if St. Vier knocked himself out and Lokeah just walked out of there/took him. Play stupid games, get stupid prizes))

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”Kitty_Mew”

 

[Gold_Star_For_Robot_Boy]

••• St. × Vier


Even as he watched Lokeah carefully for any signs of the drug starting to affect him, St. Vier found himself enjoying the conversation. The man’s apparently earnest inquiry about his Haven was refreshing, and he had no problem continuing his small talk, even as he mostly pretended to drink his lemonade. He took small mouthfuls to allay the other’s suspicions, feeling his tongue go numb about three sips in.

In reply, St. Vier stated that he was a big fan of what art he’d been able to find, but he wouldn’t consider himself any kind of cultured connoisseur. He was just an art appreciator, someone who occasionally dabbled and tried to preserve what was here in Haven.

That being said, he would love to see the museum, if he could spare the time away from his flock here—and of course, he’d be happy to share his favorite frescoes here at Haven any time.

Loose-limbed now, settled approximately beside the other looking at the organ, it was a struggle to push off and retrieve the plastic pitcher of lemonade, but he did so. It was harder to hang onto his purpose like this; so easy to revert to his natural state. It was good that he genuinely enjoyed the lighthearted acquantanship as it was. That generally wasn’t true; St. Vier didn’t enjoy most people, didn’t enjoy most conversations he had with people, nowadays. In those cases, like this, he might have reverted to the less friendly parts of his personality, less careful as he fell further down toward the unconsciousness the poison in the lemonade afforded him.

As it was, every step to bring the pitcher back to Lokeah was over-careful, absolutely deliberate, as was the eventual slosh of liquid into Lokeah’s cup.

”Have as much as you like” he invited, filling the cup nearly to the brim. There was, in fact, a threshold past which overdosing could be damaging, even fatal. But that threshold was not two glasses of the stuff; not the way St. Vier mixed it. Not for a normal human-like constitution. Perhaps four. Perhaps five. He took the bag of cookies back after setting out one more for Lokeah to have, if he liked. They had done their job admirably, but they were an actual rarity, and St. Vier had paid quite a bit for them. Lives could be measured against bags of cookies, these days.

”I’m just happy for the company, to be frank. Most of those I encounter are not quite so fun to talk to. Not their fault, of course. They’re desperate, hungry; suspicious. I don’t begrudge them their pragmatism. Still, I can’t remember the last time I had a conversation about art…are you a collector yourself, Lokeah? Or more of an appreciator, like me?” His vision was wholly unfocused now, muscles in his face slackening, mouth half open in mild, paralytic stupor. The words had come out well enough, however. He couldn’t keep this up for much longer, though. Soon he would begin to slur. And while he could hold himself against the crumbled pew effectively enough for a time, he would eventually crumble. He could feel the weakness swirling in his limbs, a chill that left numbness in its wake.

He took another bite of a cookie and could not taste it, or feel his tongue entirely accurately.

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”Kitty_Mew”