He takes the name at face value - it doesn't matter if it's real or not, does it? He accepts the dirty hand, his own still stained despite the best attempts of prestidigitation. Asra's clothes are of good quality, though clearly he's been traveling in them for a little while. The bandages peeking out from under Jakob's sleeve do not go unnoticed.
"Are you?" he asks, equal measures curious and wary.
Bren--or Jakob, for now--ducks his head and lifts his shoulders in a shrug that betrays a little discomfort. Intentionally so. A man who doesn't seem at least somewhat rattled by what he's experienced tonight would be far more suspicious. It isn't even false, really. He has a lot of reasons to be on edge.
"Ja. You could have slit my throat, but instead you are offering to split a room with me." Glancing up sidelong, a corner of his mouth lifts in a tight, humorless half smile. "One is far more preferable than the other. If I can help you on your way in return, I will."
"You could have slit mine." Maybe the chance was slim, but it was still possible the moment Jakob knew he was awake. Or perhaps before. "So we're working towards even."
Asra hasn't killed Jakob, and out of the bargain Jakob has scavenged coin, components, and at least one book from the volstruckers, among whatever else he might have taken. Asra wasn't looking, too caught up in his own looting to care. He nods in the general direction they've been traveling.
"Let's keep going." They have good reason to get as far from the charred bodies as they can before daylight.
They keep going, and until the sun touches the horizon, there is little conversation between them. Even after, discussions are short, almost casual. Just after sunrise, they take a short rest, but the scene they've left behind them as much as the nearness of the city compels them to push on. They keep to the edge of the road, and the few riders and occasional cart that passes by doesn't pay them any mind.
Just past midday, they pass the first buildings, outlying storehouses, then the mines themselves. These areas are busier, but so are the folk they encounter, too occupied by their own business to spare them more than a passing glance.
Druvenlode isn't a pretty city. The terrain is rocky, so greenery is sparse. Everything is built close together of the same gray slate that makes up the cliffs. Smoke rises over the rooftops. The largest buildings aren't temples, but casinos. The streets are all packed dirt, and the air itself is dusty. But it is a bustling place full of sound, energy, life. Two dirty travelers finding the cheapest bathhouse in town and paying a silver each for a bath hardly bears notice.
"The rest can be cleaned," Bren tells the attendant who will be taking their clothing to be laundered, "but the coat is fine." Understandably, she gives him a skeptical look. The coat is a fucking mess. But she doesn't challenge it, and Bren gets on his way to the antechamber where he'll hurriedly strip down and store his things.
As they near the city, Asra pulls his hood up again. Even with his head down, anyone who cares to look might notice that he is paying attention to everything, gaze darting here and there, marking anything useful.
The air in the baths is humid and fragrant and a far cry from what they left behind in the woods. He strips out of his clothes so that they can be cleaned, everything, and takes a towel that smells clean but is somewhat rough from multiple washings. That it is clean is all that matters. For mow, he wraps it around his waist for some sense of modesty, even if he plans on being rid of it shortly.
From the antechamber, there's a large pool that looks like it could comfortably fit three or four people. He sinks down, stiff, so that he can slide his legs in first and sit on the edge. It isn't scalding, but he takes a moment to get used to the temperature. Or perhaps just to sit somewhere that feels, at least for now, safe. He glances up when he hears Jakob.
Asra's pale body is well-built, clearly honed by some martial training. There are places on his body that were covered by clothes that bear a faint stain from the blood soaking through thinner layers. But the stains are, perhaps, the least eye-catching marks on him.
There are several distinct scars that are too precise to have been inflicted in a fight, the lines too straight and careful. Some are smaller and at odd angles, like there was a target in mind; others are long in a grim way that suggests a more grievous injury. Or surgery. There are others yet, more haphazard, that suggest he's seen melee combat at some point in his life.
Bren has never been especially self-conscious, but he steels himself against that very feeling as he strips in the antechamber now. Since his escape, he hasn't had many chances to bathe, and certainly not in front of others. He doesn't look like he used to, and he is still unused to how his body has changed. Dressed in his ill-fitting clothes, he appeared lean. But without them, it's clear that he's not merely slim, nor even the sort of gauntly thin that would indicate he's missed a few meals, but plainly emaciated. He is lanky and angular, and his skin hugs his bones unsettlingly tight. What muscle remains is wiry, only apparent due to an unhealthy lack of fat. He hasn't had the chance to eat well since his escape, either.
Eleven years ago, he was young and strong. But in that time he has grown older, been fed less, barely stepped foot outside his stone cell. What youthful strength and beauty he once possessed has wasted away.
This is to say nothing of his arms, which he cradles protectively close to his body as he enters the bathing chamber, a towel held modestly in front of him. He gets his first good look at Asra then as well, but after a momentary glance, politely averts his eyes. Still, a moment was enough. He recalls a perfect snapshot of a sleekly toned body, pale skin interrupted by the sort of exacting scarring that Bren knows from experience to be left by a scalpel's methodical incision, some sickeningly long. There are other marks on Asra's body as well, but if anything could convince him that perhaps there are commonalities to be found between them, it is those distinctly surgical scars.
Bren wastes no time testing the water. Leaving his towel by the side of the pool, he steps into the bath and sinks down with a sharp hiss of breath, submerging himself to the shoulders, then ducking under completely. When he emerges, he pushes his wet hair back from his face, raggedly long and now noticeably redder than it was beneath a layer of dust and dirt.
Asra looks at Jakob as the other man joins him, for the first time getting a sense of how he looks beneath his clothes. It is not what he imagined, the pitiful skin and bones of a man who has not been well-fed or cared for in some time. There is a flicker across his face, the shadow of a frown. What circumstances led to this--?
He sees the scars on Jakob's arms, even though the man quickly disappears beneath the water. They are methodical, too familiar in their precision, and despite the humid heat of the room, he feels an unpleasant chill slither down his back. To banish it, he leaves his towel behind and slips into the water, following Jakob's example as he ducks beneath. Asra scrubs his fingers along his scalp, attempting to dislodge road dirt and anything else that might be there.
He resurfaces slowly, pushing his dark hair back to keep it out of his face. He leans down again to rub his fingers over his cheeks and brow, to rub them together beneath the water in hopes of removing the last traces of blood. He cannot keep seeing it. He will remember it.
Thankfully he doesn't feel Asra's eyes on him for long. Sinking beneath the water helps with that, and he glimpses Asra doing the same out of the corner of his eye. From a basket at the pool's edge Bren retrieves the plain soap provided and begins a thorough scrub-down, narrowly avoiding tearing up at how good the warm water feels, and how getting clean almost makes him feel like a person again. Weeping over a bath in front of his new companion wouldn't make for a favorable impression.
Instead, when he can trust his voice again, he murmurs, "This was a good idea."
He is currently working real honest-to-gods shampoo through his hair, a privilege he hasn't had in years. Finally he chances a more direct glance up, and happens to catch Asra's eye. He would guess that he was probably looking at his arms. Though he's tried to hide them from view as much as possible, he wonders if Asra is making connections the same way he had.
"Between this and the promise of a meal and a bed at an inn tonight, I will feel very spoiled."
That is somewhat understating it. He hasn't slept in a proper bed in more than a decade.
Asra finds something in the basket to wash himself with, absently lathering up the soap so that he can rub it over his skin. He catches Jakob's gaze when the other man looks at him.
"Has it been a long time?" he asks, uncertain if that is the right question but it's the one that escapes first. He gives Jakob a moment to consider his answer, disappearing beneath the water again to rinse himself. He isn't finished by far - he wants to linger here as long as they can.
The pattern of the scars flits through his mind - they're the broken, unfinished pattern. He's seen the full version before, geometric lines in black ink. He thinks of the volstruckers and looks at Jakob again. He clearly isn't one, or if he is, he takes his assignment very seriously.
Having brought the subject up himself, Bren isn't offended or put off by the question, but takes the time granted to consider just how he wants to word his answer. "Ja," he decides. "I have been...down on my luck these last few years." His voice lowers to a softer murmur, yet still seems to echo off the stone walls of the small, mostly empty chamber. "I know it is probably obvious. But that is why I could not ignore your camp when I saw it."
He too ducks down to rinse out his hair after that, but looks back to Asra again when he surfaces. Now that he's crossed the hurdle of actually getting into the bath, he also isn't in any hurry to leave yet. He's content in the water with his body mostly submerged.
At last, he thinks it is time to risk a little more vulnerability for a little more information. They have already revealed something significant by stripping down to bare, scarred skin, bodies that show what they have survived in a variety of ways.
"Those people," Bren says carefully, the intensity of his blue eyes filled with wary caution, "you were not with them voluntarily, were you?"
The word voluntarily complicates things more than it should. Asra looks off at nothing, absently running more shampoo through his hair.
"I did not try to leave before last night," he begins, trying to piece together fractured memories and visions. He doesn't think he did, anyway. "But I had no in interest in what they wanted me for."
He doesn't care about the volstruckers' quarry, but his interest wasn't relevant or necessary for the work. Only his compliance. Asra bends back this time to rinse his hair, wanting to keep his head above water. It puts some of the scars on his stomach and chest on full display; he doesn't seem to think about it and finishes cleaning his hair before standing straight again.
After a moment, Bren nods. Again, he doesn't think this is a lie. Asra is unqiue. Though he still knows little about him, and he can't help the sense that there is an odd kinship. Bren doesn't trust him, and he remains wary, but not for the reasons he'd initially feared. He doesn't think Asra is hunting him. Or if he was, he doesn't think he is any longer.
"What did they want you for?" he chances asking, quiet and attentive. He lets himself look now, taking in the healthy, trained shape of Asra's body in contrast to the scars that tell a grim story written clearly on his skin. He himself has sunk into the water to the neck. His freshly washed hair floats around him on its surface, longer and redder than he's seen it since he was made to cut it half a lifetime ago.
"I thought that was clear," he says as he stands straight again, pushing his fingers through his hair to make sure it's rinsed clean. He looks at Jakob, his dark eyes reflecting some of the low light. "I'm good at killing people."
Whatever else they wanted him for, whatever else they thought they might use him for, that has been an interest from the start. His mindless prowess, his connection to--something. Gods, it feels like walking out of the dark and into bright light. He can't see what's behind him anymore, but he knows that it's there.
"Like a dog on a leash." The way he says it makes it sound like he's parroting someone else - his accent changes slightly, mimicking as best he can another voice.
Bren's lips are dry and cracked, and they sting when he licks them nervously. "Ja," he says, "that was pretty clear." But that muddies the water more, if anything. Volstrucker are also good at killing people. They are certainly capable of hunting and killing him. Why involve a man who is not one of them? Especially if there is a chance he might turn on his...captors? Collaborators?
Even if he asked these questions, he gets the sense that Asra may not be able to answer them.
A dog on a leash. Those certainly aren't Trent's words. Then whose?
"To me, it seems like that is what they wanted you to be rather than what you are." No tame dog chooses freedom and self-determination over unquestioning loyalty.
"Maybe so. It felt right, for a time." Even as he says it, Asra doubts. He doesn't think it was ever truly right, but then perhaps there was no other option. He absently traces a faint scar across his neck, vaguely remembering the blade that put it there.
"Does it matter now? They do not have me any longer."
For how long? Asra rubs his face and leaves his hands there for a moment, trying to quell the barrage of thoughts that come all at once. Will they hunt him and bring him back? Will they know he's gone? And beneath it all the flash of a vision: Jakob's beautiful red hair floating in the water, with Asra's pale fingers curled tight in it to hold him under. It's that last thought that sends a shudder of anticipation down his back and makes his stomach turn all at once. Gods, who was he?
Asra slowly drops his hands, looking more tired than he did when they arrived.
Though he does nothing to indicate as much, Bren feels seen by that comment. It felt right, for a time. Not easy, but right. For him, he thought he'd found what he was meant for. As he watches Asra fingers move over a scar, he drifts back toward the edge of the pool, where he can rest his head against the ledge.
It only matters if Asra thinks it does. And to him, it seems like he hasn't quite decided.
There is silence for a time, and Bren wonders what thoughts the other man has drifted into. He looks exhausted, though he is hardly one to talk.
"Asra?" he says at last, a gentle prompt to bring him back to the present. His low voice is hardly above a murmur, but it sounds louder in this space. "What do you need from me?"
He pleaded last night to stay with him. Bren remembers how he sounded, desperation edging into fear.
The sound of his name makes him look up, but in the face of that question he can only stare blankly. What does he need? He needs answers, he needs memory. He moves through the water, finding a ledge along the wall to sit on. He does not make himself smaller, but neither does he make any effort to take up space.
"Something more than my name," he says. "Something more real than my dreams."
He doesn't know if this man can give him any of those, but this is at least a step between the oblivion of blood and bone that flicker in the back of his mind and whatever is ahead of him.
A corner of Bren's mouth curls in a rueful smile. "I will do what I can," he says, which isn't a lie. He is willing to see where this goes until the risk outweighs the possible benefits. He is wary, but not unsympathetic.
Noticing a wide-toothed comb in the basket of bathing supplies, Bren picks it up, and spends a moment looking at it before he begins to very carefully work it through his freshly-washed hair. He doesn't remember the last time he used something better than his fingers to comb his hair.
"Is that the extent of your memories?" he asks, wincing briefly as the comb's tines snag on a snarl in his hair. There are bound to be a lot of those. "You do not know where you are from, or where you might like to go?"
"There are some things," he admits. "But there is a... gap. Possibly a significant one."
At times it feels like trying to see through a thick fog. Shapes moving but no way to make out details. He leans back against the wall, staring off at nothing with his dark brows pinched together. Some things he does remember, but they are not something he wants to share with Jakob just now.
"I remember pain," Asra says after a moment. Different kinds of pain, though eh doesn't think that's enough to go by. "And confinement. And something or someone whispering to me."
Bren's mouth tightens in a grimace. That certainly sounds like Vergesson. He's increasingly certain that his own vague recollection, as foggy as all of his memories from his own significant gap, must be real. Though he doesn't know how long ago it was, he glimpsed Asra there.
Should he share that? It would reveal too much about himself. But with this particular man, does that even matter?
"You have suffered a great deal." His brow furrows. "And to be left with those memories alone...that is especially cruel." At least he remembers before. Though it feels like an open wound, he would rather know the truth. "As I have said, you are welcome to stay with me. I do not have much, but I am familiar with the Empire, and can perhaps help you in that way."
Asra leaves the conversation there, if Jakob lets him, and settles deeper into the water to quietly brood while they take as much time as they can in this bath. He knows they will have to get out eventually, but he makes no move to do so before Jakob does.
They stay long enough that their clothes are ready when they get out, and it feels good to put on something clean after soaking for so long. Asra follows Jakob's lead as they find a place to stay - cheap, easy to pay for, and a place where they won't draw too much attention. He has not been with Jakob that long, but it's clear - especially given the state of the man's coat - that he prefers to go unnoticed.
Bren lets the conversation go, and instead moves on to talking rather one-sidedly about the area, and the Empire itself. Things one should know to not end up attracting Crownsguard attention, larger cities and their rough locations, and how to leave should that be of interest. (The only way, really, is to head south to the Menagerie Coast. There's no crossing the Ashkeepers. And what would you find in Xhorhas even if you did?) If Asra hardly knows where he is, the least Bren can do is give him the basics.
They have a nice long soak, by Bren's standards, and leave when their clothes are returned. Even if his coat is filthy as ever, it is better than he could have imagined to put clean layers on clean skin beneath it.
Bren has only passed through Druvenlode once before, and that was half a lifetime ago, so he isn't familiar with its inns, but it is easy enough to locate what is widely considered the most affordable. To him, it seems quite comfortable. They pay for the room they'll be sharing, and Bren indulges in ordering a modest lunch for them both, which he takes upstairs. The main room is a little too sparse at this hour for him to feel comfortable hanging around, and he still hasn't gotten to take a good look at the things he lifted from the volstruckers, nor has he counted the coin in the pouch now tucked into his coat.
Sitting cross-legged on one of the beds, even the thin, slightly lumpy mattress feels like a luxury. Their lunch of bread and stew is fresh and filling, and Bren slowly counts more coin than he knows what to do with. It has been a long, long time since he's experienced comfort like this.
Asra has no objection to eating upstairs, content to stay out of public view for a while. He sits with his back against the wall, eating in silence until he's finished. While Jakob begins counting coin, Asra drags his bag closer and pulls out one of the books he took. There is blood on some of the pages, but that isn't a deterrent as he flips it open to examine it. It's a spellbook - the other he grabbed is also likely one, and he wonders if Jakob grabbed the third.
He sets it aside and examines the component pouch he took, then moves on to other items. Decent paper and ink, a bag of coin, a few letters or instructions. Asra lingers over those, but he cannot read the language they are in. He frowns and sets them aside for now, frustrated by such a small yet significant barrier to learning more.
His black hair hangs loose as it dries, falling past his shoulders. He tucks it behind his ear, his fingers pale and elegant now that they aren't covered in blood, dirt, and soot. There doesn't seem to be much in the way of personal effects in the volstrucker's bag, but perhaps that is for the best.
Bren's spoils are already neatly arranged on the bed around him, including the third spellbook. Plenty of good paper in there, and if he can crack the cipher and understand the volstrucker's shorthand, he'll have access to a transcription of every spell she knew. It's heady.
He'll categorize his new component pouch when he's done with the coin, he decides--but Asra's frown catches his eye, and he is near enough to see the writing on the pages he sets down.
"Those are in Zemnian," he observes. He isn't quite close enough to read them in detail, but naturally he recognizes the language. "Native tongue of the northern Empire," he explains. "Myself included, should you want a translation."
He looks at Jakob when the man says he can read the papers. Perhaps there is good reason for him not to hand them over, he has no way of knowing the information given there, if any. But he aches for answers and his curiosity and anger are decent motivations.
Asra gives a curt nod and hands the pages over.
One is a set of instructions to the carrier to find a lost son, as well as a few details regarding that missing person. The letter warns that this person could be disoriented, and therefore possibly dangerous, and so caution is of the utmost importance. There is an explicit command not to hurt the son if it can be helped. Another paper, written in a different hand, seems to be about Asra. It warns whoever it was meant for that Asra is dangerous, and that the writer would like him back for further study. It also suggests the volstruckers traveling with him keep an eye on some of the more recent scars, I don't know want Kressa did, and she is an excellent surgeon, but I do not trust her.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
no subject
"Are you?" he asks, equal measures curious and wary.
no subject
"Ja. You could have slit my throat, but instead you are offering to split a room with me." Glancing up sidelong, a corner of his mouth lifts in a tight, humorless half smile. "One is far more preferable than the other. If I can help you on your way in return, I will."
no subject
Asra hasn't killed Jakob, and out of the bargain Jakob has scavenged coin, components, and at least one book from the volstruckers, among whatever else he might have taken. Asra wasn't looking, too caught up in his own looting to care. He nods in the general direction they've been traveling.
"Let's keep going." They have good reason to get as far from the charred bodies as they can before daylight.
no subject
Just past midday, they pass the first buildings, outlying storehouses, then the mines themselves. These areas are busier, but so are the folk they encounter, too occupied by their own business to spare them more than a passing glance.
Druvenlode isn't a pretty city. The terrain is rocky, so greenery is sparse. Everything is built close together of the same gray slate that makes up the cliffs. Smoke rises over the rooftops. The largest buildings aren't temples, but casinos. The streets are all packed dirt, and the air itself is dusty. But it is a bustling place full of sound, energy, life. Two dirty travelers finding the cheapest bathhouse in town and paying a silver each for a bath hardly bears notice.
"The rest can be cleaned," Bren tells the attendant who will be taking their clothing to be laundered, "but the coat is fine." Understandably, she gives him a skeptical look. The coat is a fucking mess. But she doesn't challenge it, and Bren gets on his way to the antechamber where he'll hurriedly strip down and store his things.
no subject
The air in the baths is humid and fragrant and a far cry from what they left behind in the woods. He strips out of his clothes so that they can be cleaned, everything, and takes a towel that smells clean but is somewhat rough from multiple washings. That it is clean is all that matters. For mow, he wraps it around his waist for some sense of modesty, even if he plans on being rid of it shortly.
From the antechamber, there's a large pool that looks like it could comfortably fit three or four people. He sinks down, stiff, so that he can slide his legs in first and sit on the edge. It isn't scalding, but he takes a moment to get used to the temperature. Or perhaps just to sit somewhere that feels, at least for now, safe. He glances up when he hears Jakob.
Asra's pale body is well-built, clearly honed by some martial training. There are places on his body that were covered by clothes that bear a faint stain from the blood soaking through thinner layers. But the stains are, perhaps, the least eye-catching marks on him.
There are several distinct scars that are too precise to have been inflicted in a fight, the lines too straight and careful. Some are smaller and at odd angles, like there was a target in mind; others are long in a grim way that suggests a more grievous injury. Or surgery. There are others yet, more haphazard, that suggest he's seen melee combat at some point in his life.
no subject
Eleven years ago, he was young and strong. But in that time he has grown older, been fed less, barely stepped foot outside his stone cell. What youthful strength and beauty he once possessed has wasted away.
This is to say nothing of his arms, which he cradles protectively close to his body as he enters the bathing chamber, a towel held modestly in front of him. He gets his first good look at Asra then as well, but after a momentary glance, politely averts his eyes. Still, a moment was enough. He recalls a perfect snapshot of a sleekly toned body, pale skin interrupted by the sort of exacting scarring that Bren knows from experience to be left by a scalpel's methodical incision, some sickeningly long. There are other marks on Asra's body as well, but if anything could convince him that perhaps there are commonalities to be found between them, it is those distinctly surgical scars.
Bren wastes no time testing the water. Leaving his towel by the side of the pool, he steps into the bath and sinks down with a sharp hiss of breath, submerging himself to the shoulders, then ducking under completely. When he emerges, he pushes his wet hair back from his face, raggedly long and now noticeably redder than it was beneath a layer of dust and dirt.
no subject
He sees the scars on Jakob's arms, even though the man quickly disappears beneath the water. They are methodical, too familiar in their precision, and despite the humid heat of the room, he feels an unpleasant chill slither down his back. To banish it, he leaves his towel behind and slips into the water, following Jakob's example as he ducks beneath. Asra scrubs his fingers along his scalp, attempting to dislodge road dirt and anything else that might be there.
He resurfaces slowly, pushing his dark hair back to keep it out of his face. He leans down again to rub his fingers over his cheeks and brow, to rub them together beneath the water in hopes of removing the last traces of blood. He cannot keep seeing it. He will remember it.
no subject
Instead, when he can trust his voice again, he murmurs, "This was a good idea."
He is currently working real honest-to-gods shampoo through his hair, a privilege he hasn't had in years. Finally he chances a more direct glance up, and happens to catch Asra's eye. He would guess that he was probably looking at his arms. Though he's tried to hide them from view as much as possible, he wonders if Asra is making connections the same way he had.
"Between this and the promise of a meal and a bed at an inn tonight, I will feel very spoiled."
That is somewhat understating it. He hasn't slept in a proper bed in more than a decade.
no subject
"Has it been a long time?" he asks, uncertain if that is the right question but it's the one that escapes first. He gives Jakob a moment to consider his answer, disappearing beneath the water again to rinse himself. He isn't finished by far - he wants to linger here as long as they can.
The pattern of the scars flits through his mind - they're the broken, unfinished pattern. He's seen the full version before, geometric lines in black ink. He thinks of the volstruckers and looks at Jakob again. He clearly isn't one, or if he is, he takes his assignment very seriously.
no subject
He too ducks down to rinse out his hair after that, but looks back to Asra again when he surfaces. Now that he's crossed the hurdle of actually getting into the bath, he also isn't in any hurry to leave yet. He's content in the water with his body mostly submerged.
At last, he thinks it is time to risk a little more vulnerability for a little more information. They have already revealed something significant by stripping down to bare, scarred skin, bodies that show what they have survived in a variety of ways.
"Those people," Bren says carefully, the intensity of his blue eyes filled with wary caution, "you were not with them voluntarily, were you?"
no subject
"I did not try to leave before last night," he begins, trying to piece together fractured memories and visions. He doesn't think he did, anyway. "But I had no in interest in what they wanted me for."
He doesn't care about the volstruckers' quarry, but his interest wasn't relevant or necessary for the work. Only his compliance. Asra bends back this time to rinse his hair, wanting to keep his head above water. It puts some of the scars on his stomach and chest on full display; he doesn't seem to think about it and finishes cleaning his hair before standing straight again.
no subject
"What did they want you for?" he chances asking, quiet and attentive. He lets himself look now, taking in the healthy, trained shape of Asra's body in contrast to the scars that tell a grim story written clearly on his skin. He himself has sunk into the water to the neck. His freshly washed hair floats around him on its surface, longer and redder than he's seen it since he was made to cut it half a lifetime ago.
no subject
Whatever else they wanted him for, whatever else they thought they might use him for, that has been an interest from the start. His mindless prowess, his connection to--something. Gods, it feels like walking out of the dark and into bright light. He can't see what's behind him anymore, but he knows that it's there.
"Like a dog on a leash." The way he says it makes it sound like he's parroting someone else - his accent changes slightly, mimicking as best he can another voice.
no subject
Even if he asked these questions, he gets the sense that Asra may not be able to answer them.
A dog on a leash. Those certainly aren't Trent's words. Then whose?
"To me, it seems like that is what they wanted you to be rather than what you are." No tame dog chooses freedom and self-determination over unquestioning loyalty.
no subject
"Does it matter now? They do not have me any longer."
For how long? Asra rubs his face and leaves his hands there for a moment, trying to quell the barrage of thoughts that come all at once. Will they hunt him and bring him back? Will they know he's gone? And beneath it all the flash of a vision: Jakob's beautiful red hair floating in the water, with Asra's pale fingers curled tight in it to hold him under. It's that last thought that sends a shudder of anticipation down his back and makes his stomach turn all at once. Gods, who was he?
Asra slowly drops his hands, looking more tired than he did when they arrived.
no subject
It only matters if Asra thinks it does. And to him, it seems like he hasn't quite decided.
There is silence for a time, and Bren wonders what thoughts the other man has drifted into. He looks exhausted, though he is hardly one to talk.
"Asra?" he says at last, a gentle prompt to bring him back to the present. His low voice is hardly above a murmur, but it sounds louder in this space. "What do you need from me?"
He pleaded last night to stay with him. Bren remembers how he sounded, desperation edging into fear.
no subject
"Something more than my name," he says. "Something more real than my dreams."
He doesn't know if this man can give him any of those, but this is at least a step between the oblivion of blood and bone that flicker in the back of his mind and whatever is ahead of him.
no subject
Noticing a wide-toothed comb in the basket of bathing supplies, Bren picks it up, and spends a moment looking at it before he begins to very carefully work it through his freshly-washed hair. He doesn't remember the last time he used something better than his fingers to comb his hair.
"Is that the extent of your memories?" he asks, wincing briefly as the comb's tines snag on a snarl in his hair. There are bound to be a lot of those. "You do not know where you are from, or where you might like to go?"
no subject
At times it feels like trying to see through a thick fog. Shapes moving but no way to make out details. He leans back against the wall, staring off at nothing with his dark brows pinched together. Some things he does remember, but they are not something he wants to share with Jakob just now.
"I remember pain," Asra says after a moment. Different kinds of pain, though eh doesn't think that's enough to go by. "And confinement. And something or someone whispering to me."
no subject
Should he share that? It would reveal too much about himself. But with this particular man, does that even matter?
"You have suffered a great deal." His brow furrows. "And to be left with those memories alone...that is especially cruel." At least he remembers before. Though it feels like an open wound, he would rather know the truth. "As I have said, you are welcome to stay with me. I do not have much, but I am familiar with the Empire, and can perhaps help you in that way."
no subject
Asra leaves the conversation there, if Jakob lets him, and settles deeper into the water to quietly brood while they take as much time as they can in this bath. He knows they will have to get out eventually, but he makes no move to do so before Jakob does.
They stay long enough that their clothes are ready when they get out, and it feels good to put on something clean after soaking for so long. Asra follows Jakob's lead as they find a place to stay - cheap, easy to pay for, and a place where they won't draw too much attention. He has not been with Jakob that long, but it's clear - especially given the state of the man's coat - that he prefers to go unnoticed.
no subject
They have a nice long soak, by Bren's standards, and leave when their clothes are returned. Even if his coat is filthy as ever, it is better than he could have imagined to put clean layers on clean skin beneath it.
Bren has only passed through Druvenlode once before, and that was half a lifetime ago, so he isn't familiar with its inns, but it is easy enough to locate what is widely considered the most affordable. To him, it seems quite comfortable. They pay for the room they'll be sharing, and Bren indulges in ordering a modest lunch for them both, which he takes upstairs. The main room is a little too sparse at this hour for him to feel comfortable hanging around, and he still hasn't gotten to take a good look at the things he lifted from the volstruckers, nor has he counted the coin in the pouch now tucked into his coat.
Sitting cross-legged on one of the beds, even the thin, slightly lumpy mattress feels like a luxury. Their lunch of bread and stew is fresh and filling, and Bren slowly counts more coin than he knows what to do with. It has been a long, long time since he's experienced comfort like this.
no subject
He sets it aside and examines the component pouch he took, then moves on to other items. Decent paper and ink, a bag of coin, a few letters or instructions. Asra lingers over those, but he cannot read the language they are in. He frowns and sets them aside for now, frustrated by such a small yet significant barrier to learning more.
His black hair hangs loose as it dries, falling past his shoulders. He tucks it behind his ear, his fingers pale and elegant now that they aren't covered in blood, dirt, and soot. There doesn't seem to be much in the way of personal effects in the volstrucker's bag, but perhaps that is for the best.
no subject
He'll categorize his new component pouch when he's done with the coin, he decides--but Asra's frown catches his eye, and he is near enough to see the writing on the pages he sets down.
"Those are in Zemnian," he observes. He isn't quite close enough to read them in detail, but naturally he recognizes the language. "Native tongue of the northern Empire," he explains. "Myself included, should you want a translation."
no subject
Asra gives a curt nod and hands the pages over.
One is a set of instructions to the carrier to find a lost son, as well as a few details regarding that missing person. The letter warns that this person could be disoriented, and therefore possibly dangerous, and so caution is of the utmost importance. There is an explicit command not to hurt the son if it can be helped. Another paper, written in a different hand, seems to be about Asra. It warns whoever it was meant for that Asra is dangerous, and that the writer would like him back for further study. It also suggests the volstruckers traveling with him keep an eye on some of the more recent scars, I don't know want Kressa did, and she is an excellent surgeon, but I do not trust her.
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)