The knife in his hand holds steady even as his vision swims a little, bloodrush and exhaustion taking equal tolls. Still, it doesn't take long for his mind to catch up to his instincts. Astrid is not an enemy; he is in the Gallows, not a Venatori prison; he is as safe as a spy inside enemy territory can be.
His arms lowers, slowly at first, and then he crumples back onto the bed, heaving an exhausted sigh as he goes.
Everyone in this room is quick to wake, much the way you might drop a cup and accidentally send all of Barrowâs cats running, careening and bouncing off the walls. But this is— something else, worse than the usual. Sheâs seen Talin bolt awake in the morning before, but not so quick as this; not crossing the room before sheâd noticed; not knife out before he was even fully conscious.
Once he collapses back on the bed, she runs her thumb across her neck, and it comes away red. Like a shaving cut. Itâs small.
She sits down on her own bed across from his, and starts working on unlacing her boots. Her heartâs still pounding, the rush of finding danger in an unexpected place. That adrenaline swallows what ordinarily couldâve been a laugh at the joke, and it takes her a moment to reply.
âThe limpâs not,â she decides, ââcos it means you wonât be able to run, but the bruises can be hot. What was it, a bar fight?â
It canât have been. She gets into bar fights. Talin— not the type, from the little she knows of him thus far.
"Fenhedis, you noticed?" And he'd been trying so hard not to give away the tenderness in his half-flayed foot. He doesn't care what she says; the question is more to give himself time to consider his response than to really find out what gave him away.
"Mission got fucked," is where he lands eventually, spoken to the ceiling, "Venatori got us."
No one told him he can't tell the truth about it. Besides, sympathy is useful. He flicks his eyes over to Astrid, exhausted but keen, waiting for what she'll make of it. She's not going to trip over herself with apologies or concern, he doesn't think—she rings too close to his own people for that. She'll move to the practical, how did it happen, how did they escape, did they lose anyone. Sympathetic, but not weepy about it.
Or maybe he doesn't know a damn thing about her and she'll surprise him.
Perhaps it is indeed a surprise that Astridâs reaction is a mixture, as she looks up at him from between her knees, kicking loose the boots to land somewhere under her bed. Thereâs no pearl-clutching gasp, no watery eyes; but equally so, some of that brusque pragmaticism heâs seen in her loosens. Her face does soften, saying, âShit, Iâm sorry.â
And thereâs a whole possible spectrum contained in got. Kidnapping, captivity, ambush, death.
Her lips purse over her question, echoing his choice of words: ââGotâ. What does that⌠like, what does that mean? Anyone dead? Yâalright?â
Her face softens, and his eyes close; an instinctive, immediate aversion to too much sympathy. If he doesn't see it, he doesn't have to dwell on it, and she can feel whatever she wants.
"We survived," answers both her apology and her question, gently evades the former while offering facts for the latter: "Contact in the Silent Plains sold us out. We got worked over for questioning, some worse than others. Venatori was literally reading a book on the subject while he did it."
Which is just. Darkly comical, in a way that has Talin smirking to himself. It says here that flaying can be effective, but it's a little vagueâdo we have flensing tools? Well go find some! They only have so many fingernails!
"No one died, I don't think, but that Warden looks half-dead most of the time, so, you know," who knows, really, maybe von Skraedder's been undead hanging around out of spite the whole time.
Something in her face tightens at him mentioning a traitor, a reflexive anger on his and all of Riftwatchâs behalf when she says, âWhat a goatfucker.â
And itâs hard for Astrid to measure whether or not sheâs friends with someone yet; often she tends to over-assume and just declare that probably they are, although even she has the vague sense to not overstep here. Theyâre not at the level yet where she can reach out and clutch Talinâs hand or press her fingertips to his knee. He doesnât seem like heâd welcome the attempt at comfort, and he might just pull another knife on her.
But she hops onto her bed, and pulls up her legs and folds them under her. Someone softer might pry more whether heâs okay, someone more brutally pragmatic might ask what information they gave away, so what she settles on is:
âWhat happened to the contact?â
Are they dead? Has that loose end been snipped, so this wonât happen again?
Goatfucker makes him laugh, unexpected as it isâhe grins into his shoulder, and savors the feeling of it.
"We'd say iov'direlan, bear puncher. Like... you were stupid and you made it the clan's problem."
Doesn't have quite the same visceral flair as goatfucker does, though. Trade is good for some things.
"Dunno. He wasn't at the meeting point, that was all Venatori, so either he's gotten away with it or he's dead, I guess."
Neither prospect seems to bother or please Talin more than the otherâeither way, it'd be more work for him to find out than it's worth, and if the man is somehow still alive, killing him wouldn't change what happened. It would only feel good for a second, it wouldn't unbreak Teren's ribs. It wouldn't grow the skin of Talin's feet back, or his nails, or unblack his eye.
âHopefully the second one. They canât just do that—â
Astrid cuts herself off with a frustrated exhale. She knows it might be naĂŻve, but the sheer unfairness of it is stifling. Riftwatchâs work is delicate, a precarious balancing act of plucky overworked agents and their fragile network of allies. If their own allies turn on them, what else do they have to lean on?
If her contact in Minrathous turns on her, how fucked is she?
Sheâs still looking at what she can see of Talin, though, trying to size up his injuries, measure his state. His almost-visceral exhaustion, flopped in his bed the other side of the room. She leans, craning upward from her seat on the bed:
âOkay. Next up. You need an elfroot potion, mate? Or some food?â
If Talin were less dead on his feet, he'd probably be agreeing with Astrid and finding inventive new ways of cursing someone, and their bloodline, and their dog for good measure. As it is, he's barely conscious, holding onto awareness by his few remaining fingernails.
"Food," he murmurs, slurred and pressed almost inaudible into the pillow. He lifts his head and tries again, a little clearer this time, "Food. Already had a potion from the Doctor."
Could probably still use another, truthfully, but others had needed more attention than him and he hadn't had the energy to stick around waiting to beg another.
If Astrid has any clarifying questions, that's unfortunateâhe's fully passed back out before she can ask any.
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no subject
His arms lowers, slowly at first, and then he crumples back onto the bed, heaving an exhausted sigh as he goes.
"But in a sexy, rogueish way, right?"
no subject
Once he collapses back on the bed, she runs her thumb across her neck, and it comes away red. Like a shaving cut. Itâs small.
She sits down on her own bed across from his, and starts working on unlacing her boots. Her heartâs still pounding, the rush of finding danger in an unexpected place. That adrenaline swallows what ordinarily couldâve been a laugh at the joke, and it takes her a moment to reply.
âThe limpâs not,â she decides, ââcos it means you wonât be able to run, but the bruises can be hot. What was it, a bar fight?â
It canât have been. She gets into bar fights. Talin— not the type, from the little she knows of him thus far.
no subject
"Mission got fucked," is where he lands eventually, spoken to the ceiling, "Venatori got us."
No one told him he can't tell the truth about it. Besides, sympathy is useful. He flicks his eyes over to Astrid, exhausted but keen, waiting for what she'll make of it. She's not going to trip over herself with apologies or concern, he doesn't think—she rings too close to his own people for that. She'll move to the practical, how did it happen, how did they escape, did they lose anyone. Sympathetic, but not weepy about it.
Or maybe he doesn't know a damn thing about her and she'll surprise him.
no subject
Perhaps it is indeed a surprise that Astridâs reaction is a mixture, as she looks up at him from between her knees, kicking loose the boots to land somewhere under her bed. Thereâs no pearl-clutching gasp, no watery eyes; but equally so, some of that brusque pragmaticism heâs seen in her loosens. Her face does soften, saying, âShit, Iâm sorry.â
And thereâs a whole possible spectrum contained in got. Kidnapping, captivity, ambush, death.
Her lips purse over her question, echoing his choice of words: ââGotâ. What does that⌠like, what does that mean? Anyone dead? Yâalright?â
no subject
"We survived," answers both her apology and her question, gently evades the former while offering facts for the latter: "Contact in the Silent Plains sold us out. We got worked over for questioning, some worse than others. Venatori was literally reading a book on the subject while he did it."
Which is just. Darkly comical, in a way that has Talin smirking to himself. It says here that flaying can be effective, but it's a little vagueâdo we have flensing tools? Well go find some! They only have so many fingernails!
"No one died, I don't think, but that Warden looks half-dead most of the time, so, you know," who knows, really, maybe von Skraedder's been undead hanging around out of spite the whole time.
no subject
And itâs hard for Astrid to measure whether or not sheâs friends with someone yet; often she tends to over-assume and just declare that probably they are, although even she has the vague sense to not overstep here. Theyâre not at the level yet where she can reach out and clutch Talinâs hand or press her fingertips to his knee. He doesnât seem like heâd welcome the attempt at comfort, and he might just pull another knife on her.
But she hops onto her bed, and pulls up her legs and folds them under her. Someone softer might pry more whether heâs okay, someone more brutally pragmatic might ask what information they gave away, so what she settles on is:
âWhat happened to the contact?â
Are they dead? Has that loose end been snipped, so this wonât happen again?
no subject
"We'd say iov'direlan, bear puncher. Like... you were stupid and you made it the clan's problem."
Doesn't have quite the same visceral flair as goatfucker does, though. Trade is good for some things.
"Dunno. He wasn't at the meeting point, that was all Venatori, so either he's gotten away with it or he's dead, I guess."
Neither prospect seems to bother or please Talin more than the otherâeither way, it'd be more work for him to find out than it's worth, and if the man is somehow still alive, killing him wouldn't change what happened. It would only feel good for a second, it wouldn't unbreak Teren's ribs. It wouldn't grow the skin of Talin's feet back, or his nails, or unblack his eye.
no subject
Astrid cuts herself off with a frustrated exhale. She knows it might be naĂŻve, but the sheer unfairness of it is stifling. Riftwatchâs work is delicate, a precarious balancing act of plucky overworked agents and their fragile network of allies. If their own allies turn on them, what else do they have to lean on?
If her contact in Minrathous turns on her, how fucked is she?
Sheâs still looking at what she can see of Talin, though, trying to size up his injuries, measure his state. His almost-visceral exhaustion, flopped in his bed the other side of the room. She leans, craning upward from her seat on the bed:
âOkay. Next up. You need an elfroot potion, mate? Or some food?â
đ
"Food," he murmurs, slurred and pressed almost inaudible into the pillow. He lifts his head and tries again, a little clearer this time, "Food. Already had a potion from the Doctor."
Could probably still use another, truthfully, but others had needed more attention than him and he hadn't had the energy to stick around waiting to beg another.
If Astrid has any clarifying questions, that's unfortunateâhe's fully passed back out before she can ask any.